Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Halfborn Woman
Halfborn Woman
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Halfborn Woman
Colleen Higgs
3
ISBN: 0-620-31975-5
The title and the opening epigraph of this collection come from the poem
by Adrienne Rich, ‘Upper Broadway’ in The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems
Selected and New 1950 –1984, New York: W W Norton and Company.
Thank you to my friends who read the manuscript, to Anne Schuster for
encouraging me in big and small ways to publish my poems, and to
Margaret who sees me.
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For André and Kate
5
6
I look at hands and see they are still unfinished
I look at the vine and see the leafbud
inching towards life
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Contents
I
autobiography ...................................................................................... 13
what I remember .................................................................................. 16
on being left at five .............................................................................. 18
a memory of my parents, circa 1977 .................................................. 19
some of the things I remember about your father ........................... 20
intentions ............................................................................................... 22
summer 1981, Iowa .............................................................................. 23
Ailsa ....................................................................................................... 24
butcher bird .......................................................................................... 25
II
plumbing – a short history .................................................................. 29
evidence ................................................................................................. 33
two phone poems ................................................................................. 34
in retrospect .......................................................................................... 35
Boadicea and mangy dog .................................................................... 36
red fly music ......................................................................................... 37
hot words in the steambaths ............................................................... 38
prevailing .............................................................................................. 39
the orange river .................................................................................... 40
abandoned farm ................................................................................... 41
because of you ...................................................................................... 42
a footnote ............................................................................................... 44
8
III
honey ..................................................................................................... 47
waking in the dark ............................................................................... 48
walls and gaps ...................................................................................... 49
letting go ............................................................................................... 50
eye contact ............................................................................................. 52
enough clues ......................................................................................... 54
another country .................................................................................... 58
IV
being Kate’s mother ............................................................................. 61
9
10
I
11
12
autobiography
after Nazim Hikmet
13
at twenty I went to Wits
at twenty-four started teaching
people only a little younger than myself
At thirty-two I voted for the first time in our democratic free and fair
elections
worked at the Jeppe voting station
for 3 days and 3 nights
helping people to vote
checking they hadn’t voted already
put their hands under ultra-violet light
hands of all shapes and sizes
men with painted finger nails
hostel dwellers from Jeppe
most people had never voted before
at thirty-three I moved to the Eastern Cape
14
I fell in love with a dog too
a big black wild dog with quirky ears
and strange fears
who could have predicted this?
15
what I remember
Stories of crocodiles
stored in a drawer
the smell of paraffin
a buried sheep near the swing
16
I’m trying to sleep”
the crow pretends not to hear
Goat emotions –
I’m here. You’re there.
18
a memory of my parents, circa 1977
more
than this
19
some of the things I remember about your father
in memoriam
I remember the neat way he carved chicken into thin slices, each
piece of breast with a sliver of roasted skin still on it.
I remember his weak puns, that I wouldn’t always get straight away,
but then I’d notice the way he would be smiling.
I remember his short pants and long socks, I remember seeing him
dressed that way walking the dogs at the river.
I remember driving out of Rand Mines head office, we were with him
in his air-conditioned Mercedes, nosing into Sauer Street.
20
I remember when we had tea with your parents at the Country Club,
how he came with me to the glass case to choose a cake or a scone.
I remember not ever being cross with him, knowing that it was your
mother who was uneasy with me, I knew he liked me.
21
intentions
I vow to do it better
not to hesitate to bring a child downstream
like gold floating in
a bowl or
a cup
22
summer 1981, Iowa
It is hot. I am foreign.
I’ve only the twins and Curtis for company.
Annette has gone to California.
There is Liza.
But not every day, because I’m stuck on the farm.
The soybeans are tall and green
and B52 bombers fly over the low hills.
Our senior year at Woodbine High is over.
I remember kissing Curtis in the dark.
23
Ailsa
24
butcher bird
for Geraldine
Grandpa tamed a wild bird, it ate bits of meat from his hand
Jacky Hangman
Bootcher bird
25
26
II
27
28
plumbing – a short history
Then Nico tried – softly spoken, tall Nico. We were both working on
our dissertations (his was a Masters in German, mine a Masters in
English) when the matter of my dripping tap came up. He was
sharing a house with my friends, Liam and Jonathan, in Bedford
Street. I was using Jonathan’s computer, and Nico was working on
his own, in the same study. It was still in the days of WordStar 2000.
We both had season tickets for the Yeoville pool. It was summer, days
that felt they’d be better spent out of doors, at the pool in fact, where
we often went for a “short” break. Nico said he’d come and have a
look at my tap, see what he could do. We didn’t notice the tap in the
bathroom that switched off only the water to my flat, so he turned
the whole building’s water off. It was a weekday morning.
Fortunately most people in the building were at work. He wielded a
large shifting spanner. At the time I thought it was a monkey wrench.
He changed the washers after dismantling both taps, water gushed
everywhere. He also tightened something. He looked so efficient and
able-bodied and large ducked in under the over-sized geyser, half
squatting in the bath.
Tony also tried. I was madly attracted to him. Tony was a computer
programmer; he drove a Ford Bantam bakkie, and was the coolest,
trendiest person I’d ever known. He was the first person I ever saw
wearing those Clark Kent type black-framed glasses. He was bright
29
and a bit broken, full of talk and smiles, which went a long way to
covering up the emptiness and sadness also there. He brought along
an awe-inspiring tool kit. I’d taken the day off work for the occasion.
We got into bed first, and then had breakfast. Then he undid the taps
and made his diagnosis, which involved a trip to Yeoville Hardware
for the white plumber’s tape and a clear gel that hardens into a
plastic consistency.
When we got back he did various things to the taps, after which we
got back into bed again, and then fell asleep. When we woke it was
about half past three. There was something desolate and lost about
the afternoon, Tony’s tools scattered all around the flat, the weak
winter light.
Gilbert also tried to fix the tap. His attempt also involved a trip to
Yeoville Hardware. I’m not sure what we bought. He had a small bag
of tools in his white Toyota sedan. I met him on a trip to the United
States as part of a summer study programme sponsored by the US
government. He was married, and had three children. His wife found
out about the affair and mounted a campaign which was the personal
equivalent of ‘desert storm’ to terrorise me into giving him up. This
was overkill on her part, as I wasn’t trying to hold onto him. She
seemed to want to terrorise me into utter humiliation and fear, to
prevent me from ever doing anything like that again. I often wonder
what punishment she dreamt up for him? The Gilbert story is a much
longer story, I won’t go into it here, save to say the tap stopped
dripping for about three weeks.
30
Patrick also attempted to fix the tap. He was a journalist for a
German news agency. He was a small man, nearly ten years older
than me, his hair prematurely grey. He carried a bleeper at all times,
and had to read all the papers every day. There were phone calls in
the middle of the night. It was 1993 and early 1994 when he was in
my life, there was a lot going on just before the first democratic
elections. It was thrilling, glamorous even, knowing the inside stories
on the news in those years, like where Winnie was on a particular
night and what she was up to.
The dripping tap made me feel guilty. Once I left the plug in the bath
by mistake, when I came home a few hours later the bath was half
full. I felt guilty about all the water that was being wasted when I
saw how much water comes from a dripping tap.
At nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d hear the tap drip. Eventually I’d
get out of bed and position the hand shower hose so the drop of
water fell onto it, breaking its fall, and cushioning the noise.
When I moved out of the flat, the tap still dripped. The block of flats
was built in the 1940s. There were some art deco light fittings and
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bathroom tiles. The only way the dripping was going to stop was if
the taps were replaced and the plumbing redone. The wiring could
have done with redoing too. Several of the lights didn’t work even if
you replaced the bulbs. One morning the kettle and toaster plug
smoked in an alarming way, the smell of burning electrical wires was
even more alarming. That time Mrs Levin got an electrician in; he did
a minor rewiring job, and replaced the wall plug in the kitchen. It
drew attention to the smoke-blackened patch around the plug. You
could see more clearly how grimy and old the paint in the kitchen
was.
When I moved out the whole flat was repainted. I didn’t ever see it in
its gleaming new creamy glory. Except for the one room that Patrick
and I painted.
Needless to say I didn’t ever come across a woman who offered to fix
the tap. My women friends were all prepared to commiserate about
how difficult it is to find a decent plumber, electrician, mechanic,
gynae and dentist, and to remind you to hang onto them if you did.
But that’s the thing about men; they think they can fix things. Or
make them better somehow.
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evidence
33
two phone poems
tonight
he picked it up
and said
“no, he isn’t here.
didn’t spend the weekend here.
is it sunny there?”
“no,” I said
“it’s raining.”
34
in retrospect
i guess
i didn’t play
my cards right
probably
because i didn’t realise
we were playing cards
35
Boadicea and mangy dog
later you will leave only your shaving cream on the window sill
and will keep my copy of We killed mangy dog.
36
red fly music
37
hot words in the steambaths
38
prevailing
it’s december
hot and cicadas
a month we always longed for.
39
the orange river
at night
blue-silver current
tugs my swimming body
to the sea
in the afternoon
the tin roof crackles
while wind in the distant trees
sounds like the sea
the river
the dry Karoo
things never stay the same
it’s always different water moving past
40
abandoned farm
41
because of you
for Graeme
I wave to you
my heart speechless.
In the cement light of Joburg station
your blue shirt blurs into the gloom.
42
From the dining car
headlights in the dark
a signal from elsewhere
a message that others are alive.
Knives clatter, ice clinks in glasses
cheerful music swirls its petticoats.
A vision of dead snakes in piles on the verandah
on the bare sanded planks
(did I kill them?)
Because of you
I long for
Bucharest
Addis Ababa
rose-scented geraniums
43
a footnote
i’m writing
in surrender
to this solution
44
III
45
46
honey
it’s a food of
dots zigzags
prefigures entering the crack
to the darkness, to the other side
they knew
47
waking in the dark
48
walls and gaps
49
letting go
50
earth is our mother, our old mother who holds us to her breast
even when we bite and kick and deplete her, still she holds us in
strong arms, her heart beating, her heart breaking in love and
suffering and she’s very old, almost eternal.
51
eye contact
in memory of David, my stepfather
I
Every night I wake into the darkness
several hours pass
as the dogs breathe and dream
nearby on the boards
and next to me, my love sleeps soundly.
II
He went suddenly one clear Thursday afternoon
on a golf course. He fell down. His body fell down.
My brother was there.
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I picture him in his tennis whites
tanned legs, and arms
Fine, dark hair, combed just so
in the style he wore
his whole life
III
Mostly I didn’t look at my father, into his eyes.
I always looked past him
through him, to the side of him.
53
enough clues
Perhaps it would have been easier to come to terms with if there had
been more clues.
There were always roses in my grandmother’s house.
My sister seems unreachable, her voice on the answering machine
makes the hairs on my legs stand on end.
My mother has tried more than once to take her life.
It was a hit and miss affair.
What are my chances?
54
Even now my heart is chipped and tarnished
from so long ago, memories of imperfect love still lodged there.
Will you love me forever?
Will I love you beyond your death?
Will you die before me?
We fight, trains on different tracks, later there’s a tinny taste in my
mouth.
Flu passes through my body like cold fronts, every few days for
months and months.
I long for the milk from my mother ’s breasts
sweet and enriched with an awkward love.
Later she gave me pills and potions to make the pain go away,
to help me sleep, to clear an allergy.
I pick up the piece of dark cloth, coins stitched into the fabric.
The stakes are low, in the games of chance I play.
I cut branches of pink blossom, put them in a vase.
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You ask me if we’d closed the gate.
I would remember if I had closed it, the memory would be in my
body
the metal cold on my hands, the heaviness of the gate.
Your body is heavy. I ache and long to sleep. That is how it is
between us.
I’ve become deaf from the ear infection, it will clear,
but for now I hear only songs on the wind,
songs from forgotten radio stations playing in empty rooms.
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It’s bigger than me, all the life and movement,
the wind, the cats, the insects, the spiders, and the snakes.
I imagined we’d be like Lilian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett.
But you struggle to breathe as you sleep, the air is too thin in your
house.
Sometimes the wind here is dry and relentless, sucking every drop of
damp from the soil
leaving the portulacca and the plumbago gasping and wilting in the
heat.
When I wake my eyes are puffy from all those tears I cried in my
dreams.
You expect me to take up your interests like knitting I’d left in a
basket.
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another country
If I lose my foothold
there’s no-one here
to catch me. I’ll fall
forever.
58
IV
59
60
being Kate’
Kate’ss mother
I make small spaces for myself otherwise I feel too angry and too
suffocated. This is one of those spaces, 6.30 a.m. Kate’s asleep. André
is walking the dogs. I’m writing. It refreshes me, the knots in my
neck and shoulders unclench, as I unravel and uncoil.
Kate sleeps a lot, feeds hungrily. Sometimes I find it hard feeding her
at night. I long to sleep. I wish she would hurry up. She has this
sweet way of latching, eyes closed, contented and entitled, cherubic
mouth, she snuggles up to me, rooting for my nipple, her hands
together. I feel her presence, her dignity, her person. And yet I long to
sleep.
In lucid moments I’m aware of how short the time of her being a
baby is, she’s already not a tiny baby, she doesn’t do the same things
as when she was, like lying on my chest and stomach and me rocking
her to sleep. Now she resists this. Now she smiles. She sits up on her
own. Soon she will be crawling.
The other night I dreamt she was talking, imitating us, like a small
human parrot.
It feels so important for me to find out more, for sure, about who I
am, and what I’m like from being a parent, a mother. Otherwise it’s
all hypothetical. It’s too easy to be critical of my own parents and
others who are and to think of how I would be better. But I don’t
know till I try – till I am initiated. I am finding out. I feel myself
breaking open, thawing out, warming up, loving in places in my
being that were numb. I feel sore and tired and used up, in a good
way – parts of me would have been fallow, otherwise. I am full of
need, aching to be held and comforted as I comfort Kate.
61
Sometimes I find myself feeling full of rage at Zandile, that she can
take care of Kate all day and I can’t. I’m angry that she won’t do it as
well as me, but perhaps she will be better too, she’s calmer. It won’t
be so stormy and turbulent and intense as with me, and she’ll have
that too. I miss her and am relieved when Zandile looks after her and
I can sneak back into my old self and my old life at work for a bit.
I love Kate so much. My heart is full and overflows. I feel that deep
primitive thing like a lioness, like all the mother creatures in the
world. It is fierce and strong and violent and passionate.
I’ve been cracked open by a force much larger and more powerful
than imaginable, it’s made me humble, broken my will and my ego. I
now see that this is good for me, as a writer and as a person, even
though it is painful and sometimes at 2 in the morning, I think I can’t
do this anymore, Then I find I can endure, to the next moment.
The first months Kate was home from the hospital, I couldn’t get
enough sleep, she woke me too often; I suffered the famous sleep
deprivation of new mothers. I wonder at the Darwinian sense of
sleep deprivation for the caretakers of small infants, surely it puts
them more at risk? Or perhaps it is one of the ways your will is
broken as you submit to this new way of being in the world.
62
I set exacting standards for myself, but I am learning and relearning
that with a baby you have to be endlessly flexible, open, malleable.
That’s what is hardest about having a first child later in life, I’m too
formed, too set, it hurts more in the places that have to be broken,
like my neck, my lower back, my heart. My heart’s been broken
many times and in many ways, but the daily minute breaking that
having Kate brings is something I’m not prepared for, yet I do it, and
want to and have to.
Having her brings me such joy – yet it was all unexpected, her early
baby-bird-like arrival at 29 weeks, the endless weeks at the ICU, the
way I am totally charmed by her, bowled over by her smiles, and the
way she plays with her voice, like an instrument she is learning.
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Colleen Higgs was born in 1962. She spent most of her childhood in
Lesotho, her adolescence and young adulthood in Johannesburg, and
more recently lived for five years in Grahamstown. She now lives in
Woodstock, Cape Town, with her husband and baby daughter. She
has worked as a teacher, a teacher trainer, a materials writer and an
academic development lecturer, and is currently programme
manager at The Centre for the Book. Her poems have been published
in literary magazines over the past fifteen years.
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