Browsing by Author "Moolman, Jacobus Philippus."

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A man on a galloping horse.
(2010) King, Judith.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.; Green, Michael Cawood.
No abstract available.
Anna's song: the music of stories.
(2010) Bohmer, Liesel.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
It is evening. Anna and her Großmutti are watching the first star rise over the Wortmanns’ sugarcane fields. They sit on the stoep of the house Anna and her daughter share with her grandparents. The house is on the same property as their family business, the Wartburger Hotel. There is a comfortable silence between Anna and her Großmutti, suspended in the evening air, along with black ash and the smell of smoke. The Wortmanns have been burning their fields today. Anna looks towards the Wortmanns’ farm. She scans the fields from the road separating the hotel property and the Wortmanns’ farm, to the Blinkwater mountains on the horizon. There is no sign of a motorbike, or of a streak of dust twisting through the fields. She’s longing for a glimpse of Michael Wortmann on his motorbike, but she knows her search is pointless. Michael is far away, in Germany. At the horizon, the evening air is red and heavy with the dying light. Anna blinks away the sadness welling up in her eyes. She tries to focus on the blanket over Großmutti’s knees instead. Großmutti loves that blanket. Her mother knitted it for her, many years ago. Großmutti says that the blanket makes her feel homesick for her childhood. There is something in Großmutti’s eyes that makes it easy for Anna to imagine her as a little girl, climbing the highest tree on the hotel’s property, and feeling the freedom of being higher than everyone else in Wartburg. Almost like flying. The church bells strike six. Großmutti taps her walking stick against the stoep’s tiles. Großmutti doesn’t need a walking stick, actually, but she likes to use one – mainly in moments like these, to draw attention to herself. “Isn’t there anybody to serve me here?” Großmutti calls, loudly. Großmutti never says anything softly. “No,” Anna says, her voice heavy. She gets up. “Oh good, we aren’t having a drought after all!” Großmutti coughs, and catches Anna’s eye, finally managing to force a smile from her. Anna returns to the stoep, carrying a tray of drinks. Cane and Coke for her grandmother, who loyally supports the sugar farmers. Großmutti’s family used to own three of the biggest sugar farms in the area – but Großmutti’s Onkel Hermann had been more interested in drinking away his money than in farming, which meant that most of the land now belonged to other families. Luckily, the hotel was still in the family, Großmutti often said. Anna put two glasses of Wartburger Hotel home-brewed beers for Großvater and herself on the stoep table, and a cup of Großmutti’s special lemon juice for Emma, Anna’s daughter. “Großvater and Emma are on their way,” Anna explains. “Großvater’s speaking to Philani, you know, the painter – Philani’s saying something about Großvater not paying him, but Großvater says he did.” It is evening. Anna and her Großmutti are watching the first star rise over the Wortmanns’ sugarcane fields. They sit on the stoep of the house Anna and her daughter share with her grandparents. The house is on the same property as their family business, the Wartburger Hotel. There is a comfortable silence between Anna and her Großmutti, suspended in the evening air, along with black ash and the smell of smoke. The Wortmanns have been burning their fields today. Anna looks towards the Wortmanns’ farm. She scans the fields from the road separating the hotel property and the Wortmanns’ farm, to the Blinkwater mountains on the horizon. There is no sign of a motorbike, or of a streak of dust twisting through the fields. She’s longing for a glimpse of Michael Wortmann on his motorbike, but she knows her search is pointless. Michael is far away, in Germany. At the horizon, the evening air is red and heavy with the dying light. Anna blinks away the sadness welling up in her eyes. She tries to focus on the blanket over Großmutti’s knees instead. Großmutti loves that blanket. Her mother knitted it for her, many years ago. Großmutti says that the blanket makes her feel homesick for her childhood. There is something in Großmutti’s eyes that makes it easy for Anna to imagine her as a little girl, climbing the highest tree on the hotel’s property, and feeling the freedom of being higher than everyone else in Wartburg. Almost like flying. The church bells strike six. Großmutti taps her walking stick against the stoep’s tiles. Großmutti doesn’t need a walking stick, actually, but she likes to use one – mainly in moments like these, to draw attention to herself. “Isn’t there anybody to serve me here?” Großmutti calls, loudly. Großmutti never says anything softly. “No,” Anna says, her voice heavy. She gets up. “Oh good, we aren’t having a drought after all!” Großmutti coughs, and catches Anna’s eye, finally managing to force a smile from her. Anna returns to the stoep, carrying a tray of drinks. Cane and Coke for her grandmother, who loyally supports the sugar farmers. Großmutti’s family used to own three of the biggest sugar farms in the area – but Großmutti’s Onkel Hermann had been more interested in drinking away his money than in farming, which meant that most of the land now belonged to other families. Luckily, the hotel was still in the family, Großmutti often said. Anna put two glasses of Wartburger Hotel home-brewed beers for Großvater and herself on the stoep table, and a cup of Großmutti’s special lemon juice for Emma, Anna’s daughter. “Großvater and Emma are on their way,” Anna explains. “Großvater’s speaking to Philani, you know, the painter – Philani’s saying something about Großvater not paying him, but Großvater says he did.” “He did pay him, I was there,” Großmutti says. “Philani seemed quite angry, but Großvater managed to get rid of him in the end,” Anna says, yawning. “Are you tired, Schatzi?” Großmutti asks. “You’ve been rushing around all day.” “ So have you. A 76 year-old should be sitting around resting more. Like this.” “It’s rude to talk about someone’s age. Guck lieber den schönen Stern an,” Großmutti retorts, pointing at the evening star. The star is directly above what Großmutti calls her tree – just to the right of the stoep, an old jacaranda in full bloom. Anna hardly notices the star. She hopes Großmutti won’t realize she’s not paying attention. All she can think of is the news she heard that morning. Anna and Michael are sitting underneath the jacaranda tree, eating red grape ice lollies. They are five years old, and they’ve just met. Anna’s parents have sent her to Wartburg to spend the summer holidays with her grandparents. “I think we should get married,” Michael says, taking Anna’s sticky ice lolly hand into his, which is equally sticky. “Now?” “No, I think we can wait a while.” “Ok,” Anna says, giggling. She pulls her hand away. She drops her ice-lolly’s wooden stick, and starts running. “Hey, Michael, bet you can’t catch me!” Großmutti is already halfway through her Cane and Coke, and Anna hasn’t touched her beer yet. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you? I heard the news, too.” Anna ignores her. But Großmutti never lets herself be ignored. “Don’t dwell on it, Schatz. First boyfriends normally don’t work out. And you’ve been coping without him for years now.” Anna looks away. Großmutti moves closer to Anna. “My first boyfriend,” Großmutti whispers dramatically, “was the Swiss poet.” “I know, Großmutti. I’ve met him. Christian. Wasn’t his poetry quite bad? Großvater says so.” “He’s just jealous. Ok, I admit there was a bit too much about the mountains and birds and how he feels when he looks at them in his poems. But I liked them.”’ This is one of Großmutti’s favourite stories. Anna has already heard it, more than once. Großmutti’s favourite part of the story is the beginning part, where she speaks at length about her looks. Großmutti likes to exaggerate. But Anna knows that when it comes to speaking about her looks, Großmutti is telling the truth. Anna has seen photos, and her grandmother had really been beautiful as a young woman. “Sie hat die Schönheit in die Familie gebracht,” Großvater likes to say. Anna just hopes Großmutti hadn’t spent so much time speaking about her looks back then. Vanity is easier to handle in an old person. In fact, Großmutti’s vanity is quite charming. “You know, mein Schatz, I was also beautiful once. I looked a bit like you—just prettier. Same blue eyes, dark hair, and good figure. My complexion, people used to say, was the best in the whole of Wartburg. And the men … they were just crazy about me. As I’ve noticed they are about you, too. Ja, die Männer!” At this she giggles, and blushes, and puts a stray strand of hair behind her ears. Anna knows exactly what Großmutti is going to say next. “The first time the Swiss poet kissed me was right there under that tree.” “Does Großvater know this story? I’ve noticed you never tell it when he’s around. He’ll be here any second …” “You know, I was still getting to the point of the story. But you young people… you just don’t have any patience. When you’re 80 years old, like me, you won’t like to be interrupted either,” Großmutti twirls her walking stick around, as if to emphasize her age. Anna wants to mention that she’s heard this story, many times, and that actually, Großmutti is only turning 76 this year. “What I want to tell you, Anna, if you let me finish my story, is what the Swiss poet taught me…” “Großmutti, I don’t really want to talk about Christian.” “You just don’t want to talk about his grandson. What’s the grandson’s name again…” “It’s such a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Anna says, pointing at the sky full of streaks of evening-red light. “What’s his name again?” Großmutti persists. “You see, I really am getting old... I never used to forget things.” “His name’s Luka. And another thing you keep ‘forgetting’ is that I really don’t want you to even mention him.” “I told you to be careful of Luka, didn’t I?” Anna blushes and looks away. “What do you want to tell me about then, Großmutti? Do you want to tell me that Christian taught you how to kiss? Because you’ve explained that to me before, in detail, And some only hear noise. That is their choice. But I hope that you won’t choose noise. And then, you will realise that not only is there music all around you, there is music inside you, too. The music has been there – inside you, around you, since before you were born. You just need to learn to listen, mein Schatz – listen before you sing.” Anna looks towards the mountains at the horizon, and tries to listen. All she can hear is the sound of night settling over Wartburg, and she wishes that there were a moon tonight.
Autobiography of bone : an original cycle of dramatic poems researching the problematics of reconceptualisation of the formal boundaries between the genres of poetry and drama.
(2010) Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.; Chapman, Michael James Faulds.; Green, Michael Cawood.
Autobiography of Bone consists of a cycle of original dramatic poems and short poetic dramas which investigate the problematics of a reconceptualisation of the genre-based distinctions between poetry and drama. The work seeks to extend and then map the new territory revealed to me as a result of my experiments with form, and with the consequences that new forms have for content and meaning. The material in the cycle of poems presents and explores a multi-layered and wide-ranging, rather than unitary, response to issues of the body (specifically disability), memory and language. A concluding scholarly essay, “Orthopaedia” – Understanding the Writing Practice”, researches some of the theoretical and conceptual issues that informed the poems, including the influence of verse drama and the contemporary long poem, in an attempt to construct an archaeology of the writing process and the imagination of the writer.
"Inside the cavity of shame" : a critical presentation of the New Prison Poetry Project (1998), and the spaces of expression and alterity constructed in the writing of the participants.
(2004) Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.; Van Wyngaard, John Robert.; Brown, Duncan John Bruce.
Chapter One will introduce the central area of exploration of this study and establish the main terms of reference and guidelines of the research. Chapter Two will deal with the background and history of the project, and will include a discussion on creative writing as therapy in the context of a prison. Chapter Three will present a critical overview of the project's aims and results, as well as an account of the pedagogical methods employed. It will also analyse the work of three members of the writing group: Vusi Mthembu, Themba Vilakazi and Sibusiso Majola. Chapter Four will outline the socio-political context of my primary research material: a collection of poems written in prison by Bheki Mkhize, Sipho Mkhize and Bhek'themba Mbhele. It will also include a brief biographical account of the three writers, as well as an historical examination of the Seven Days War in Pietermaritzburg in the early nineties. Chapter Five will focus on the three writers' accounts of incarceration, the threat of violence in prison and their resistance through writing to the loss of identity. Chapter Six will deal with the issue of alterity, and the way that the writers represent issues of identity in their poetry, and create spaces of difference and distinction. It will also focus on intertextuality, and analyse the manner in which the writers negotiate the Western tradition of aesthetics in order to stake claim to their own spaces of difference in the prison. Chapter Seven will conclude the study, and will examine contemporary cultural studies theory with specific reference to South Africa. It will also include an overview of the proposition of the research, and elaborate the way forward for a popular culture embracing such findings.
Letters to who : an original cycle of poems that explores the confluence of space, the quotidian and memory in contemporary suburban South Africa.
(2014) Bloem, Diana Catherine.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
Letters to Who consists of an original cycle of poetry which explores the confluence of space, the quotidian and memory. The material in my cycle of poems exposes the dynamic of everyday life and also the role that memory plays in shaping our lives. An accompanying critical essay studies the function of space in poems and the ways readers negotiate this space. It also examines the value of the commonplace. Lastly, the critical essay looks at how memory travels through poems.
Onion tears.
(2010) Khan, Shubnum.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
No abstract available.
Own worst enemy : an original novel in poetic form that explores the boundaries between literary genres, while investigating the problematics of memory and subjectivity within traumatised family relationships.
(2012) Lewitt, Amy Joy.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
No abstract available.
This night is different : a drama in two acts with a self-reflective essay.
(2006) Shapiro, Lauren.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
No abstract available.
Travels with my Father - Placing the self : an original novel accompanied by an extended essay that investigates the localization of identity through its relationship to memory and place.
(2014) Jennings, Karen.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
Travels with my Father is a memoir-travelogue that maps the author-narrator’s attempts at regaining a sense of place and re-affirming her identity after the death of her father and the sale of the family home. Using her own travels, her father’s travels, her mother’s move into a new home and the family history written by her father as a basic outline, the book engages with a complex network of personal and social issues. The dissertation component of the thesis examines Jennings’s attempt within Travels with my Father to regain a sense of self through analysing processes of place and possession attachment; through engaging with her ancestry on her father’s side; through travel both locally and abroad; and through critically examining the function of the written narrative that comprises the manuscript of the memoir-travelogue.
Writing autism inside-out autism and representation : a novel and critical essay.
(2014) Miller, Kirsten.; Sandwith, Corinne.; Moolman, Jacobus Philippus.
The dissertation adopts both a creative and critical approach to exploring the representation of autism in literature. Much of the autism literature produced so far has arisen in first-world, developed contexts, characterised by a high degree of support and an extensive knowledge base. In this original novel, The Hum of the Sun, autism is presented in a contemporary South African context. Against a background of the rather narrow or limited representations of autism found in Western medical and popular literature, the novel intends to extend the range and focus of existing literary representation by exploring a condition of severely impaired communication in a developing world. The creation of Zuko, a character with autism, explores the extreme scenario of the classic form of the condition, where language is limited or non-existent. A third person narrative describes the experience of Zuko’s character through a visceral, sensory language that focuses on quality and immediate experience rather than cognitive processes. The theoretical component of this study discusses autism through a historical narrative from its emergence as a diagnosis, and the condition’s diversity but tendency to characterise as lack against a norm. The rise in popular representations of autism emerge from constructions in popular media, as well as the public’s fascination with and anxiety about the condition. Autism’s representation spans a variety of genres. Compared and contrasted here are the genres of psycho-medical, fiction and autobiography or life-writing. Such popular representations potentially both create awareness and simultaneously produce stereotypes about the condition. Here the question of the relationship between the different discourses examines the vexed notion of ‘truth’ in the epistemological value of literature. The value of literature as a source of knowledge, and a source of knowledge about autism, is discussed, which illuminates various ethical and aesthetic questions in writing. Representation might be viewed as construction, not reflection, and the role of discourse also determines how autism as a knowledge-object is constructed and shaped by a particular genre and its conventions. Literature is a construct and truth is complex, but literary texts can facilitate understanding and offer a form of truth and illumination about the condition. Within all three genres, attention is given to the use of language, the narrative arc and structure, common stereotypes, plot devices, the resolution and grounding assumptions in relation to the way autism is represented. Finally, the implications of this research for the writing of an autism narrative in the form of the novel, The Hum of the Sun, are examined, with reflection on the ways it is possible to extend the terms of the debate and avoid some of the pitfalls found in the examination of other texts.