She is barefoot. On stage. A poet.

A poem, a fan calls out to her. Give us a poem about erotica.

She thinks about this. She is silent for a while. Her poetry is not erotica. She calls it erratica.

And then she begins. And we learn.

She is turned on by words, by music, by song.
She is turned on by paint and pencils.
Inspired by strings, the saxophone and the piano.
By ballet, hip hip, kwaito and rap
By the hands that play
The legs that fly
The lungs that breathe
And the lips from which the words tumble.

And by thunder

She is turned on by the earth
Green grass
Sharp rock
She feels
Her skin, her neck, her breath
That place where we all feel
It keeps her alive
It turns her

She is little, this poet.
Her hair is wild
There is nothing cautious
She flies free.
She wears her feelings.
They are women.
She is not scared of feeling.
She is not scared of anything.

Her eyes are fierce.
And they.
Those eyes.
They are the most erotic of all.

They are erratic.

Her eyes are me.

I too have become unafraid
I have learned this new feeling
This erratic
Unafraid feeling
It works for me
It is freedom.
It is a thank you.
It is erotic.


Inspired by Philippa Yaa De Villers last night at The Orbit Jazz Club.  She is the most astonishing poet.  Her words are extraordinary.  Listen to some.



12 thoughts on “Erotica

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