'Progres' - An original tribute to Ken Saro-Wiwa

Some of the cast & staff of OSF

My latest play 'Progres' based on the life and work of Ken Saro-Wiwa premiered on the 10th of November at Community House in Salt River. Developed with the Independent Theatre Movement of South Africa and the Ogoni Solidarity Forum, the play was co-directed by Tauriq Jenkins who also wrote some of the speaches for the character Komo that he portrayed. Audience reaction was phenomenal on the night and an extended run is being planned before the end of the year as well as a national universities tour for the new year.

The director with James Matthews and members of the cast after the successful gala performance of Live rAGE!

Live rAGE! is a performance tribute to the legendary poet James Matthews who celebrated his eightieth birthday on the 24th of May 2009. The performance took place on the 2nd of September at the Artscape Arena with a free community preview at noon and a gala performance that evening. The cast was comprised of individuals and collectives including poets, actors, musicians, dancers and a visual artist. Both shows performed to packed houses and without exception responses were positive.

Ken Saro Wiwa Memorial Project

'Progres' is a new play being developed for the Ogoni Solidarity Forum to commemorate the 14th year since the murder of writer and activist Ken Saro Wiwa by the Nigerian Federal Government and Royal Dutch Shell. The play will be based on characters developed by the writer in his compilation of short stories entitled 'Forest of Flowers' with some poems and music. The performance will take place on the 10 November at Community House in Salt River and will star Tauriq Jenkins with Monique Rockman, Keenan Herman, Lee Alan Roodt and Ema-Lee Atkins.

The Long Overdue Collection of Poetry

A RHAPSODY IN GREEN

Crazy young men who lived too fast
Flew too high the trip couldn’t last
Small time heroes from back in sixty-nine
Tried it all - had a wonderful time.

Lonely boys who are misunderstood
Hoping that the bad can be made good
In love with sad memories of content
Writing letters that are never sent.

The people they need are far away
Exposed and unfeeling they sit and play
One day soon their time will come
A time of revelation in the sun.

Lost in their minds they repent,
Alone in their minds they dement.

(1994 – Pretoria Central Prison)

Copyright - Michael Wentworth 1994

A Rhapsody of Green is the title poem of a collection of poetry written over the past fourteen years.
A suitable publisher is being saught for the printing of this compilation.

In god's view

"...And it dawned on me that even the most beautiful sunset will fade into the blackest night but just because it doesn’t last, it doesn’t mean that you cannot be touched by its beauty and enjoy its majesty or revel in its dying warmth."

'Waiting' - closing speech

Closing Speech!

It’s amazing what goes through your head when you can no longer engage with the act of living. Initially I was obsessed and consumed by all the time I had wasted waiting in fear and cowardice and queues and lines. Waiting for things to improve and happiness to find me – waiting for the pain to go away and the old wounds to heal. Waiting for someone who would come and make it all worthwhile. Waiting for my son to be born. (PAUSE – BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE AND REGULATED BREATHING) Little fragments of memory and isolated incidents replayed like scenes from an old movie in my head and I quickly realised that the value of life did not reside in what I had possessed; or what I thought and believed; or even what I aspired to – life’s worth is defined by the things we do and have done because it is our actions that reflect the integrity of our souls. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) Throughout our lives, we are made to believe that this endless, gluttonous consumption and callous destruction are the fuels that fire progress. But the truth is that it is just an advertising ploy, an aggressive marketing strategy – fiscal propaganda that has been designed to satisfy the greed of the profit mongers. In a better life, progress is the victory of peace over war; the sound of carefree laughter instead of angry dissent – consciousness as opposed to dogma. (PAUSE) Call me what you will, but always remember that I am so much more than your most all-encompassing perception – more even than my own most fertile imagination could conjure. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) I am not just the homeless child that you scorn, or the alcoholic mother or the raped sister or even the criminal father. I am all of this and more. I am you in the mirror, hiding under the lover’s bed or shying away in the closet; I am the outcast in your prison – in your cell. I am the joy and pain, and the delirium and heartache. I am your son and your daughter and your conscience. I am the object of your scorn, your pity – your most desirous aspirations. I am all of this and I am nothing because that’s what you choose to think! (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) Everyday we teach our children that they can become anything that they want to be. We tell them that they should dream big and strive purposefully to achieve their dreams, but then we turn around and with a smile on our faces, we place them squarely in a tiny little box with a big label emblazoned across the front. Boy, girl, black, white, Christian, Muslim, Tswana, Xhosa, good, bad, obedient, rebellious, clever, stupid, Masarwa… (RUNS OUT OF BREATH AND INHALES DEEPLY. THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) The list goes on and on and before you know it the children believe that you can no longer be trusted. Or even worse, that they are the sum total of all the bullshit you think. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) After spending months living in hope and waiting to awake and be a father to my son and a husband to his mother whom I intended to marry just as soon as I could walk down the isle, the doctors finally admitted that there was nothing they could do; that there was no hope for me and as more and more time passed, it was difficult for me not to believe them. There was nothing I could do and the only thing that was left was for me to wait; to bide my time silently praying that death will come and carry me away – because surely death is better than spending the rest of my days just waiting for a miracle – waiting for the show to begin or to end. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & REGULATED BREATHING) The years have passed by in a moment, leaving just the scars and memories to keep me company; keeping me sane – helping me to cope with the strain. All the time wasted waiting for a better day, a better way, a reason to stay the distance despite this clinically reduced existence. Tick-tik-tock – spilled blood dries while the flesh rots: souls entwined inevitably unravel: the truth, a thread, a solitary trickle – a teardrop that rusts the moon’s sickle. Wasted living waiting for life to begin. Wasted living in someone else’s dream; where love once given cannot be returned – where souls once cherished cannot be spurned. The tender smiles and joyous laughter, the special moments that we share – these are the treasures that linger when you dance alone on the edge of despair. So much living wasted, waiting… (BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE) Just waiting… (THE SOUND IS REPLACED BY THE CONSTANT BEEP AS HE FLAT-LINES AND THE LIGHTS FADE OUT.)

The Khoi Gxam Poet

Art or Entertainment?

I regularly conduct creative workshops with young people and one of the questions that consistently arise is concerned with the role of the artist in this constantly aspiring, modern consumer society.
My only answer is an idealistic notion of artists challenging common perceptions and being responsible for the nurturing of the soul of the nation. This is of course based on a seemingly outdated, quasi-romantic notion that stems from the fact that traditionally, visual artists were revered as social historians and poets and storytellers were held in high esteem for it was them who most ardently maintained the authenticity of our oral traditions.

In reality however, I am sometimes loathe to encourage an artistic career because it is not talent alone that sets successful artists apart – it is pure perseverance mixed with a generous dollop of good fortune and being prepared.
Many young actors, writers, visual artists and musicians quickly discard the noble ideals of creative and artistic endeavour in exchange for the relative safety that is to be found in the entertainment industry where formula is the order of the day.
As for the rest, the vast majority of aspirant talents are forced to choose between virtual starvation and the security of a ‘real’ job.

We have all been duped into believing that the only success stems from economic reward and mass appeal, but if this were truly the case then there would never have been any groundbreaking work done in any field. Often it is that which is most frowned upon by one generation that is later understood by the next and hailed as revolutionary.
As a result many of the most successful artists have died and continue to die as paupers in virtual obscurity only to become fabulously wealthy, household names posthumously. Has history taught us nothing?

The lure of financial comfort and polarity makes many of us think and create within a proven, successful structure – a tried and tested formula for good entertainment that is more often than not borrowed from the west.
We are expected to reinterpret the classics while our own forms and stories are forgotten and seldom disseminated.

I have heard many creative practitioners lamenting the fact that there is not a dedicated local audience or readership or listener and the reasons have been discussed to death – poverty, inaccessibility, a lack of appreciation and understanding or education.
Why is it that in order to get ‘bums-on-seats’, we need to resort to badly cast, television stars with dubious ability but high profiles or sensationalist stories of crime and violence and bloodshed? Have we lost the plot?

Unfortunately the problem exists everywhere where society – not government – does not value and cherish the role that artistic creation and creators play in defining the identity of a historically fragmented people. The time has long come when we should be seeking to be challenged and elevated as opposed to just being entertained; but I suppose that this too is just an idealistic, quasi-romantic notion that has no place in this modern context where original thought is still frowned upon as being indicative of mental instability.

All of you and me...

Over the years and beyond the grave
Like dust my very being is moved
From somewhere on the outside I look in
A lone spectre terminally removed.
Perverse indulgence within this foreign home
Inevitable mortality the reward
As I try to weave the fabric of my dreams
Just another sad loony living inside my head.
Where do all the smiles reside
After such intensely destructive confrontation
The bonds recede into a vague recollection
An ill-conceived notion of content.
Now this almost severe isolation expands
To encompass yet another life’s theme.

Silent Revolution

A trembling cymbal announces the underground buzz
People are talking about dissatisfaction because
There’s stuff going down that should not be allowed
And it grows within the crowd
As they stand there waiting for the band to begin
But then the master of ceremonies walks in
And he puts on a smile and straightens his tie
There’s a little twinkle in his eye
As he bites your listening ear off
Blood sputters as he stifles a cough
Looks such a fool that you can’t help but laugh
And it makes you think about yesterday.

(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And those who have succumb and the successfully dumb.

We were angry because we were being denied
There was no trust because we knew they lied
About how our brothers died ‘cause they tried
To propagate change in the face of persecution
Where their retribution led to execution
In the book of an Afrikaner god that hated blacks
And the truth of which they spoke
Our lives were nothing more than a cheap joke
Men turned into mindless killing machines
To protect the parents that were so scared
For all of their lives until they no longer cared
Or dared to hear the imminent sound of revolution.

(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And all who have succumb and even the successfully dumb.

Still Life

All the little things that I hold dear
Remain with me because I am here
Conscious despite everything I imbibe
I am the spokesman for my tribe.

A cold winter’s night under a cloudy sky
Some old brown and sausage on the braai
Music swinging in my head
Played by a band that is long dead.

The books I’ve read the movies I’ve seen
Every single place that I’ve ever been
Remains with me because I am here
In retrospect even confusion is clear.

There is still life while the dream is alive
There is still hope while some of us strive.