The Writing Elves


Writing for you has never been easy

It started out as a mere whim

A subtle remark at your heart from afar

Drowning in scents of whimsical grins


Writing for spirit is graciously fulfilling

It thrusts out benevolent spears

Aimed not only to carry in chariots

Aimed only to disintegrate faltering fears


Writing for you is not always internal

Affection acts both in dungeons and gardens

Trumpeting train tracks subduing religion

The sound watering to wake the gateway wardens


So man wanders the streets of Christmas Past

No heaven for heathens and hatred renewed

Man walks door to door to exclude her stature

They are afraid of what they do not know; afraid of losing you


With straw hats and shoes of red pepper

Their elf like mannerisms control

The whimsical smiles

The dungeons and gardens

And things I barely understand at all




I have not been very active recently.

There are two reasons:

Trying to figure out where I am going and… finding out that I have to put my kitten down today. I was supposed to wait until Saturday but he struggled immensely last night and therefore I see no reason to extend his suffering.

I do not want you guys to feel like I have given up on this site and/or my copper quest so instead of a blog (because I am rather numb today) I am sending you one of my recent poems.


I wish I could touch your soul with a feather and
Erase all trace of dusty doubt
In a fragrance of humid tar I want to wrap my heart
And let this tear seep out forever

Forever in remembrance of a dying night
Deep inside a dark ray of emotion
Where souls make love in playful exclusion of our anatomy
Those moments when breath became mass in the shape of a stone in our throats

Isn’t it so beautiful when we can do naught but remain silent
And let our eyes gasp out in disbelief
When we were too afraid of ruining this eruption of fate with a touch
Too afraid of personalizing this endeavor of souls

I want to paint your soul and paste it on to my own
To look within my own being and catch a glimpse of you
And over
And over

Until the moon no longer shines her love on me
When the boat man comes along
And with not much besides me and a coin in my pocket
We sail away toward the hope of a new encounter with the presence of your life in mine

Because of my little hero’s sudden illness and disappearance, I’ve been thinking about Reincarnation a lot more than usual and I think that very soon I will be sharing my thoughts on that particular subject.

Thank you for baring with me – Iva

Roads (Lull A Bye part 3)


It was if her question had taken me back in time to the place at midnight where I’d often wondered about how I’d deal with having to lose her.  Many a time I realized

that I would not deal with it; instead I’d continue on to a path of solitude.

It was the thought of losing her that made me want to snatch whatever bit of love I could before her summer ended with the arrival of her autumn. She had loved me as I had loved her through the years, but she hid as well as I hid therefore only half gratifying the soul and starving the flesh until that  moment when she repeated her question with an honest yearning and seriousness.

“Have you no care to kiss me?”

“I have no care to kiss you… For that kiss will make you mine for a moment after which I am to lose you for eternity.”

“I will not inflict that kind of pain on either of us. This burning will die in time; yours maybe sooner than mine – unless yearning stays with one even in the world beyond our own; in which case dear ghost I welcome your haunting me as I would a wedding day.”

The worlds seemed different as we paced back to where we came from and I could no longer focus on the beautiful sights provided by the genius loci. I saw only the emptiness of the days to follow. Upon entering the graveyard the sun had already set and the moon was shinning brighter than I’d ever seen her shine to my despair… as if mocking my silent grief with a smirk.

“I wish you’d teach the world to love!”

She used to say that the three worlds exist within each other, but that this world is the sweetest because it hurts to be alive. She used to say that pain is the core of love and without it we would not know how to feel, how to smile or be merry. She said that pain is what makes you want to dance in a world of hurtful circumstance. So I sang her a song of sleeping sensations and hopes for a heavy delight, in which our hands lead us back to each other and slowly we moved through the night. Her last breath was quick as for the rest I cannot quite recall… whether days or months had passed before I could think at all.

The moment, upon which my brain had returned I stepped bravely out into the night, I headed straight for the graveyard and danced until my heart was darkened by the coming of the light. My soul had chosen those many days ago when my heart was still beating in her chest and I understood for the first time the meaning of a dying girl’s request.

With the morning my journey began and I had left boldly without a crumb, without a scent of familiarity or comfort… I headed towards the big town.

Some expectations are met, others are not. We fall in and out of love so many times and it made me wonder; how am I teaching the world to love if I have not an ounce of love for myself? I don’t know much more than I knew back then, but I know one thing; loving someone half heartedly is worse than not loving at all.

The road I have chosen is filled with a love which is mine… but it will be a lonely walk. However I will always remember the little girls playing in the stillness of the night without a care in the world. I will remember the gates of that distant graveyard and I will know.

Soul mates never die.

Lull A Bye …continued


“How shall I sing and dance when you are dying?”

“Oh and what of it? Do people not die every day? I am only a person, a mortal artwork arranged in such a way to fall apart some day. Some careless youth my creator was that I should grow so weary when most beings of my time and maturity are merely in their prime.”

The gesture of her resting palm upon my cheek doubled and tightened, her eyes glittered still and I could see no sadness in them; none! I saw only a hushed, almost timid question.

“Have you no care to kiss me?”  Her head dropping with the outburst of that shyness in her eyes which now turned to a suppressed excitement.

“I do indeed love! I always have, but I see no use for I could never live up to an  ideal; you and I are like Eyre and Rochester and the ideal is such as Ingram. I cannot be more charming than I am and my lips are no softer than they seem. My heart you know better than anyone, my cheeks are not so pink and inviting as the ones you always would tell me you dream of. No! I do not wish to disappoint your dreams if tonight must be your last.”

She had always been the leader of this pair and so I followed her from veil to venous paths some of which were alive with active antelopes, ants and Apapanes whereas others were drowned in dull, deranged arrangements of branches lacking leaves or colour.

” You were my prime! When you first sought comfort in my embrace, and I rose to greet and tuck you in; I rose as a phoenix does form the dust of my deserted soul and I loved you instantly. I know very well the texture of your lips. Even you sometimes would give in to the midnight sleep and drift off for treasured minutes whilst pressing them on to the skin that covers that place between neck and this pair of yearning lips. I know the softness of your pale cheek as I’ve dared to  caress it whilst your lips left me burning with the new life and love I was given…”

[Website for this image:
Tired Girl Black and White Wallpaper Sketch]

” I wish you would be still! What right have you to tell me this now? I wish you had been silent for my love dies with you. I have no care to kiss you, nor do I have a care to listen. You murder me silently, leaving only my limbs to carry my head around. You speak of love as if you know the feeling intimately, yet I dare say; if you were so much as acquainted vaguely with it you would not have spoken thus to me. What hope shall I carry with me now? ”

“Have you no care to kiss me?”

…to be continued

Lull A Bye


There were trees and petite playgrounds upon which I spent my hours in search of the genius loci.

There were minutes that felt like hours and hours that felt like minutes, however the latter was a direct product of time spent with my person… the whiffs of quiet infant snores caused our imaginations to float off somewhere else while we tightened grip around each other and in this embrace whispered the night away. The places we travelled to in our fusion of creativity were… majestic, mirrored magic and were carefree, candy coated and colorful. Her imagination surpassed mine and always left me in awe of her knowledge, vision and passion.

There were forbidden places we liked to sneak in to when the midnight sleep seemed to cover the rest of the world yet it somehow (to our absolute pleasure) missed us. The graveyard just a few metres away, under the little hill we could see outside the institution’s dormitory; was our most favorite place to visit. The genius loci was not difficult to come across whilst in the comfortable, eerie space of the grave stones and vague descriptions of once living hearts. She loved to dance in the darkness while I would drift away into deep contemplation of what would happen to me if I were to ever lose her. Those were  nights we wished would last and those hours seemed to end in a motion. We would lock fingers and thus hand in hand our last steps would lead us right back to our little beds.

The sun always brought with it a quiet discomfort and a pain that pierced through my very soul. The days dragged as we played our roles accordingly, stiffly yet convincingly and no one knew just how much I loved her.

That morning no theatrical skill could aid me for my person (I could see) was weak , ill and fragile. I wondered if our play time at night had not tired her out to such an extent and in turn made her so sickly. She took my hand that instant as if recognizing the guilt which had at once consumed the short stature that was my being  and she quietly lured me away from the crowd of uniformed girls . No one noticed. Once again it seemed as though the world could not see us or hear us and I was glad.

We walked down a small path I had not visited previously. It wove in between worlds… between green and grey, gold and gutter, ghost and grave in between flesh and soul. It seemed to take us out of our own existence into another realm and then gently with every other step the genius loci would place us right back into our current selves.

Presently we stood under a waterfall and her hand reached for my face. This gesture had never been attempted before; I felt as if all the air had left my lungs as her gentle palm now rested against my cheek, our eyes locked… hers glittering as if the sun’s rays reflected directly off them.

“Tonight my little heart you will sing while you lull me good-bye!”

“What shall I sing?”

My voice was hoarse as I tried to melt the lump in my throat which had lodged there with the realization of the present circumstance. She always spoke of the next world, the next life as if they were lurking around the corner and I realized that they really were.

“You shall sing a song about happiness and dance a butterfly dance for me.”

… to be continued

Your own… Personal… DADA!


“Anti-Art” were the words used by Hans Richter to describe the movement that was DADA. This was because the movement was the complete opposite to art and DADA went against everything that art stood for.

Where art was based on traditional aesthetics and such; DADA ignored tradition and aesthetics.This was the reaction of the creative population towards World War 1. ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ by Wilfred Owen almost immediately springs to mind when pondering upon the rise of DADAISM.Throughout his struggle to keep alive, Owen created a lot of his own kind of DADA. Now we need  not get confused since the movement included mainly: visual arts, literature, poetry, art manifestoes, theatre, graphic design and many more.

DADA is not limited… the point is that there are no rules, a total artistic freedom.

Postmodernism, Pop Art and a lot of other lovely things indirectly sprung from this movement. Figuratively, this was the breath of fresh air after the war, the knitted pieces of broken people recreating what had been lost to them in the kind of silence that screamed at the rest of the world.

It is said that one of the origins of DADAISM is associated with the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich…[for more on that visit:].

Enough of the theory… this blog is about personal DADA.

All our routine activities have the potential to be more enjoyable, beautiful and artistic. Brushing your teeth, making your bed, making breakfast… eating that breakfast, the way we walk, talk and act… those are all routine habits that one could easily begin to appreciate and enjoy more if we actually put ourselves into them…

Try using the back of the toothpaste tube to apply the paste to your brush… or humming the Adams Family theme song while you do it or sing ‘ This Is Hallolween’ if it will make you feel more cheerful. Living life can be as wonderful as painting is to those who (like myself) are no good at it. There are no rules when it comes to being yourself .

Many people may not even be sure as to who they are, and even then I say: Make your own, personal DADA. I must add that your own kind of DADA does not necessarily have to be cheerful if that is not who you are or how you feel… Once again there is complete freedom to create any form of art inspired by any and every emotion that one goes through. I for one have a different walk when I am sad as opposed to when I am happy. I do things differently when I am in a different mood and to an extent everyone does, only we do not really notice it.

Try picking up  the empty coke can the next time you walk down the road… think about what your kind of DADA with regards to this can would be. Throwing it into the nearest bin by the way also counts! The next time you go shopping try buying something that you would feel totally comfortable in and try not think about what it looks like but rather if it is the kind of the thing you could sit in/wear/sleep in for days at a time if needs be.

Try sprinkling a bunch of mint leaves on your pizza the next time you order one.

Eat DADA, draw DADA, write DADA… live DADA.

Be different by being you… whoever said that you cannot be goth,hippie, religious and gay all at the same time? You can be a nerd and still be cool and vice versa. There are no rules and no impossibilities; I often say how I wish people would stop adding the word to the dictionaries.

I was always fashionably in trouble when I was in high school. I broke the rules that did  not suit me, but always in such a way that I never really got into any kind of trouble for my actions. I often disagreed with my teachers and I would get away with it because in the end we would have a factual debate and often I’d come up with a better argument.  I never really had any real friends at school and yet most people knew me. I was the gay, fashionably rebellious, soft, caring and friendly girl with the strangest sense of style and the nerve to wear a mow-hawk on school grounds (or so I’ve been told). I wrote essays that my teachers never really enjoyed reading but had to give me credit for regardless. Yet I loved my school and my teachers, so much so that I want to go back to the place as a teacher and hopefully one day I will create one such establishment of my own.

My ultimate form of DADA would be to teach it in an institution for the alternative and traditional arts, languages, sciences etc.

Possibility means scope and variety and the space to mess up and try again without having to erase or rewind. There is so much more I wanted to say… I guess I’ll have to come back to it.

Until then…

Make good (DADA) art!

Born For Copper


This morning I caught myself wondering about what my initial intentions were when I started with Born For Copper 112 views ago.

I know that for an internet based site 112 is not a large number, but to me personally it’s a number larger than I’d expected to reach in less than a month. Not to mention that half the time I’ve no clue as to what I am actually doing. All I have is an intention and a will and a hope that those combined will be good enough to touch you as the reader in some way or another.

I recently was offered a side job that sounded too good to be true. Not only would it be good for my pocket, but it would also be good for my career in the long run. I would have to compile a doctoral thesis for an estate agent who works with all the major embassies in South Africa including the United States, Britain, Denmark (to name only a few). In short the agent basically organizes a certain number of homes for a certain number of diplomats who would be living in SA. I would have six months to study the work, summarize specific texts and thereafter compile and edit the thesis. I agreed immediately knowing that I do need the money at the moment rather urgently.

I received the work on Saturday.

However I’ve had a change of heart.

I realized that the prospect of this work, failing or not completing it in time threw me straight into a pit so deep that I could not concentrate or formulate the thoughts in my head in any sort of logical way. I was angry all the time, irritable, jittery and depressed. I wanted the money and I wanted the name. This would be the key which would unlock a whole new world for me. A world of politics, of new and shiny… of busy days, luxurious trips and lots of stuff that I wouldn’t need but would have to have in order to fit in. I would not have to worry about not making the rent or not having enough food… I would be able to gain my mother’s favor because she in turn would not need to work. I would be choosing the ways of those whom I pity most.

I now have to explain to this important person in some sort of polite manner, that I no longer am willing to do the work; I guess I can come up with a different reason as to why I don’t want to do it, but I feel the need to share the real reason with you.

Every day I choose to live as simply as I can and in turn to be as true to myself as I know how to be. I choose to live humbly. I do not need the big name to be someone… I already am someone and so are you! I choose to not be favored unless I am genuinely so. I choose to be richer than most in the ways that matter… I choose to fill my spirit with things that make me happy, things that make me wiser, more intuitive, things that fill me with love instead of anxiety. There are many who love politics and that’s fine by me, but I need not pretend to like something I do not actually like; I am not one for pretense and the thought of having to put on a show every day for the rest of my life seems tiresome if nothing else.

I do realize that the path I have chosen is not at all easy and in order to lighten the burden of the trip one must not feel completely alone in their quest.

That is why Born For Copper was started.

It is inspired by the Copper Age ( but I write for those who, like me… choose the more complex path of living simply, genuinely and therefore; fully!

So that when the storm comes and I feel I might drown, deploying anchor would mean posting a blog and knowing that out there somewhere you will read this and it may calm your storm ever so slightly…

112 may not be a huge number, but every 1 out of the 112 represents a life jacket, not just for me, but for all the copper people who take the time to take a peak and fuel this individual with enough drive to keep on rowing through the storm.

So thank you… whoever and wherever you may be.

You make the world of a difference in these times of the new and shiny!