This document provides the syllabus for an English literature course on South African poetry from the Black Consciousness Movement and protest poetry of the 1960s-70s to more recent post-apartheid poems. It lists the dates, topics, and required readings for each class, including poems by Mongane Serote, Oswald Mtshali, Tatamkhulu Afrika, Ingrid de Kok, Antjie Krog, Gabeba Baderoon that represent different eras of South African poetry dealing with issues of apartheid, protest, and the post-apartheid experience. Sample summaries of individual poems are also included to provide context and an overview of the themes and styles presented in the poems.
Dracula is an 1897 Gothic horror novel by Irish author Bram Stoker. Famous for introducing the character of the vampire Count Dracula, the novel tells the story of Dracula's attempt to move from Transylvania to England, and the battle between Dracula and a small group of men and women led by Professor Abraham Van Helsing.
Dracula has been assigned to many literary genres including vampire literature, horror fiction, the gothic novel and invasion literature. The novel touches on themes such as the role of women in Victorian culture, sexual conventions, immigration, colonialism, and post-colonialism. Although Stoker did not invent the vampire, he defined its modern form, and the novel has spawned numerous theatrical, film and television interpretations.
Dracula is an 1897 Gothic horror novel by Irish author Bram Stoker. Famous for introducing the character of the vampire Count Dracula, the novel tells the story of Dracula's attempt to move from Transylvania to England, and the battle between Dracula and a small group of men and women led by Professor Abraham Van Helsing.
Dracula has been assigned to many literary genres including vampire literature, horror fiction, the gothic novel and invasion literature. The novel touches on themes such as the role of women in Victorian culture, sexual conventions, immigration, colonialism, and post-colonialism. Although Stoker did not invent the vampire, he defined its modern form, and the novel has spawned numerous theatrical, film and television interpretations.
Sample of the limited edition, large-format version of the 1st bilingual anthology from OFF_Press. Layout, artworking and typesetting done by Samuel Taradash
The 2019 issue of UMLÄUT literary journal edited and published by the Creative Writing department of San Francisco Ruth Asawa School of the Arts High School
Sample of the limited edition, large-format version of the 1st bilingual anthology from OFF_Press. Layout, artworking and typesetting done by Samuel Taradash
The 2019 issue of UMLÄUT literary journal edited and published by the Creative Writing department of San Francisco Ruth Asawa School of the Arts High School
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These slides are from Scott Guthrie's Building Azure Applications talk presented on December 3rd 2013 in National College of Ireland.
They provide a detailed view of building in Windows Azure and how to manage development of large application on a Cloud platform.
It's worth your time: Managing millennialsDan Weir
You want to talk again about this project? You are stressed with your workload but you want more? You want a raise but you have only been here 3 months? It’s a different generation entering the workforce. The great part about working with millennials is that they are hungry to take on the world. The difficult part is they don’t know where to start first. Learn from Dan and Lindsay techniques that have worked for them with managing millennials. Walk away with a new understanding of how the typical employee from this generation thinks. Leave with new ideas of how to lead and guide this enthusiastic group.
1
P e b La H e
T e Ne S ea R e
By Langston Hughes (1921)
I e kno n i e :
I e kno n i e ancien a he o ld and olde han he flo of h man blood in h man ein .
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln en do n o Ne O lean , and I e een
its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I e kno n i e :
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
2
M e S
By Langston Hughes (1922)
Well, on, I ll ell o :
Life fo me ain been no c al ai .
I had ack in i ,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor
Bare.
But all the time
I e been a-climbin on,
And eachin landin ,
And nin co ne ,
And ome ime goin in he da k
Whe e he e ain been no ligh .
So bo , don o n back.
Don o e do n on he e
Ca e o find i kinde ha d.
Don o fall no
Fo I e ill goin , hone ,
I e ill climbin ,
And life fo me ain been no c al ai .
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
3
I, T
By Langston Hughes (1925)
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I ll be a he able
When company comes.
Nobod ll da e
Say to me,
Ea in he ki chen,
Then.
Besides,
The ll ee ho bea if l I am
And be ashamed
I, too, am America.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
4
T e Wea B e
By Langston Hughes (1925)
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To he ne o ho e Wea Bl e .
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming f om a black man o l.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan
Ain go nobod in all hi o ld,
Ain go nobod b ma elf.
I g ine o i ma f o nin
And ma o ble on he helf.
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more
I go he Wea Bl es
And I can be a i fied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can be a i fied
I ain ha no mo
And I i h ha I had died.
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He le like a ock o a man ha dead.
https://www.poetryfoundat ...
1
P e b La H e
T e Ne S ea R e
By Langston Hughes (1921)
I e kno n i e :
I e kno n i e ancien a he o ld and olde han he flo of h man blood in h man ein .
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln en do n o Ne O lean , and I e een
its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I e kno n i e :
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
2
M e S
By Langston Hughes (1922)
Well, on, I ll ell o :
Life fo me ain been no c al ai .
I had ack in i ,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor
Bare.
But all the time
I e been a-climbin on,
And eachin landin ,
And nin co ne ,
And ome ime goin in he da k
Whe e he e ain been no ligh .
So bo , don o n back.
Don o e do n on he e
Ca e o find i kinde ha d.
Don o fall no
Fo I e ill goin , hone ,
I e ill climbin ,
And life fo me ain been no c al ai .
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
3
I, T
By Langston Hughes (1925)
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I ll be a he able
When company comes.
Nobod ll da e
Say to me,
Ea in he ki chen,
Then.
Besides,
The ll ee ho bea if l I am
And be ashamed
I, too, am America.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/langston-hughes
4
T e Wea B e
By Langston Hughes (1925)
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To he ne o ho e Wea Bl e .
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming f om a black man o l.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan
Ain go nobod in all hi o ld,
Ain go nobod b ma elf.
I g ine o i ma f o nin
And ma o ble on he helf.
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more
I go he Wea Bl es
And I can be a i fied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can be a i fied
I ain ha no mo
And I i h ha I had died.
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He le like a ock o a man ha dead.
https://www.poetryfoundat ...
Battle Royal Ralph Ellison It goes a long way back, some .docxgarnerangelika
Battle Royal
Ralph Ellison
It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!
And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I was in the cards, other things having been equal (or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty-five years ago they were told they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaining to the common good, and, in everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believed it. They exulted in it. They stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told I take after him. It was he who caused the trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to him and said, "Son, after I'm gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." They thought the old man had gone out of his mind. He had been the meekest of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man's breathing. "Learn it to the younguns," he whispered fiercely; then he died.
But my folks were more alarmed over his last words than over his dying. It was as though he had not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said and, indeed, this is the first time it has been mentioned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous effect upon me, however. I could never be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It became a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the back of my mind. And whenever things went well for me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it worse, everyone loved me for it. I was.
Similar to English 2 a, south african poetry (april 2013) (20)
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Palestine last event orientationfvgnh .pptxRaedMohamed3
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We all have good and bad thoughts from time to time and situation to situation. We are bombarded daily with spiraling thoughts(both negative and positive) creating all-consuming feel , making us difficult to manage with associated suffering. Good thoughts are like our Mob Signal (Positive thought) amidst noise(negative thought) in the atmosphere. Negative thoughts like noise outweigh positive thoughts. These thoughts often create unwanted confusion, trouble, stress and frustration in our mind as well as chaos in our physical world. Negative thoughts are also known as “distorted thinking”.
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1. 1
ENGLISH 2A: SOUTH AFRICAN POETRY
FROM PROTESTTOPOST-APARTHEID
Date Topic Required Reading
Monday
22 April
TheBlack
Consciousness Movement
and Protest Poetry
“What‟s in this Black „Shit‟” (Serote)
“My Brothers in the Streets” (Serote)
Friday
26 April
The Black
Consciousness Movement
and Protest Poetry
“The Birth of Shaka” (Mtshali)
“The Watchman‟s Blues” (Mtshali)
Monday
29 April
Poetry of
the Transition
“Ummi” (Afrika)
“Power Cut” (Afrika)
Friday 3
May
Revisionist Poetry “Our Sharpeville” (De Kok)
Monday
6 May
The Truth and
Reconciliation Commission
“For all Voices, For all Victims” (Krog)
Friday
10 May
Recent Poems “This is what I‟ll remember” (Baderoon)
“Old photographs” (Baderoon)
2. 2
What’s in this Black ‘Shit’ (Mongane Serote)
It is not the steaming little rot
In the toilet bucket,
It is the upheaval of the bowels
Bleeding and coming out through the mouth
And swallowed back,
Rolling in the mouth,
Feeling its taste and wondering what‟s next like it.
Now I‟m talking about this:
„Shit‟ you hear an old woman say,
Right there, squeezed in her little match-box
With her fatness and gigantic life experience
Which makes her a child,
„Cause the next day she‟s right there,
Right there serving tea to the woman
Who‟s lying in bed at 10 a.m. sick with wealth,
Which she‟s prepared to give her life for
„Rather than you marry my son or daughter.‟
This „Shit‟ can take the form of action:
My youngest sister under the full weight of my father
And her face colliding with his steel hand,
„‟Cause she spilled sugar that I worked so hard for,‟
He says, not feeling satisfied with the damage his hands
Do to my yelling little sister.
I‟m learning to pronounce this „Shit‟ well
Since the other day
At the pass office
When I went to get employment,
The officer there endorsed me to Middelburg,
So I said, hard and with all my might, „Shit!‟
I felt a little better;
But what‟s good is, I said it in his face,
A thing my father wouldn‟t dare do.
That‟s what‟s in this black „Shit‟.
My Brothers in the Streets (Mongane Serote)
Oh you black boys,
You thin shadows who emerge like a chill in the night,
You whose heart-tearing footsteps sound in the night,
My brothers in the streets,
Who holiday in jails,
Who rest in hospitals,
Who smile at insults,
Who fear the whites,
Oh you black boys,
You horde-waters that sweep over black pastures,
You bloody bodies that dodge bullets,
My brothers in the streets,
Who booze and listen to records,
Who've tasted rape of mothers and sisters,
3. 3
Who take alms from white hands,
Who grab bread from black mouths,
Oh you black boys,
Who spill blood as easy as saying „Voetsek‟.
Listen!
Come my black brothers in the streets,
Listen,
It's black women who are crying.
The Birth of Shaka (Oswald Mtshali)
His baby cry
was of a cub
tearing the neck
of the lioness
because he was fatherless.
The gods
boiled his blood
in a clay pot of passion
to course in his veins.
His heart was shaped into an ox shield
to foil every foe.
Ancestors forged
his muscles into
thongs as tough
as wattle bark
and nerves
as sharp as
syringa thorns.
His eyes were lanterns
that shone from the dark valleys of Zululand
to see white swallows
coming across the sea.
His cry to two assassin brothers:
"Lo! you can kill me
but you'll never rule this land!"
The Watchman’s Blues (Oswald Mtshali)
High up
in the loft of a skyscraper
above the penthouse of the potentate
he huddles
in his nest by day; by night
he is an owl that descends,
knobkierie in hand,
to catch the rats that come
to nibble the treasure-strewn street windows.
4. 4
He sits near a brazier,
his head bobbing like a fish cork
in the serene waters of sleep.
The jemmy boys
have not paid him a visit,
but if they come
he will die in honour,
die fighting
like a full-blooded Zulu –
and the baas will say:
„Here‟s ten pounds.
Jim was a good boy.‟
And to rise and keep awake
and twirl the kierie
and shoo the wandering waif
And chase the hobo with „Voetsak‟.
To wait for the rays of the sun
to spear the fleeing night,
while he pines
for the three wives and a dozen children
sleeping alone in the kraal
faraway in the majestic mountains
Of Mahlabathim –
„Where I‟m a man
amongst men,
not John or Jim
But Makhubalo Magudulela.‟
Power Cut (Tatamkhulu Afrika)
Clock‟s glowing digits show
it's four a.m.
I flip a switch:
nothing burns.
Has a pylon toppled in the swift,
black water of the wind?
Candles roll
about under my palms,
fluting nibbling at my skin.
Matches chatter as the box
skids away from my blind,
humiliating hands.
Clock‟s cold
fire stares,
and stares from the dark,
grown alien room,
whispers “No”
to the candles living flame.
Candles flare:
the shadows bolt
up into the corners of the room,
twitch and thrust
like the bug that tries
5. 5
to flee me through the floor.
Sea rolls
uneasily below
the bellowing wind.
Mock-fig‟s
slack leaves splat
against the window‟s shrilling panes.
Islanded,
The room is still.
As I am still,
Islanded in the thin
melancholy of the alone:
those watchers at the ebbing tides
of nights and dreams.
Candles‟ doubles quiver tall
as vigil-tapers in the black
mirror's tideless pool.
Water over weed,
turbulent with flames,
the mirror drowns
my face‟s thousand forms.
They gibber, grin,
horribly howl,
rush the mirror‟s scything rims,
narrow to a line.
Only the eyes still cry
“I am”.
The wind whirls
the leaves one last,
strangulating time:
drops like a stone.
Silence drips
like gutters after rain,
runs,
tiptoeing,
through my ears.
Morning, vast
and formless, leans
against my walls.
Does it or I sigh,
worn with being,
ripe with pain?
The lights suddenly burn.
A dove croons,
familiarly, in the pines.
Old hungers run
through the dry
streambeds of my veins.
Ummi (Tatamkhulu Afrika)
I looked at my hands last night,
and remembered her:
and the rickety stairs that writhed
up to the floor she had made her fief,
6. 6
where sometimes she rented out
a grudging space to carefully screened
practising Muslim gentlemen –
of whom, it seemed,
she had decided I was one.
Tall and gaunt,
arthritis remodelling her limbs,
menacingly black,
old-style walking stick
gripped in her large
as a man‟s hands,
she prowled like some lame tigress through
the monastic, small rooms,
strangely flaming yellow eyes
telling of a rage I could not comprehend.
Evenings,
she prayed,
all her flesh except the face
voluminously swathed,
the rooms suddenly alert
with terror of the God brought close –
and as suddenly distanced when she rose,
casting off her sanctity as she did her robes,
bellowing for the daughter that scrubbed,
and polished, and pursued me
with that other terror:
the lovelorn swoon of her idiot eyes.
Spectrally pale,
with the dead,
un-European bleach
of our bastard race‟s sport,
she liked me for the similar
wanness of my skin;
stooped once and spat
in an eye that had grit in it,
muttering a prayer in a strange tongue;
and she gave me the room
with the little balcony that leaned
out over the old District‟s ruin,
and I would sit there of an evening and watch
the last of the children play
before night fell;
and sometimes on a Sunday,
sleeping late,
I‟d wake
and a starling would be sitting on the rail,
flooding the room with transfiguring song,
and I‟d go out to tell her
it was like home from home,
and she‟d sit there staring at me,
bleakly as a bone.
Widowed, she was mean;
she‟d scoop spilled tea
7. 7
back into the cup, saying:
„the table‟s clean‟.
Only once did she give me
hope for her soul,
proffering cakes with the tea
when my friends from the madrassah came
and I knew pride;
but the cakes were stale,
iron as her thin smile,
and their soured cream
unforgivably shamed.
I think I hated her then;
but she died and I moved on
and still did not understand
why she threw the cakes
into the rubbish bin,
did not speak to me for many days.
But now I‟m looking at my hands,
seeing more than them:
misshapen, mean
as crab‟s claws they cling
to the last of life,
the last of things,
hold only pain.
Our Sharpeville (Ingrid de Kok)
I was playing hopscotch on the slate
when miners roared past in lorries,
their arms raised, signals at a crossing,
their chanting foreign and familiar,
like the call and answer of road gangs
across the veld, building hot arteries
from the heart of the Transvaal mine.
I ran to the gate to watch them pass.
And it seemed like a great caravan
moving across the desert to an oasis
I remembered from my Sunday School book:
olive trees, a deep jade pool,
men resting in clusters after a long journey,
the danger of the mission still around them
and night falling, its silver stars just like the ones
you got for remembering your Bible texts.
Then my grandmother called from behind the front door,
her voice a stiff broom over the steps:
„Come inside; they do things to little girls.‟
For it was noon, and there was no jade pool.
Instead, a pool of blood that already had a living name
and grew like a shadow as the day lengthened.
The dead, buried in voices that reached even my gate,
8. 8
the chanting men on the ambushed trucks,
these were not heroes in my town,
but maulers of children,
doing things that had to remain nameless.
And our Sharpeville was this fearful thing
that might tempt us across the wellswept streets.
If I had turned I would have seen
brocade curtains drawn tightly across sheer net ones,
known there were eyes behind both,
heard the dogs pacing in the locked yard next door.
But, walking backwards, all I felt was shame,
at being a girl, at having been found at the gate,
at having heard my grandmother lie
and at my fear her lie might be true.
Walking backwards, called back,
I returned to the closed rooms, home.
For All Voices, For All Victims (Antjie Krog)
because of you
this country no longer lies
between us but within
it breathes becalmed
after being wounded
in its wondrous throat
in the cradle of my skull
it sings, it ignites
my tongue, my inner ear, the cavity of heart
shudders towards the outline new in soft intimate clicks and gutturals
of my soul the retina learns to expand
daily because by a thousand stories
I was scorched
a new skin
I am changed for ever. I want to say:
forgive me
forgive me
forgive me
You whom I have wronged, please
take me
with you.
This is what I’ll remember (Gabeba Baderoon)
Mist in the park
brings slow clarity to the landscape.
We walk a long circuit from the metal gates
down the straight, formal mall,
9. 9
past the statues and the open spaces falling
to the left and to the right.
After the frost, the trees show
the last of their colour.
Before the steps to the monolith peering
out of the mist – what everything leads to –
crowd the ramshackle roses, formal too,
but blown, their colours like autumn now,
remembered yellow, the pinks and reds touched
with brown. Not brilliant, no longer
what we recall of roses,
but this state before they fall
and the bushes hold life during winter
close as a small spark.
As the garden gradually reveals
itself, we walk into time
and are released to talk of death.
The time it took
to sit in your mother‟s presence
and hear what was being said
when at last she asked for help,
but only for the periphery –
to buy something she had seen
in the newspaper, to read to her.
No request came
closer to the body.
To stay by her bedside
and hear the calm detail of need
was to feel a kind of beauty, impossible
to say, but the beauty of dying, the beauty
of sitting in the presence of dying.
The roses‟ insistent memory,
small collectivity before they fall –
this is what I‟ll remember
as the point where we turned
and became open with each another,
our memories held close
despite the fact that the cold had come,
on time.
Old photographs (Gabeba Baderoon)
On my desk is a photograph of you
taken by the woman who loved you then.
In some photos her shadow falls
in the foreground. In this one,
her body is not that far from yours.
Did you hold your head that way
because she loved it?
10. 10
She is not invisible, not
my enemy, nor even the past.
I think I love the things she loved.
Of all your old photographs, I wanted
this one for its becoming. I think
you were starting to turn your head a little,
your eyes looking slightly to the side.
Was this the beginning of leaving?