ROOTED FROM THE HEART By Nthabiseng "Jah Rose" Jafta

Review by Pule Lechesa

(Above) The highly talented "Jah Rose" Jafta

The old Greeks had a word for it: hubris. This means pride. Unbearable, overweening, even irritating pride!

We might as well note that Hubris was considered a crime in classical Athens. It was also considered the greatest crime of the ancient Greek world; "outrageous treatment" in sum. It often resulted in fatal retribution or Nemesis, the protagonist’s downfall in general.

Yes, hubris! This is the distinct impression one gets whilst reading this work. This might as well be the work of a deluded potentate when we read early poems here with lines like:

“The crown I am wearing
The queen ship I feel…
(pg 1)

“Beautiful girl born…
A real beauty from the inside out
Gone and going to surprise the world”
(pg 3)

Admittedly, one must commend the author/poet f or ensuring that she produces a beautiful looking book, the fascinating cover, the litany of fine photographs of herself etc. the problem is that this is the only aspect beautiful about this work. This is a book that looks beautiful on our shelves – but sadly that’s where the beauty ends.

One’s mind goes to the magnificent English writer and playwright, Oscar Wilde who used to insist that works of art are not capable of being moral or immoral but only well or poorly made, and that only "brutes and illiterates," whose views on art "are incalculably stupid" would make such judgements about art. Aesthete though he was, many would disagree with this.

The insights provided by the poet, in the book Rooted from the Heart, if any, are negligible – even in the nigh average poems. Consider the poem “1652” for example...(pg 41)

“The abuse of power is what we see
All they do is blare instead of act
They are wrapped up with greed and selfishness
They earn millions yet they still scheme fraud
He he he...”

Alas, there is nothing poetic about these lines, no imagery, no puns, no exhilaration. We might as well be reading ordinary prose – like virtually all the poems in this book – instead of deceiving ourselves that this is poetry.

In the “poem” MISSING YOU (Page 64) one comes across a definitely bad piece of composition. The faults of style and misplaced emotions aside, there is a jarring vulgarity that finds expression in lines like this:

“The feeling from your touch
The feeling from your lips kissing mine from the neck
To only you and I know to where
The feeling from when you thrust
That snake growing under your tummy in me
And it makes me wanna go oooohhh!...”

No lines could be more banal, and irritating (not to talk of bordering on indecency for sensitive readers). There is nothing poetic here. We have seen distinguished African writers like Njabulo Ndebele, Soyinka and Laye writing about sex and incorporating superb imagery. Here we are confronted with pure unimaginative trash.

The same is true for “MONARENG” (Page 68)

“He became mine and I became his
I watched him sit on that toilet seat and
Chat with him like we were in a decent place
He lets me in...”

It is unlikely that even DH Lawrence at his most vulgar went this far, but at least he had luxuriant imagery to push his ideas further

But enough of the despair – let us end this review on a positive note. The poet writes late in the book about how therapeutic she finds her poetry:

“I have been going through my poems
It’s amazing how the stuff one writes
Seems to heal...”
(page 80 )

It is as well that she feels like she has been healed by her poetry. Pity she’s the only one; as readers are unlikely to feel such healing after going through this book.