Jane Olivier, born in Peterborough, Ontario, raised and spent most of her life in South Africa. She has travelled extensively throughout Africa
on business, as a journalist and always a poet. She lived in Cambodia for two years where she built a children’s home and school, and since 2009 she has been travelling the world attempting to make sense of it through words.
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Jane Olivier Interview, with Nicelle Davis
In what ways is poetry like an empty violin case?
Poets are the only ones who understand poetry – useful only to poets, appreciated only by poets. I have quite a wide circle of friends across the globe in various occupations; only one is a poet. Discussing poetry with any other than the poet has the same result as discussing Einstein's Theory of Relativity with a three-year old – a blank stare. Yet the poet and I can discuss poetry, forms, words and style, read other's poems to each other, write poems together for days on end.
When reading articles and lectures written on various subjects, the number of writers that use a line or three from a poem as a lead-in to the article can be measured in points of a percentage – and then you can almost be sure those who do so are themselves poets.
Poetry is an empty violin case; poets are the violin.
What advice would you give to a young poet?
First of all, read poetry. Lots and lots of it. Spend at least an hour a day reading poetry, see how the published poets use words and phrases. Read, get the rhythm, get the drift. Join poetry discussion groups, go to readings and, if you can't do this, look on You Tube, there are many poets reading their work online. Read the classic poets, the modern, beat and slam. Read it all. Find other poets and speak to them, discuss your ideas, show them what you have written – never be afraid to ask for advice. Use dictionaries and Thesauruses – learn words, their origin, their sounds, all their meanings and usages.
SQUINT! Your eyes, your ears, your mind.
Look at everything with your eyes screwed into the most powerful binoculars. Change the way you look at things – there are worlds in a cup of coffee, a hamburger, a pile of dust, a crack in the pavement. Listen with ears curled to the receiving end of life's megaphone. Keep them attuned to the slightest breeze; listen to pauses and hesitations; listen to the spaces – the silences. Let your mind run wild, playing with words. Throw words at walls and see how they lay when they fall; throw them on the floor and scatter them with your feet. If you cannot find the one you want, make it up. Turn nouns into verbs and vice versa. Play with words and punctuation. You can paint landscapes and shred the Mona Lisa, construct tall buildings then raze them, breathe life into the stunned and Taser the living – without ever leaving the room or being arrested.
The term 'poetic license' wasn't invented for nothing – you've got it, flaunt it. Turn everything into something alive; and have fun – that's the main thing, have fun.
Your poems use the image of "splintering" and "breaking," yet remain lovely—even hopeful. What is the advantage of experiencing a break?
Splintering and breaking are letting go, which means being able to pick up the pieces and either gluing them back together or discarding them. This you have to do both in writing poetry and in life. In life, things break but it is only once they are broken or splintered that you can see where the weakness was that caused this, and then make decisions about what needs to be repaired and should it be repaired; and if it can be, how. Perhaps whatever it is, is beyond repair and then you have to decide what to do with the pieces, and whether the item needs to be replaced.
The same with poetry – you let your mind go, break it from the norm, let it splinter; then pick up the pieces and either compose, or accept after a good look, they aren't going to compose into anything worthwhile and delete them.
In what way do line breaks reflect life?
They give pause either to build the next emotion or calm the previous one – a break to think and gather. Like troughs between waves. Line breaks are the little silences.
What new poetry projects are you working on?
For me to think of poetry as a project would be the same as thinking of breathing as a project. They both are involuntary, instinctive and essential. My mind automatically processes and memories in the form of haiku and I find my speaking is often in this format – 5:7:5 thought:expand:conclude. You need a bit more? Fine, another 7:7 for the tanka, and this is usually where I drop the conversation. It is, in fact, a wonderful memorisation tool.
I am always writing poetry; my shopping lists are poetry. There are no new, there simply are.
Poets are the only ones who understand poetry – useful only to poets, appreciated only by poets. I have quite a wide circle of friends across the globe in various occupations; only one is a poet. Discussing poetry with any other than the poet has the same result as discussing Einstein's Theory of Relativity with a three-year old – a blank stare. Yet the poet and I can discuss poetry, forms, words and style, read other's poems to each other, write poems together for days on end.
When reading articles and lectures written on various subjects, the number of writers that use a line or three from a poem as a lead-in to the article can be measured in points of a percentage – and then you can almost be sure those who do so are themselves poets.
Poetry is an empty violin case; poets are the violin.
What advice would you give to a young poet?
First of all, read poetry. Lots and lots of it. Spend at least an hour a day reading poetry, see how the published poets use words and phrases. Read, get the rhythm, get the drift. Join poetry discussion groups, go to readings and, if you can't do this, look on You Tube, there are many poets reading their work online. Read the classic poets, the modern, beat and slam. Read it all. Find other poets and speak to them, discuss your ideas, show them what you have written – never be afraid to ask for advice. Use dictionaries and Thesauruses – learn words, their origin, their sounds, all their meanings and usages.
SQUINT! Your eyes, your ears, your mind.
Look at everything with your eyes screwed into the most powerful binoculars. Change the way you look at things – there are worlds in a cup of coffee, a hamburger, a pile of dust, a crack in the pavement. Listen with ears curled to the receiving end of life's megaphone. Keep them attuned to the slightest breeze; listen to pauses and hesitations; listen to the spaces – the silences. Let your mind run wild, playing with words. Throw words at walls and see how they lay when they fall; throw them on the floor and scatter them with your feet. If you cannot find the one you want, make it up. Turn nouns into verbs and vice versa. Play with words and punctuation. You can paint landscapes and shred the Mona Lisa, construct tall buildings then raze them, breathe life into the stunned and Taser the living – without ever leaving the room or being arrested.
The term 'poetic license' wasn't invented for nothing – you've got it, flaunt it. Turn everything into something alive; and have fun – that's the main thing, have fun.
Your poems use the image of "splintering" and "breaking," yet remain lovely—even hopeful. What is the advantage of experiencing a break?
Splintering and breaking are letting go, which means being able to pick up the pieces and either gluing them back together or discarding them. This you have to do both in writing poetry and in life. In life, things break but it is only once they are broken or splintered that you can see where the weakness was that caused this, and then make decisions about what needs to be repaired and should it be repaired; and if it can be, how. Perhaps whatever it is, is beyond repair and then you have to decide what to do with the pieces, and whether the item needs to be replaced.
The same with poetry – you let your mind go, break it from the norm, let it splinter; then pick up the pieces and either compose, or accept after a good look, they aren't going to compose into anything worthwhile and delete them.
In what way do line breaks reflect life?
They give pause either to build the next emotion or calm the previous one – a break to think and gather. Like troughs between waves. Line breaks are the little silences.
What new poetry projects are you working on?
For me to think of poetry as a project would be the same as thinking of breathing as a project. They both are involuntary, instinctive and essential. My mind automatically processes and memories in the form of haiku and I find my speaking is often in this format – 5:7:5 thought:expand:conclude. You need a bit more? Fine, another 7:7 for the tanka, and this is usually where I drop the conversation. It is, in fact, a wonderful memorisation tool.
I am always writing poetry; my shopping lists are poetry. There are no new, there simply are.
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Useless things
We carry things with us like an empty
violin case – useless to anything except
the violin. Grandmother’s bequeathed
jewellery which will never be worn, but it
might be worth something to someone
some day. Old faded, crack folded too
often reread love letters to remember
and constantly hold out false hope.
We straddle longing’s stringless cello that
resonates only with a knock on wood,
and beat the heart’s broken skinned drum
sending unheard messages to nowhere.
Oblivious
I splinter through the door, mind shards
still scattered between qwerty, screen and space.
Time hangs suspended in the hourglass
unsure of which direction to flow.
Puddles avoid careless feet, birds pause flight,
stones roll down edges, leaves and flowers retract,
trees suck in waists, river reverses,
all roads hastily straighten curving spines.
Words control my head and, body detached,
there are days the world needs to deflect me.
Together
From the moment you see me hold me
with your eyes and I will draw you
to me with my smile until our arms can
take over. And as we walk
hold me with the sleeve of your shirt
as we move through places, both
hands occupied with things more
tangible though less important.
Just your sleeve - while between us
the hand of the breeze joins skin, caressing
your cheek with gentle fingers, its
palm against mine - the jogging rain
dropping its exertion into a
single pool until, now alone your
arms surround me, tucking me tightly
into all your spaces - brows, lips, hearts,
shadows - a giant oneness spectre.
Sighing souls at last a single
entity with phantom heartbeat
an uncontrollable longing come home,
wanting more needing more; ice melting
in heated ocean turmoiled into
deepening troughs towering crests
until together we break.