Home Page African-Writing Online
HomeAbout UsNewsinterviewsProfiles of South African Women WritersFictionPoetryTributesArtReviews


  Alex Smith
  Amanze Akpuda
  Amatoritsero Ede
  Amitabh Mitra
  Ando Yeva
  Andrew Martin
  Aryan Kaganof

  Ben Williams
  Bongani Madondo
  Chielozona Eze
  Chris Mann
  Chukwu Eke
  Chuma Nwokolo
  Colleen Higgs
  Colleen C. Cousins
  Don Mattera
  Elizabeth Pienaar
  Elleke Boehmer
  Emilia Ilieva
  Fred Khumalo
  Janice Golding
  Lauri Kubuitsile
  Lebogang Mashile
  Manu Herbstein
  Mark Espin
  Molara Wood
  Napo Masheane
  Nduka Otiono
  Nnorom Azuonye
  Ola Awonubi
  Petina Gappah
  Sam Duerden
  Sky Omoniyi
  Toni Kan
  Uzor M. Uzoatu
  Valerie Tagwira
  Vamba Sherif
  Wumi Raji
  Zukiswa Wanner
 


          Credits:
   Ntone Edjabe
   Rudolf Okonkwo
   Tolu Ogunlesi
   Yomi Ola
   Molara Wood

August Debut

Issue 2; October/November

 

Click for larger image

 

 

presents three poems from members of the Oxford University Poetry Society (OUPS), written in the course of a recent workshop at Lincoln College with editor, Afam Akeh

   
Back row, standing: Shirley Lee, Hannah Thompson, Corinne Sawers, Matthew Evans (at the back), Betina Ip, Rachel Piercey, Christopher Thursten, Antonia McMaster and Diana Fu; Front row, sitting: Tony Harris, Edwin Gaader (Live Events Manager, OUPS), Afam Akeh (editor, AW), Chloe Stopa-Hunt (President, OUPS) and Alexander Christofi (Treasurer, OUPS)
 

 
 Poetry from the OUPS  

 

Untitled

Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves

Sylvia Plath

I do not
forget the river walks,

or in that lamp of light
being so bewildered,

the intimations of my stone.

Like flints were the heels of our shoes on the cobbles
the college gardens beautiful, beautiful!

And just tires shrilling
on concrete when it rains

the wolf in the rubble, electrical wires
in asparagus-bundles, too old to be safe-

learning to listen, I suppose,

a slow wound, learning the art of utter stillness.


Chloe Stopa-Hunt
New College, Oxford.

 

*

 

Nostalgia


I meant the damage I did. Just eleven,
In a detached redbrick Suburbia:

Newly moved house from rural Blandford Forum
To Junction 3 of the M25.

It’s quite clear, retrospectively, I strayed
Unlocked, into Grandad Bob’s empty bedroom.

(Him lying in Slough General Hospital,
Cold on a mortuary tray). It’s quite clear

I riffled quietly through his bedside cabinet,
Lifted a hundred quid out of his wallet.

One of those things that Ordinary People do.
Don’t believe me if I say I didn’t mean to.


Paul Abbott
St Annes College, Oxford.

 

*

 

Untitled

Limoncello-laced,
your sweet tongue
trips and stumbles
until it finds my lips.
It’s fervent aching eased
as we brush
and dance
and tease
and place
and love
to contentment and oblivion.

I’ll never doubt again, as I sit
alone, aching, empty, bored,
that together we are more than the
sum of our parts.


Corine Sawers
New College, Oxford.

 

 

 

 

 

   
Copyright © Fonthouse Ltd & respective copyright owners. Enquiries to permissions@african-writing.com.