Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness.- Alice Walker
New year, same old algorithm in love with its own echo. Looping back to whisper us awake or deeper into slumber. The poet (now far removed from ink-stained fingers and antiquated frayed notebooks) stands, phone in hand, as both Judas and Jesus sacrificing themselves on Rihanna’s internet for cause or clout. In this age of selfies on the moon, hashtags for peace, revolutions and other random kak, the poet’s role is no longer a quaint indulgence but a keystone of resistance, a last-ditch effort to remind humanity it still has a pulse. Eish, too sanguine maybe? Well, hope is a fool’s fuel.
Let’s revisit the basics: the poet as a social and political animal. It remains our job to yell “Hey voetsek!” and whisper peace with the same intensity. To play with the complexity of this life thing and to exploit it in verse, for the sake of beautiful poetry, or points at a slam, or to win over a publisher or to speak against the absolute evil of war, corruption, capitalism, modern slavery or just the general mess that is humankind. In the last few years governments, ever wary of words that refuse to march in step, have used the same old ways to silence poets. Poets like Stella Nyanzi, Chimengül Awut, Sedigheh Vasmaghi, Mosab Abu Toha and many more sat/sit in cells, their words deemed threats to national security or some colonizer or demagogue’s ego. A poem can topple an empire when it hits the right nerve. But locking up a poet is like trying to bury sunlight. Their words, scribbled on scraps, smuggled in whispers, ripple through the collective consciousness. Poetry, in its stubborn refusal to die, is the cockroach of the art world—and thank Poetry Jesus for that. And here, dear reader is where I find a suitable reason to share one of my favourite poems by Don Mattera:
The poet must die by Don Mattera
For James Matthews and Gladys Thomas after their poems were executedThe poet must die
her murmuring threatens their survival
her breath could start the revolution;
she must be destroyed
Ban her
Send her to the Island
Call the firing-squad
But remember to wipe her blood
From the wall,
Then destroy the wall
Crush the house
Kill the neighbours
If their lies are to survive
The poet must die
Since the beginning of language, to these first days of 2025, the poet has always been a witness, a documentarian, a recorder of moments that might otherwise slip through the cracks of history. Archiving our tragedies, our triumphs, our weird little obsessions en geitjies. A poem about a TikTok trend is just as valid as a poem about war. Might be a hard pill to swallow. But both are snapshots of who we are—messy, ridiculous, heartbreaking. The consumption of poetry has changed—let’s face it, people devour words like junk food. Quick bites. A haiku on a coffee sleeve. An Instagram caption masquerading as depth. Poetry’s been fast-forwarded, chopped into pieces small enough to digest between meetings and mental breakdowns. But the poet’s job is to sneak the marrow back into the bones. To trick readers into slowing down. To remind them that language is more than just a vehicle; it’s the point of departure, the landscape and the destination.
So, what is the poet’s role in 2025? The same as it has always been. It’s to be a mirror, a megaphone, a magnifying glass, a historian, a shaman, a cosmic guide, a lover, a hater, a purist and rule-breaker, a listener, a vessel, a portal, a teacher, a student, the anti-hero, the dissident, the politician and (You get the gist, ). To scream when screaming is needed and to whisper when the world is too loud. To laugh at the absurdity of it all and cry for the beauty we’ve forgotten. To be unapologetically human in an age trying so hard to be anything but. To be what the moment needs you to be. And in all of this to be a lover of words and language. The poet, in 2025, is not just a maker of poetry. They are a maker of meaning. And meaning, my ma se kinders, is the most radical thing we have left.
So, whether you’re a Poetry Potion reader, a contributor, or someone who stumbled here through a happy accident, we’re thrilled to have you bace. We’ve limped our way into 2025. And our poems have work to do. Get to writing!
Happy New Year!
Quaz.