Kobus Moolman
Professor of Creative Writing at the University of the Western Cape
Writing through silence
I am professor of Creative Writing and English Literature in the Department of English Studies at the University of the Western Cape.
I am an award-winning poet, playwright and writer of short fiction.
I was born in 1964 in Pietermaritzburg. I live in the small village of Riebeek West with my wife, Julia, and a mountain tortoise called Angus.
I am widely regarded as one of South Africa’s leading lyrical poets. As Kelwyn Sole writes: “Kobus Moolman is one of the most interesting and important poets working in South Africa today.”
I have published seven collections of poetry, two chapbooks, one collection of short fiction, and two collections of plays. I have also edited and co-edited several significant books on disability life-writing and the body. I have received numerous international and national awards and fellowships for my work.
At UWC I have consolidated my reputation as one of the leading teachers of creative writing in the country. My research areas include Disability Studies, Creative Writing pedagogies, Contemporary South African Poetry, as well as Hybrid Genres and the Avant-garde.
I am passionate about mentorship and playing a part in transforming the South African literary landscape to become more diverse, inclusive and open to the creativity and varied storytelling traditions of our country.
I am a founding member of the Disability and Inclusion Africa Network.
PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
EDUCATION
PUBLICATIONS
THEATRE PRODUCTIONS
EDITORIAL & REVIEW WORK
COLLABORATIONS
He Pleaded Ignorance
By Kobus Moolman
He did not know what the sky was made of.
He did not know what fire tasted like.
He did not know how far away from the earth the truth was.
He did not know how long a man could survive without any covering over his body. Such as skin.
He did not know the current market value of love.
He did not know the lengths a man would go to in order to find deception.
He did not know where it all came from.
Then he came up out of the water.
Then he found that he could still breathe.
Even though it was air.
The Wind
By Kobus Moolman
The wind again is turning
all of the trees inside out.
Same wind that is slamming
every door shut behind me.
I no longer can use my arms
to walk or even roll.
And it is the same underbelly
of the sky as before and still.
Drilling down deeper
now the only direction to go.
Keep the Sun
By Kobus Moolman
Keep the sun on my bare head.
Keep the sun on my bare back
and on my chest and on my face.
Keep the shining sky always
in front of my eyes.
Keep the stony ground permanently
beneath my black boots.
The wind sits in-between the pages of this book
and the branches of the thin acacia trees,
covered with small yellow blossoms.
I seek no shade, no shelter
from these mountains and this sun.
I want to be stripped and dried out.
I want to be bleached as a bone.
I want to evaporate.
Winelands One-Stop
By Kobus Moolman
On his way home along the N1, he stops in the parking lot
of the Winelands One-Stop.
He drags his legs slowly to the Wimpy.
He sits down by the window and orders a Mega cappuccino,
with artificial sweetener instead of sugar.
He opens his leather bag – the one that his ex, and now late,
wife gave to him.
He takes out Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong.
He takes out his notebook – a Croxley JD623 with 192 lined pages.
He takes out his black Bic ballpoint pen – the one with the broken clip.
He closes his eyes. He puts his left hand over his eyes.
He rubs his tired eyes.
He is listening – not to the sounds of the restaurant
and the high-pitched muzak.
He is listening out for something taking place inside himself.
It is there that all of his life is taking place,
there now inside him – amongst the plastic furniture
and the greasy leftovers and the pink balloons of his soul –
that his real self is to be heard.
I Carry a Geography
Calgary
for Julia
By Kobus Moolman
I carry a geography of the dark
with me across oceans, frozen lakes,
mountains whiter than ice, where wind
contours a need urgent as flesh.
This dark, the dark I know,
that does not ever, even in the glare
of dreaming, leave me, this recognition
familiar and strange as any echo
returning white across a frozen sea,
this dark is you – as long as you,
like the dark, carry absence
in the shape I carry with me.
Everywhere. The geography of a heart
in two halves.
He Does Not Know
By Kobus Moolman
He does not know what he is doing,
or why he is doing it.
Why it is so early where he is
and so late where he is not.
Why the sky, where he is, is so big
and so limited at the same time.
Why there are so many mountains,
or why there are any mountains at all.
He does not know the answers
to any of the questions anymore.
He is no longer able to think
of even the simplest things:
where to pay for water, for example,
or how to buy time.
New House
By Kobus Moolman
There is no mountain at the front of the new house.
There are only birds and thin fever trees.
There are only small stones and the shouts of children.
At the back of the new house is where the mountain lives.
The mountain with its hard high forehead.
The mountain with its infinite number of steps into the clouds.
At the back of the new house there is the mountain.
And small plants that survive only on air.
And yellow fish that change behind the curtain of the wind.