Dear Poetry Lover,

allow me to introduce you to  our village of McGregor and to this souvenir of The McGregor Poetry Festival which is now in its fourth year.  The success of our well-loved Festival is due to many factors not least of which is the setting of our beautiful little village. Nestling in rolling hills at the foot of the Riviersonderend mountains, the town offers both  beauty and tranquillity as well as a certain intimacy that lends itself to the enjoyment of poetry. It  boasts magnificent starry skies, champagne air, great wine and  remarkable hospitality.  Add to this  formula the dedication and enthusiasm of a local committee of poetry lovers and a magical experience unfolds. We are also grateful for and  indebted to the support and faith of the poets themselves who share in the  passion and imagination that is required to live a dream and transform it into reality. 

Poetry, beauty, romance and love – let’s aspire and inspire to live for these.

Billy Kennedy McGregor 2016

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Judging a competition like this was no easy task! The organisers received hundreds of entries, and it was a pleasurable, though lengthy- process to give each entrant due diligence. Finding a winner in each category had a number of difficulties. The poetry reflected different styles and content, and was also in different languages. 

Afrikaans and English entries were separated- unfortunately we had no IsiXhosa entries this year- and the judges spent many hours whittling their piles down. When we arrived at a more manageable number, all the shortlisted poems were read out loud to each other.  A further shortlist was thus developed.

The judges then arrived at what they considered their top three in each language in each section.  Independent poets were then consulted as to their opinions. We were happy to note that their choices mirrored ours. We then sat together as a group and arrived at a final decision as to the top poem in each category. We were delighted with the interest shown in the competition, and also by the quality of work before us. 

We hope that the competition can become bigger and better in 2016! Thanks to everyone who entered, and special congratulations to the winners.

* * *

Die ooswind sing 

deur die  sandkorrels  om nog ‘n duin van misterie en wonder te bou So rooi soos die oerduin daaronder, So blou hang die suiwer hemelruim daarbo.

Oos lê  bruin , amper swart klip, met enkele trane Wat al vloeiend in die Kueseb loop....

Wes borrel die wit skuim van die Benguela-branders  Wat b r e e k 

As die son besluit om agter die rooiduin te skuil En die blou lug geleidelik pers verkleur, Bly die grysgroen Welwitchia steeds onversteurd. Soos die skemer oor die duine daal, Wys die gemsbokke  hul swart en wit maskergesigte vir  ‘n wyle En die horingadder bêre sy sandgeheime.

As die aandster se diamantoog in die nag blink en die duine aan slaap begin dink,  sing die ooswind se stem sag  en die Namiblied raak stil.

Mia Beukes

* * *

I simply left

rose up

wafted out like cigarette smoke

and chatter

mid-set

the tuned-out soloist mounted his offensive while I 

slipped out toward the back

(I'd come in for free at the front but man I paid in full)

skint now thigh deep in

 sharp faces and flat gazes

past leaning 

mops, stacked 

plastic chairs, obsolete 

guest lists, fibbing

stock charts, bruised

 beer crates dribbling

on the way I

 grabbed a used ashtray 

stubbed out my heart  in the glass bottom

out, 

all the way past the halfwit toilets,  photos of greats, 

me-me beat of wings against bare bulb,

right to the end of the joint I squeezed past 

 offended dumpsters rearranging their junk under too-tight lids

over threshold under exit sign

 in the alley

I stole lungfuls of midnight

gazed up at the  silent

full swoon of a blood moon crowning I 

inhaled until 

 the smug black velvet backing stars stared me down to

my last breath in that site

 lost

then the air was silent 

chilled

 I flexed the collar on

 my loner cape I 

fucked off.

* * *

Êrens op ‘n dorpswerf tussen Radyn en Poena is ‘n rooikleigat, voorheen ‘n leiwaterdam. Die dam is omtower in ‘n buitelugteater. ‘n Paar ruim kliptrappe lei na die perskepit bodem en dien ook as sitplekke. Kom luister na die digters en na die vinke se sang in die takke van die papierbas en die alwyne  wat die dam omsoom.

The Damphitheatre is situated in a village garden between Radyn and Poena. It is an intimate outdoor venue born from the red clay of an erstwhile irrigation dam (leiwaterdam). Steps built from local stone lead to the bottom and also serve as rustic seats for the audience. Listen how the voices of the poets mingle with the stories of the weavers in the surrounding thorn trees and aloes.

* * *

Eendag, lank gelede – nee, sommer nog laasjaar –

sluip daar ‘n knapie deur ons tuin:

 gewapen met skild en swaard,

verbloem met mantel en masker,

op soek na sy geheime vyand.

Eendag, lank gelede – nee, sommer nog laasweek –

 gaan daar met dapper en stapper

‘n gebeitelde jong Apollo straataf:

 lang krullebolkuif, donker bril, jeans laag om sy sexy heupe,

op soek na die mooiste jong dorpsblom.

En vandag – wragtig in ‘n oogwink –

is jy een en twintig Peter Ross!

Weg is jou mantel, masker en swaard.

A fully made adult, still sexy as ever, sonder enige props.

Jy het gearriveer. 

Hester van der Walt

* * *

Have we forgotten

that wilderness is not a place, but a pattern of soul where every tree, every bird and beast is a soul maker?

Have we forgotten that wilderness is not a place, but a moving feast of stars, footprints, scales and beginnings?

Since when did we become afraid of the night and that only the bright stars count? or that our moon is not a moon unless it is full?

By whose command were the animals through groping fingers, one for each hand, reduced to the big and little five?

Have we forgotten that every creature is within us carried by tides of earthly blood and that we named them?

Have we forgotten that wilderness is not a place, but a season and we are in its final hour?

Ian McCallum

* * *

The horizon goes on being there, every morning where

the light begins, every night where the stars end. And always the face of water, every emotion, and occasionally smoke, or a school of dolphins.

Beyond that there is always land. The old ones say they can smell it, even when half a world away, never touched and never reached, its substance no more than folktale, legend.

Then suddenly one day it is here and now, a place that stares back at faces staring at it from the rail, a long glitter of beach and swarms of birds above forest to the shoreline, a mountain behind.

But no landing, and no sign of people standing to observe the passage of a ship, and you are left to imagine them in their living, how they eat and couple, talk and sleep, watch for danger from the sea.

The water continues passing, sibilant,  every morning metal and blood, every night an endless, impenetrable ink. The old ones dream and sniff the air, and when dolphins pass, they lean out over the rail, listening.

Douglas Reid Skinner

* * *