In this conversation, poet Abu Bakr Solomon reflects on his latest collection, Rubble, making reference to dimensions such as personal tribulation, political and social fragmentation, and the human condition. Through layered themes and tonal shifts, the collection invites readers into a textured poetic landscape. We begin with a question about its emotional and thematic density…
This collection deals with private and public concerns; it also references global upheavals, referencing crisis moments such as the pandemic and Gaza. This gives the collection a weightiness and a ‘thickness’ that is striking. Can you say more about whether this was something you envisioned from the beginning, or if it emerged as the work developed?
The sequencing, especially in the first half of the book, leads to sharp or even startling shifts in tone and theme — almost like cinematic jump-cuts. For example, the poem ‘Goodbye’, a deeply moving reflection on a moment of parting, is directly followed by ‘Syria’. What conversations did you and your publisher have about sequencing the collection?
Abu Bakr Solomons: I constantly and consciously strive to broaden the vision of my writing. It stems from a perception and conviction that whatever happens to us personally, as individual human beings, often resonates in the world and vice versa. This is an interesting observation which motivated me to explore this characteristic in my poetry carefully. It is a process I submit to spontaneously, moving from the private domain into the public sphere, thus feeling a sense of personal loss, then [while] watching on television, the monumental loss that war spawns in Syria (and elsewhere) draws closer. So ‘loss’ becomes understood, and indeed experienced, as an aspect of the human condition. I think that perhaps, subconsciously, I am also striving to avoid becoming swamped by private, emotional explorations. It is a quality I discerned very early in the work of poets like Sylvia Plath, Karen Press, Ingrid de Kok, Arthur Nortje, and, on the other side of the spectrum, Adrienne Rich, and was enriched and influenced by their fine craft and sensibilities. Regarding the sequencing, my publisher didn’t intervene there. He left it to me to decide how the poems should be placed.
Some poems carry personal pain — the poignant ‘Kraalbaai’ comes to mind. What is the (possible) role of poetry processing with pain at a personal level? How might poetry play a role in community or with young people in helping navigate past hurts?
Poetry has always been a vehicle for, as you say, ‘processing pain at a personal level’, or joy for that matter. South African poetry is certainly no exception. But if we are serious about adding to the value of writing craftsmanship in our own social and literary landscape, I believe that we should also strive to focus on the poetry, not just the pain. Here, I believe, that the poetry of the late South African poet Douglas Livingstone is a noteworthy example of such an endeavour to unite the two. There are a few other contemporary South African poets who work towards that goal, too. In my poem, Kraalbaai, the personal is shared in the context of ‘fossil fragments’, ‘ebbing tides’ and ‘calm seas’, nature in other words, which mirrors a perpetual state of flux, fragmentation and coalescing. Thus, this moment of human reconciliation was meant to be delivered in this appropriate natural setting of ebb and flow.
In ‘Athlone Sprees’, you refer to ‘circular, not linear.’ Using that poem as a point of departure — and also drawing on poems such as ‘No Longer a Quiet Place’ and ‘Paused to See the Beauty’ — there’s a sense that, for the community-based campaigner for justice and democracy, things haven’t unfolded as once envisioned. For the engaged artist who was also a community-based activist, how can the arts serve as a space for reflecting on this moment?
Art, and particularly poetry, can and does most often become an apt vehicle for activist reflection as long as it does not become mere sloganeering. Slogans and pamphlets have their place. We are fortunate in that we have many fine examples of such poetry by Dennis Brutus and many others. My knowledge of visual art is limited, but the work of Peter Clark and Tyrone Apollis immediately comes to mind when thinking about this question.
Do you see yourself as part of the tradition of (engaged and community-linked) Western Cape writers? If so — or if not — how do you position your work in relation to that lineage?
This is a difficult question to answer adequately. I definitely possess a sense of place, where I come from and where I am matters undoubtedly, although I have never consciously defined myself as a poet ‘representing’ a specific geographical area, or country for that matter. One is, of course, apt to be inspired and motivated to respond to your immediate environment. But, having had the privilege of being able to travel quite widely in my lifetime, I have been released from the bonds of ‘regionalising’ my writing endeavours. I discovered identifiable elements of personal experiences in the streets of Kuala Lumpur and Chicago. ‘Athlone Sprees’, I think, conveys, unreservedly, my deep affinity for that sense of location.
Family appears throughout Rubble, and the collection is dedicated ‘To my family.’ While dedications can be formal gestures, this one feels deeply embedded in the work itself. Would you like to reflect on how family shaped the collection’s emotional and poetic core?
Yet another challenging question to respond to effectively. I cannot honestly confirm that family matters shaped ‘the collection’s emotional and poetic core’. Some experiences seeped into the journey, undoubtedly. I think on writing about political and social fragmentation (which dominates the collection), glimpses of personal tribulation became woven into the overall fabric of the poetic journey, finding a space for such fragmentation or discord within the broader scope of social upheavals. The dedication to ‘family’ is both personal (undoubtedly) but perhaps also, subliminally, to the universal family of humankind.
Looking back at your earlier collections — A Season of Tenderness and Dread (2018) and Inhabiting Love (2020) — in comparison with Rubble, what shifts or progressions do you see at the different stages in, for example, tone or poetic voice?
The three collections were written and completed during very specific periods of my life. Hopefully, these reflect characteristic elements of those periods. A Season of Tenderness and Dread was completed immediately after I retired from 40 years of teaching and educational management. I took numerous photographs during that period, which I integrated into a reflective season of creative exploration. Inhabiting Love came four years afterwards — a mellow, reflective time assailed by the corona virus pandemic and other threats. Memory is a clear motif in this collection. Rubble is more embodied and strident.
A striking feature of Rubble is the monochrome drawings by Glen Arendse. The faces are sometimes weather-beaten, sometimes stoic; the eyes, at times intent and at other times shadowed. These images underline the gritty, rough-textured tone already suggested by the title, Rubble. What made you think of including these images in the collection? And for you, how do these images interrelate with the poems?
The powerful sketches were done by a very talented, creative ex-student of mine, Glen Arendse. He forwarded almost 50 sketches to me while I was completing Rubble. I felt that some of the sketches, while not directly related to the poems, conveyed a tone and a power that augmented aspects of the poems, reflections and content. My publisher agreed. The female image next to the poem ‘Remembering me’, dedicated to the late feminist activist, Rhoda Kadali, captures her defiant spirit that the poem celebrates. So I included it. However, not all the images are so directly connected.
