Ismail Joubert

Ismail Joubert Poems

Cat's small child cries
in the dark where loneliness hides.
Cat's small child beats
its breast in the soft
...

Small round hard stones click
under my heels,
seeding grasses thrust
bearded seeds
...

The leopard lay,
long and dappled, under the leaves.
He saw me when
I still saw only the leaves.
...

Small bird in a bush:
cars in the street rush
past it like the Gadarene swine,
line upon line.
...

Ismail Joubert Biography

Novelist and prize-winning poet, Tatamkhulu Afrika was born in Egypt in 1920 and came to South Africa as a young child. He was a veteran of World War 2 and an Umkhonto we Sizwe activist in the South African struggle. His first novel was published at 17 and his next publication was his first collection of verse, Nine Lives, published by Carrefour-Hippogriff in 1991. His poetry has won numerous awards and in October 1996 he travelled to France to have his poems translated into French at the invitation of La Fondation Royaumont at the Royaumont Abbey. Apart from his collections, his poems have appeared in numerous South African and international magazines and anthologies. Tatamkhulu Afrika died on 23/12/2002 as a result of complications resulting from injuries after being knocked over by a car two weeks earlier. His novel, Bitter Eden, published by Arcadia (UK) was launched in Cape Town on 7th December 2002 to coincide with his 82nd birthday.)

The Best Poem Of Ismail Joubert

Dark where loneliness hides

Cat's small child cries
in the dark where loneliness hides.
Cat's small child beats
its breast in the soft
furriness of its need.

Cats don't beat their breasts,
cats yell with lust
in the dark where loneliness hides?
Is it I, then, that cries,
mad child running wild?

Is it I that lies
in the dark where loneliness hides,
that listens as the wild geese wing
past short of the stars,
rime my roof with their dung?

Cat's mewling, sky's
sibilances, these
are the thieves of my ease?
What else waits
in the dark where loneliness hides?

My song has a crooked spine.
Should I break a bone
as I straighten it?
Or birth its crookedness in
the dark where loneliness hides?

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