OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS Sizwe Vilakazi: Writer & Performer

David Selzer By David Selzer5 Comments4 min read2.2K views

In 2003 I joined Vulavulani Theatre Company (based in Soweto, South Africa) in my early 20’s after an extensive engagement in community theatre, which was largely protest in its nature. They were doing their second co-production with Action Transport Theatre Company (based in Ellesmere Port, UK) – http://www.actiontransporttheatre.org/. That is when I met David Selzer. He was part of the Board at the time. I worked as an actor on two productions that introduced me to the idea of making theatre for children and young people.

A few years later, when I was given an opportunity to work as a writer for Action Transport, David became a huge support for me because we share a common love for writing and literature. He loved the ‘chalk poem’ I wrote in my teens and that was eventually included in my one man show TIKA:

The rising roar from your screeching sound reveals the dark.
Your every day sacrifice from your powder is much better than gunpowder.
Every day I long for your sound to expand my horizons.

TIKA is a contemporary township piece that is designed to give hope to the youth about their future and also to create a theatre piece that will reflect a changing society in the fairly new democracy of post-apartheid South Africa. Tika is young boy who lives in a township shack alone.  He has no source of income.  That creates a struggle for him through school until he finishes matric.  The challenge begins when he is out of school because all the support systems fall off and survival becomes a daily struggle for him.  All this turns him into a criminal.  The play is about him, the challenges he goes through and the choices he makes – see https://www.sylviaselzer.com/2014/06/07/tika/.

David also appreciated the many other poems and plays I wrote for myself as a way of documenting what I was going through at the time.

When I travelled to the UK for the first time I brought my book full of handwritten poems, most written in my teen years. I think that was when David  got to familiarise himself with my work. When Action Transport visited Soweto they came to watch the show which I had developed together with a group of young people I worked with. We called ourselves Renaissance Theatre and the name of the show we created was RENAISSANCE, a play about the Atlantic Slave Trade.

For over seven years we exchanged both artistic and cultural experiences by traveling between the United Kingdom and South Africa, and David has been a valuable mentor and life coach. We are still pen pals even long after my contract with Action Transport Theatre is over. We still find time to talk on social media and to me he is like a sweet fountain of refreshing knowledge that I, from time to time, draw inspiration from. He is affectionately known only to me as Mkhulu (grandfather in Zulu).

Here are four more poems:

I am an actor/writer/clown/workshop/play enthusiast/facilitator based in Soweto. I use my work as an artist to advance social work in and around my community. I began my work as an actor doing community protest theatre during the late 1990’s when south Africa was in transition towards a democratic dispensation. After joining the Soweto-based Vulavulani Theatre Company I changed direction from protest into a more children-based theatre, touring work to schools (mostly supported financially and professionally by Action Transport based in the UK), day care centres and theatres across South Africa and other countries.

In 2005 I started Lets Play children’s theatre and also founded Renaissance Theatre for young people in Soweto, which gave birth to a young writers’ forum to instil the love of writing in young people. I have written many plays for youth including my one man show TIKA, which was developed and performed both in South Africa and the UK. I continue to work in South Africa as an actor and writer. My love for history and information is what drives my passion to write.

I also facilitate arts-in-education workshops working with ASSITEJ South Africa – https://assitej.org.za/. I work as a story teller for various children’s institutions, museums and schools. Four years ago I was trained  by DR HEARTBEAT as a part time clown and puppeteer for children on the oncology wards in Johannesburg hospital. I have recently joined Sounds Of Azania, an online radio show, as a talk show presenter because I always have a lot to say – https://soundsofazania.com/

 

©Sizwe Vilakazi 2022

 
 

BLOODLANDS

David Selzer By David Selzer5 Comments1 min read2.4K views

‘In the very midst of civilised Europe…the existence

of an entire population is threatened.’ Anatole France et al, 1919


 

Ukraine, like all countries, is an invention;

an abstraction on a map; a conqueror’s

caprice; an accident of history;

an actual, continual pit of war,

occupation, partition, rebellion,

displacement, famine – and pogroms

under Chmielnicki’s Cossacks, the Tzar’s

Black Hundreds, the Soviets, the Nazis…

***

Until the Germans occupied Ukraine

my grandfather, a Tzarist refugee

in London, had had regular letters

in Yiddish from his parents and siblings

in Kyiv. After September ’41

no more arrived. Approximately

thirty four thousand Jewish men, women

and children – in two days – were shot to death

by the Germans and their collaborators,

the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police.


Each fresh layer of bodies in Babyn Yar –

a ravine four miles from the city centre

and not far from the River Dnipro –

was covered by sand. As the Russians

advanced, re-occupying Ukraine,

the SS attempted to remove

the evidence by exhuming the corpses,

burning them, and scattering the ashes

on neighbouring farmland. Though the odd

piece of bone or necklace turned up, Stalin

ordered the massacre kept secret,

to pretend the retreat had never happened.


***


Before the latest invasion you could

book a tour of the Jewish sites of Kyiv –

the five synagogues, Golda Meir’s birthplace,

Babyn Yar – for less than £50 pounds

per person. Included would be a

selfie with the driver.

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.9K views

1816 was the ‘year of no summer’.

Volcanic ash from the Dutch East Indies

darkened Europe’s skies. Mount Tambora,

amid the savannahs of Sumbawa,

had erupted the previous year.

So June 1815 was unseasonably

wet, particularly in Belgium.


Escaped from Elba, Bonaparte had rallied

France, almost expunging Blucher’s Prussians

in Wallonia. At Waterloo,

on the morning of the 8th, Napoleon –

once begetter of Le Code Civil

Des Français before he crowned himself –

waited for the ground to dry in order

to deploy his cavalry to best effect.

However, Blucher’s remnants joined Wellington’s

‘scum of the earth’, and Boney rode from the field

in tears. His ‘critical error’ became

part of the military syllabus.


Add choice and pride to physics and chance

butterflies too can make a right mess of things.

COMETH THE HOUR

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read1.7K views

Cometh the hour, cometh the greedy fool.

Though a classicist from Balliol,

he eschewed role models like Pericles and

Spartacus, preferring the Lion King.


Bank-rolled by the money of oligarchs,

he was their unkempt, useful idiot,

an adipose, amoral narcissist,

in that land of public malfeasance,

of conspicuous inequality,

corporate manipulation, media

compliance, self-righteous kleptocracy,

institutionalised xenophobia.


Ever the opportunist and the dicer,

to distract from drunken scandals that mocked

the unnecessary deaths of tens

of thousands of his fellow citizens

he employed foreign flags and foreign corpses.

 

THE TOPOGRAPHY OF THE HEART

After the massacre at Culloden

the Crown and its lackeys impoverished

the Highlands – forbade the language and the kilt,

began the Clearances, the diasporas.

By Victorian times all that had become

the background of fiction – as in ‘Kidnapped’,

Robert Louis Stevenson’s adult novel

about bigotry, pride, loyalty and friendships,

masquerading as a boy’s adventure yarn

set among the lochs, the glens, the heather.


Young David Balfour – a Protestant

lowlander – is traduced, kidnapped, shipwrecked,

outlawed, redeemed. He becomes a killer

with a flintlock by force of circumstance.

Before he must take to the heather –

with his alter ego, Alan Breck

of the king’s coat with silver buttons –

he takes the ferry from Mull to the mainland.


The ferry is ramshackle. Nevertheless

the Sound is still, the day is bright, all

– passengers and boatmen – take turns at the oars

to a song in Gaelic, ‘Heel yo ho, boys!

Bring her head into the weather!’,

and David Balfour, although he understands

not a word, shares in the fellowship.


As they approach the mouth of Loch Aline

they see a ship at anchor, a coffin ship

destined for the American colonies,

and skiffs, plying between the ship and the shore,

full of people, and the shore crowded

with men, women, children – and, closer,

they hear from land and water a keening,

and one of the singers on the ferry

begins a lament, in which the others join.

Our hero, though he has none of the Gaelic,

is struck to the heart.

 

A POEM FOR MY GRANDDAUGHTER

David Selzer By David Selzer7 Comments2 min read2.6K views

I became 12 at the end of ’53.

That year we had bought our first TV

(with a 9 inch screen) to watch the Queen

being crowned. Just in time for the crowning

the British – with some help – had ‘conquered’

Everest. That September I had started

at the grammar school which had been founded

by Henry VIII after he had robbed

the local monastery. The masters

were begowned, the corridors stone-lined, dark.


Placing the sides of our blue and green striped caps

equidistant from our ears – as per

the British obsession with school uniform –

we would take the short walk through the city

to a Georgian building that had been

a charity school. There we had science

and ‘dinners’. Next door was a brewery.

As we lit the Bunsen burners, and ate

the grisly meat and semolina,

we could smell the pungent brewing of hops.

We were forbidden to eat in the street.


At some point I had lost my sense of humour,

had forsaken The Beano and The Dandy –

with their roll-calls of impromptu anarchists,

like Dennis the Menace and Korky the Cat –

for The Eagle, and its square-jawed, upper class,

Scottish space hero, Colonel Dan Dare,

and his fat batman, Digby, who came from Yorkshire.


That summer I had read Enid Blyton’s,

‘The Famous Five Have A Wonderful Time’,

knowing that it would probably be

the last time I read such a book, that

my childhood was ending, and being grown up

was approaching – sometimes like a huge iceberg,

sometimes like an imminent, hoped-for

landfall on a fragrant coast that was just

over the horizon.