So, I’ve been writing (bad) poetry since I can remember. I think the first ones were probably just rip-offs of bad Gé Korsten songs (but Annetjie, weren’t they all bad?) but we’ll forget about that. uHlanga Press recently announced that they will open admissions to unsolicited manuscripts in February 2017, and I decided to give it a go. What can go wrong, right? First, I need to practice, which is what this post is about.
Under the covers
In the comfort of darkness
I admit to myself:
I despise other people.
Except for you
You can stay a little while longer.
Softly we wake
disturbing tremors of each other
No words can say what I think
No thoughts can mask what you say.
Idle chatter bores the senses
Divorced of meaning beyond
Like we’re all going to fucking
go home and hashtag each other later.
I’m typing a poem on my phone.
What has the world come to?
I’m such an asshole.
Here I have this perfectly nice teacher
offering me premium-blend hand-dripped coffee
that he just made.
And here I am,
that morning coffee is a solitary endeavour.
Stuck in my ways, is what I am.
Look there, I hurt his feelings
and for what?
Cheap three-spoons-instant-black-as-death-no-sugar oblivion.
It’s just that there’s this ringing
Not painful, no, but constant