The McGregor Poetry Festival is the vision of Billy Kennedy who has had a life-long dream to honour poets and poetry. Together with a small group of friends who shared his passion, this dream became a reality in 2013, when a poetry festival was organised in the quaint village of McGregor in the Western Cape of South Africa. Their goal was to arrange an event where poets could share their talent in an informal, intimate manner with fellow lovers of the art and members of the public. 

McGregor is a small village about 180km from Cape Town and has proved to be the perfect setting for a small intimate festival such as this. The first McGregor Poetry Festival took place in June 2013 with over 40 local poets taking part. Accommodation was provided by local residents in their private homes. This warmth and hospitality set the scene for a weekend of poetry events which thrilled and delighted audiences in the various venues throughout the village. Temenos Retreat was the hub of the festival, providing unique places where poetry readings and performances took place. A number of other venues were used (Wahnfried, Edna Fourie Gallery, Windsong) as well as restaurants and coffee shops.

This proved to be so successful that a second festival was soon organised and took place in October 2014. The follow-up festival attracted international poets from America, England and Holland and they joined with the 45 other local poets who provided 3 days of poetry events. Besides the readings and presentations, workshops, films, Open Mic sessions, exhibitions and musical performances were slotted into the programme. Free events were arranged for school children of all ages and a platform was provided for local talent to be showcased. Local bands, music groups and street artists had the opportunity to take part. Members of the local churches were encouraged to take part too and they hosted services with poetry themes which included song and dance items. 

For more details, visit www.mcgregorpoetryfestival.co.za

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Africa! My Africa!

Herds of wildebeest and dust of galloping

Cracked patina of drought

Pungent scent of roots and shrubs

Wind from deserts. Windmills

Wind in grasses – swaying, yellowed, golden

Dunes that move against the face of time

Lovers at the water’s edge

Aloes. Nectar. Juices sucked and pondered

Lizards baked and idle. Salt pans

Nocturnal blue and great cats lapping at a pool

Savanna dawn and freshness of the morning

Spidered-leaves and tangled scrub

Small trackings in the sand. Fontein

Storm and clouds that streak across the sky. Thunder

Smell of rain. Surge of waves. Perlemoen

Shipwrecks. Porcelain and beads of castaways

Kelp by moonlight. Pebbles, shone and smooth

Shells and sparkled chips of glass upon a beach

Earth made warm. Mica. Miombo. Milkwood.

Patterned sunlight. Jewels of dew

Plaintive call of boubou. Jackal. Copper-green

Whispering of darkness lacing stars

Winter’s breath. Ironwood. Ochre. Umber. Hawk

Wild Olive. Koppies. Dongas. Drifts. Duiweltjies. Old graves

Great rocks of granite powdered with red in the afternoon

Sighs and hoots and baying. Bateleur

Breath of predator at rest. Cicada shrills and frog-song

Drums and midnight dance. Drumming till the end of time

Drumming, drumming Africa!

Patricia Schonstein

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One day
your soul will call to you
with a holy rage.
“Rise up!” it will say …
Stand up inside your own skin.
Unmask your unlived life …
feast on your animal heart.
Unfasten your fist …
let loose the medicine
in your own hand.
Show me the lines …
I will show you the spoor
of the ancestors.
Show me the creases …
I will show you
the way to water.
Show me the folds …
I will show you the furrows
for your healing.
“Look!” it will say …
the line of life has four paths –
one with a mirror
one with a mask,
one with a fist,
one with a heart.
One day,
your soul will call to you
with a holy rage.

Ian McCallum

* * *

I drive my car again in driving rain,
the kind that pelts and blinds, its steady stream
designed to drive in fear of the terrain:

the nightmare when I wanted but a dream.
I pull the levers left, then right, then press
the button that will raise the roof. Its seam

will separate from metal, and the stress
will pull the roof to fold into the trunk,
the roof a metaphor for my distress:

an inward turn, a blackened mood, a funk.
The rain will drench my body, perhaps deign
to let me think of simpler times and junk

life's toxic rhetoric, my mental pain.

I drive my car again in driving rain.​

From Formal by David Messineo,
a collection of structured poetry.
Available at www.bookfinder.com.

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Pixel het weer muf ou winkelbroodbrood

hier by ons kom steel,

bra bereikbaar, (ons vermy dit), agterkant die voor.

By haar eie huis word die beste brood gebak:

houtoond, suurdeeg, al daai,

en met steengemaalde meel,

daar’s goeie geselskap en ‘n gawe kat.

Wat van ‘n komposhoop-kompulsie is dit?

Swak aanteel-lyn, dis wat!

Dana is ‘n dame; sy sal nooit dit doen nie.

Haar herkoms is onberispelik, sonder smet.

Ek weet elkeen dink sy uil is valk, Mamma,

maar ek sê maar net.

Hester van derr Walt and Suenel Bruwer-Holloway

* * *

Into the labyrinth I step

plants growing all around

on one side of the graveled path red flowers

and the other, lavender.

I walk

and no matter how many steps are taken

the further from the outside I am

there is absolutely no option to turn around.

The sun begins to set

my destination still  not met

Pushing on and on , and on....

Eventually I see a bright light

mesmerized by its power and beauty

I step forward

Realizing that I am outside

and that I had escaped entrapment simply

by pushing on and going forward.

Iona van der Westhuyzen

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We would be so honored if you would consider coming on board with us to keep the flame of poetry alive and flourishing in our country. Please contact us to discuss sponsorship opportunities or the possibility of becoming a festival patron. 

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