The glory years: Aspects of the poet Emily Dickinson/ Stranger danger
Emily Dickinson enters the kitchen at the homestead in a happy mood. She hums under her breath, and lights the candles for the evening....
Signs of loneliness: The childhood of a poet
I am just burnt out from life, I guess. If I could smoke my life away, believe me I would. If I could drink...
Winter Revisited
The argument was about nothing really. I really cannot remember who started it first. It was between a girl, barely out of adolescence and...
Twelve Monkeys
I’ve made mistakes. More than a few. I haven’t always apologised for my behaviour, for the mistakes I made, the wrong journey I took,...
Tongue of grief
Sleep. I don’t sleep anymore at night. I don’t sleep very well, or, not at all. You only see what you want to see....
Childhood and Magda
I haven’t got time for the pain. When I’m through with you, I will still hope.There’s an ocean meeting invincible ocean pouring into eyes,you...
The woman who ate everything
I have no children of my own. In reality, I exist. In non-reality, I am non-existent. I am more demon, than angel now that...
And the problems of the Coloured people (of South Africa) were of no interest to them
We are living in the precarious times of a coloniality-based dispensation and the repercussions of an ill-fated democracy.
The working class, the downtrodden and the...
The Seagull
The life I have lived is more the climate of Hollywood than the establishment of New York. More Zelda Fitzgerald than Rebecca Miller. People...
The relationship between mother and gifted child
Vertigo inside of me. Burnt oats. Mother burnt the oats again. The bottom of the pot burnt. The oats tasted like ash, smelled like...