Second Room Of Unlearning

Mario d'Offizi - Banana Crates & Wire Mash

  BANANA CRATES & WIRE MESH

Highground

It is restless waters, only,

that reach the highest rocks

I

Thoughts

Through the mind’s eye

I have watched

autumn fall to winter

in a death grip

desolate, this cold

intrigues me

cold sweats down the pane-glaze

of this eye;

threads down

virile as a throbbing vein burst

distance drifts out rippling

dislocated

in naked phases

in hour-less days

anticipation

in my need to stretch out

stomach-knotting

worm undulating

mud-caked from it’s bed

of darkness

to snap

spread

shedding

shedding

through the mind’s eye

stretching out

translucent

formless

as a whisp of wind

to winter

while the sun dies

at my back

stumbling in empty shadows

at my heels

behind me

in dying sounds

dying smells

in falling pieces

broken light

crashing beyond the marble hills

beyond those steel towers

planted sterile

prodded painful

into the soil

let autumn nudge

at my paper-painless form

my shell

and wild winds shake the me

I leave behind

and, while the blossoms

die in fragrances

freshly I will thrive

stirring from this death grip.

And I think

of this warmth of blossoms

stirring from my soul

stemming into an undressed spring.

Childhood

To look back into

my childhood world

I must open locked gates

and climb high walls.

I try not to see the

khaki-clad days

in the thorny playgrounds

of my youth,

but the faces of friends

I scrubbed floors with

or sat across at table

eating dumplings;

nor do I hear

the rattling

of a heavy

bunch of keys,

the drone of

evening prayers,

or beaten cries,

                         but the dreams

                         I shared with friends…

Dreams

To have a pigeon cage

and happiness,

you need

banana-crate walls

and wire mesh.

But, pigeons most of all!

The pigeons you must catch

in the gutters of the

clustered rooftops,

a pillow-case full at night

when no one is around;

or, set a makeshift trap.

We used to climb the rooftops

to catch

a glimpse

of the world outside;

sit all day long

trapping hopes and dreams

to fill

our cage.

Honeycombs

Honeycombs

clinging to the trees

are worthwhile

climbing for,

bleeding for,

falling down

ten hurting feet

or more.

Battles

Dust-bin lids

made clanging shields;

home-made swords

drew lots of blood.

Battles were part

of ‘free-time’

in a playing field

walled in

like a fortress.

Fighting back

Fighting back

was useless.

Not toy soldiers

but bigger boys

taught me that.

One day

I found that words

were more precious

to use

than scruffy fists;

unwavering eyes

are a platform

which cannot

be

breached.

Friends

I had a friend

who brought

his letters from home

to me

to read

to him.

Head over my shoulder

he would follow my finger excitedly;

stopping me for explanations

of the things

he could not understand;

the bad news; the vague promises.

Comics always followed

to put both our minds

                                   at rest.

An aunt

Marching down

to town

in gay pairs

was a treat.

So many new faces; so many new things.

                                 A lady once stopped me,

                                 stroked my hair

                                 and gave me a chocolate.

I told the whole dormitory

that night

that I had an aunt

who lived in town.

Every night at wash time

I looked out the window

down into the street

hoping to see her.

                            Perhaps she doesn’t know

                                          where I stay…

Mother?

Mother,

you do not know your child.

Your child does not know you

Mother.

His milk he sucks

from sterile teats

soothing powders still

his cry for love.

Your child does not know you,

Mother.

Hope

Sometimes

hope reminds me of a postman

with a bulging leather haversack

who shouts

“good day!”

waves

a letter in his hand

and smiles

looking straight at the man

behind me.

Khoisan

there is a honey bird in your heart

Khoisan

and it calls to me

through the cunning eyes

of a desert cat stalking

through the compassion of an antelope

gently grazing the grasses

of an ancient veld

chocolate oases

and it calls to me

wise eyes of a honey guide beckoning

tempting

leading

luring

sharing hidden nectar

abundantly earthed

in a gnarled and timeless

ancestral tree

“Be grateful for luck

pay the thunder no mind –

listen to the birds

And don’t hate nobody”

Eubie Blake, 100

American Ragtime Pianist.

BE GRATEFUL FOR LUCK

yes

if and when

it comes your way

you count your blessings on the rosary of your life

PAY THE THUNDER NO MIND

yes

but

what about the thunder

that breaks upon the soul so suddenly

sometimes as a midnight storm

some flooded days

nowhere to take shelter you’re in it so deep

LISTEN TO THE BIRDS

AND DON’T HATE NOBODY

yes

please…

Time

I will cup Time

in these hands

drink decades

and the cup will

never empty…

                     Only, my hands will rot

                     and fall to dust

                     cupped brimful

                     in the hands

                     of Time…

Measured against man

Measured against Time,

i am a split second

bred into a span

of years; measured against

God, i am a sperm

seeking womb of earth to

germinate, give root,

to hold to Time; measured

against the earth I

am a man as tall as

trees, wide as open

spaces are; bound by Time;

Measured against Man.

The juggler’s ball

What moves me?

I the ball

roll in search

painted bright

bouncing

Up

                        Down

rolling along in search of light.

(I seem to have legs

for I choose

to sometimes stay

where I have stopped)

eager arms hug

my form in time-measured

games, on fields of place

So roll…

beneath the moss I gather

I am clean

sometimes stone.

Weighted down,

I am hard.

Unturned, I seethe.

Immobile,

I crack.

I shrunk the shrink

was having some trouble

so my doctor

sent me to a shrink

when I walked in

and sat down

after the introduction

I was already uncomfortable

this shrink was maybe 10 years younger

I needed to talk to somebody

who knew it all

lived it all

somebody like God

who had all the answers

but there I was

and there he was

give it a try      

miracles do happen

I told him I was having

some trouble with myself

some compulsive obsessive behavior on my part

that was messing me around

I described it to him

that when I was sober I was O.K.

but when I had just one beer

the trouble started brewing up in me

next beer…I could feel it going

out of control

third and fourth beer, ah well

I was really skidding around

frantic to satisfy this obsession

He calmly explained

that a large amount of people

were driven by substances too

I said “Doc, are you calling me a man of substance?”

He said not to be frivolous

On my way out I cancelled my second appointment, and never made another

I went straight from that R230 per hour consultation

to the Crowbar in Waterkant street in town

and started on the beer

I also gulped down barrels of laughter

with Alan the barman

Then and there I appointed him

to be my shrink

He promised to do his best

II

Weather

I said to the waitress

after breakfast at the Nibbling Squirrel

that I was going home to write poetry

and goodbye and have a nice weekend

She looked outside

at the black sky

into the black south-easter

and said it’s perfect weather

for writing poetry

I thought to myself

it’s not the weather outside

it’s the storm building up

inside of me

An Affair 

is an affair        

is an affair

or so I thought

give me a blond with big tits I always joked

they usually last about 3 months, affairs

ask anybody

they’ll tell you I’m right if they’re honest

fucks and lunches

dinners and dances

pain and hurt

lies and lies and always lying

ducking and diving and loads of guilt

it’s tiring stuff

and when it’s over you say never again

until the next time

and the next time it’s just the same

and the next time arrived for me

quite suddenly

“are you married” she asked

“yes, with three kids, two wives (one ex),

please get me a castle”

She went to fetch the beer, I got into the jacuzzi

“do you want me to join you in there”

“whatever” I said

she undressed gloriously and sat at the edge of the tub

we spoke smallish talk

and I found her interesting

and she was beautiful to me

My 15 minutes in the tub were up

and I got out and we screwed the rest of the allotted paid-for time,

45minutes

This affair was conceived

in the belly of a brothel

but I saw her again soon outside of that place

I broke the hymen of her secret life

into the real her

into her virgin soul

and became a willing midwife

and helped give birth to this affair

and I was no longer a client

and she no longer a whore

the only price paid was pain

love the only thing exchanged

when the river bursts its banks

when the dam explodes

when the earth shudders

that’s how we made love

I’d tell her she was a star, the moon

and a single burning sun

and we’d come

and we got our souls all tied up

tangled and untangled

knotted and unknotted

joined and broken

and now when I love her deep deep

she’s run away.

three months is up

Woman

She came into my bed

last night

like the wind would breathe

heavily

arousing the trees to swaying

to and fro

She came smiling

though she never knew me

She knew my name was Man

She licked the wounds

of my parting

with you

comforted me

like a cow her calf

I fought to remember you

Struggled for your name on my lips.

After a shift

there’s nothing like

a toasted chicken mayonnaise

at four on a Sunday morning

when Friday night’s uppers

are just wearing off

and the sambucas still swarm

like bees in the brain

the lights are bright in Highpoint

and the joint smells of food frying

you’ve just ended

your shift

at the Together Bar

across the road

and you’re starved

for toasted chicken mayo

before going home

where there’s a warm pussy waiting

there’s nothing like it

.

Meditation upon the earth 

i spread, all flesh

& blood & bone & brain

fresh upon her rain

soaked sweaty sweet

& sultry sands, teats

pulsating in my hands

Cocktrembling frenzy

of her fountains

i tongued time

& suckled mountains.

Cold feet

Winter suddenly

rapped on my door one night

and when I did not open

she slipped through a

paneless window frame

with cold feet

and joined me in bed.

I was unprepared

without you.

Gently

Gently

as a breeze to the stem

as the petal falls lightly

as the volition of your lips

seeking like a bee

the pollen

as your earth-tilling-touches

take hold

let me be

a valley

for your wanderings

 The great eternal leap frog

We die so that others

may live

the dying

transcending the living

who in turn

die

so yet others

may live

death

transcending life

life transcending

death

on and on

in an eternal continuum

so that

the one seed

may remain

intact

Brainwave

Pregnant wave

forehead clasped

with curls chaotic

bloodlessly

you flung

from your swollen belly

a fish at my feet

on the sand

then lay back

laboriously

hissing

clawing to collect

your afterbirth

of weed.

No other

I know of no other comparable flower

that cavorts with its colours

its fragrances

as sweetly, as subtly;

not even

one other silken blossom

that gently fades and withers

then, fleshing out,

births such fulsome fruits;

and your eyes…

delicious

dancing

blueberries.

Nameless

We buried her

before we named her.

They took her from

the warm womb

with medical precision

for thirty rands.

Buried her that night

wrapped in newspaper

in a ‘drink-fresh-orange’

paper bag

dug a little way

into the soft soil

covering with grass-stuffed

sods and twigs.

These heaved silently.

I heard them.

I heard her too.

Crying out.

Small life – without voice

Small life – without breath

crying out.

All dressed up

I clothed my son

in a black skin

and watched him toddle

out                           into

the cold and barren

barefoot.

In an instant

he was caught

in a flood of urchins

his eyes became the colour

of the lifeless eyes

of all the children

his cry for bread

a note

in their piercing pleas

                               the cold tugged his body

                               the wind tore his heart

                               the rain screamed his spirit…

He returned to me pleading

“Father… Father…”

Buzzz

life in the late sixties

was a giant neon light

buzzzzzz buzzzzzz

buzz buzz

the purple hearts

buzz buzz

the black bombs

buzz buzz

the yellow dexies

buzz buzz

the acid trips

buzz buzz

the marijuana

buzz buzz

the mandrax pipes

now, some twenty years on

buzz buzz

my sons threaten to sue me for

sperm cell abuse

(thank God we ain’t living

in america)

Ode to our cats

We have fed our kittens

on the mother’s milk of love

from their tiniest, new-found beings

to their bigger days of adventure

and life-lust

now they stalk the trees, the rooftops, the foliage,

the green lush living grasses

and the bright flowers

in their search to snatch and play some prey

(so cool; so cruel)

they come stealthily to our laps and to our beds and to our backs

purring at our pillows as we sleep, slumber, rest

their soft breathing scented with curiosity

to turn us over to face and feel their presence

their nature

their feline fixations

to awaken our senses to their hunger, their thirst, their playfulness

their want for the mother’s milk of love

they have grown to cats

with nine loves…

and more than we could ever know

they do not leave us untouched

III

The dream

I follow and live the dream

my dreams

and the dreams of others especially

these are the biographies I learn from

my friend Jim has a dream

his dream is music

and I follow his dream

song after song

it carries me along

Toni too has a dream

she’s a call-girl on her way somewhere

an angel in hell

but one day with the help of the dream

she will turn her touches into triumphs

Henk, dead now, had a dream

and Lil and Lee, buried together,

dreamt together

and now I’m damn sure

they all live the dream

somewhere

and I can only believe

no matter how I look at it

the only tangible thing in life

is the dream

all else is simply the business

of making it come true.

The artist

one-eyed

Leon

the artist

bearded eye-patched

like a Russian spy

Leon of the streets

of Wynberg

(appropriate)

Always asking

for money

for paints

but I knew his pluck

the colours were either

red or white.

He fooled the old ladies

and if they didn’t

give him money

but rather bought him paints

then he sold the paints

and bought himself wine.

asked Tretchikoff for paints

when he met him in the CNA.

Tretchy called him a drunk

told him to get off his butt

and paint and sweat if he could!

Tretchy was God in those days

in the late sixties

the ladies swooned over him in Garlicks

in Claremont

“oooh there’s Tretchikoff.”

But I knew better.

Leon was an artist

it was in his blood

his blood of red wine flowing.

I first met Leon when I was a kid

14

he used to visit my mother

and bum money for paint

they sometimes got drunk together.

I felt pity for Leon

I was an idealist

didn’t want to see a great man

fall like shit from a horse’s arse

on a lonely road to nowhere.

He lived in a derelict room in Wynberg

I used to leave bread and milk and

sometimes honey outside his door

I knocked once

he opened and let me in

he was just starting on a piece of hardboard

just given it a coat of white

I spent the day and watched him paint

and drink and paint and drink

and the canvass came alive with rivers and trees

and purple mountains and sunlight that was real

he was my hero

he was Michelangelo

he was Monet

He sucked the wine and he painted

and I was in awe

he said “let’s go sell this bugger…have you any bus fare”

I paid the fare for both of us

went to Rondebosch

to the Pig ‘n Whistle

a famous student joint

with an oil wet canvass

he hawked the painting in no time

the eye-patch and the beard

and the long slender painter's fingers

and the black beret he wore

capped the image

a student bought it for two rands

I was angry

two rands for a masterpiece

an original

Leon said “it’s ok it’s a fair price.”

we took a bus back to Wynberg

he went to the shebeen and bought a can of wine

I went home and dreamt

of Monet and van Gogh and Michelangelo.

over the years

I saw Leon from time to time

sometimes in expensive suits

sometimes filthy  

bloodied and desperate

One of his paintings hung in the foyer of the Vineyard hotel

I once invited him home for a meal

and to meet my wife

he pissed on my couch

just sat there and let it all out without moving

he was so drunk

he passed out and I covered him with a rug

when he left in the morning

he asked my wife for money for paint

I never saw him again after that

but whenever I happen to be in Wynberg

walking the streets

I say to myself

“this is Leon the artist’s Wynberg.”

Merrily on high

it’s Christmas time in Cape Town

ding dong merrily on high

the street kids sniff glue

and the rich kids sniff snow

ding dong merrily on high

Mother city

You are the city

of the boy without a mother

sun and sea breeze

wild wind

golden-bellied sands

lean

below your green-lush breasts.

City of wharves

carbuncle-studded,

slimy with the waters.

City that reeks of fish and smoke

cough the early morning

pale with smoke

sick with grime

grunt the groaning streets

and choke the sidewalks.

You are the smiles

furrowed frowns

laughter

the scowls…

move about with all your faces;

stand in scores of stances

walk, shuffle, hobble, run.

Your nights are sometimes scarlet

screamed-anguished

life-sapped.

You are the city

of the girl without a father,

big city bellowing

sirens blare

people stare

drunken, boisterous,

booze – bawdy,

you are foul

you are fun,

tavern shaken down with dance.

You are the dark eyes of the dives

bottle-neck smooth,

silk-shirt slick.

Rags, also,

you are gutter-curled up.

The quiet and solitude of your past,

you stand as an oak

steadfast;

leaned-on, pissed against.

Galleries and museums,

you have fathered prodigies

and mothered saints.

The lull of bells

in the holiness of your days,

the polished pew beneath

the weight of burdened knees.

Understanding, you are forgiveness;

wrath,

you are the whip.

Hear!

On the cobbled square, hell and brimstone

from your soap-box pulpit

raising fears and jeers

and hopes.

(The true faith too, in the silent hearts of silent men).

You are the city

much loved;

distrusted.

You are the spirit of your cemeteries

consoling

bright the blooms

in hugging wreaths

sand-mounds

crystal marble

sad-faced cherubs.

Loop street 4am

“nice butt” she teased

taunted

flaunted

“I’m on a pluck”

he threatened

finger jabbing

eyes stabbing

“don’t fuck with me!”

The streetlights twinkled

the bars burped

the discos ducked

and dived

and danced.

And the street

thrashed with vigour

fleshed with pretty kids

burning thighs

hungry eyes.

Then he kicked her

in the crutch

the transvestite            

who screamed swore

hit back viciously

Nose burst blood

thwack of bone

all hell broke

and boiled over.

Then a knife twinkled

and the streetlights groaned.

The bars burped

and blood seeped

silent into tar.

     

Colours

It was the worst June in Cape Town

with all the storms and destruction

so much water pouring down, from where you ask

the worst in about fifty years the papers said

the newspaper vendor at the station

clamored:

The Cape is drowning!

Die Kaap is versuip!

A little further

a fruit seller

tempted me with some

“ozone-free naartjies” he yelled

the newspaper vendors and

the fruit sellers

are to me

a great source of knowledge and inspiration

I mean “ozone-free naartjies” tugs a warning bell

and reminds me that there’s a fuck-up somewhere

and the news of the floods and devastation

is a cause for great gloom

and it draws me closer

to those with the suffering

who have no roofs, knee-deep

in the soaking chaos

and the ice-cold helplessness

and further down

a bergie bums some money

and teaches me

that economics is more about how little you have

than how much

and he beams a bright smile at me and makes me richer

And even in the gloom of the worst June

in fifty years

I learn that there is so much colour

in the streets of Cape Town

and I haven’t yet

passed the flower sellers

with their yellows

and reds

and pinks

and blues

For Ingrid Jonker

A friend gave me the greatest gift

He introduced you to me, one night

You might remember him

He’s also dead now.

His name was Leonard, a writer, wrote historical stuff

The night he read me your poems he was knitting a jersey

I’ll never forget, because it was funny to watch

he was knitting, reading and in between

gulping down bunches and bunches

of ripe red wine, Tassenberg

Remember him?

He told me he was at your funeral – or wake – with friends and they

all drank whiskey and read your poems out loud

He told me about your taxi-driver lover,

I forget his name and about your baby Simone

He didn’t tell me what colour are your eyes

Are they brown like the murky

waters that strangled your life away

with icy fingers

It doesn’t really matter

Your poems matter most

I’m not going to teach you

to suck eggs

but South Africa is almost free

And Nelson Mandela is President

You probably know that.

In which case you’ll know

that Madiba gave to the world a little gift

when he read aloud to listening millions

one of your poems –

my favourite poem –

that ever-living ever-breathing sad sad story.

You know the one…

For Elseworth Galela

I.

Nkomo,

were you to

read these lines

what would you say,

having departed from

this life?

(We sometimes used the word

Existence, remember?)

The ‘skollies’

(they’re in that bracket!)

shook you down

and took your jacket.

Your life meant nothing.

And it followed.

You knew the meaning of nothing.

Had the experience of it,

the bitter hole

of nothing

you managed to emerge from.

Often smiling

at your heels

was the joy of living;

a tomcat

more than just surviving.

Creating.

Something.

Something you always wanted?

Nevertheless,

better-than-nothing-something.

You were stoical.

II.

The mourners

are no reminder of you.

The bicycle

against the wall

in silence turns

the wheels of thought

reeling

back to times

(the months, the weeks,

the many days)

with you.

The sheer monotony

of ‘eight-to-five’

we managed to

outlive each day

with intense

soul searching,

the down-to-earth

sharing of our skins:

our interchanging in a sense.

We wore

one theme:

the coat of many colours …

Harmony and Respect.

III.

Even the beer can

in my hand

at this ungodly working hour

of 3 p.m.

tingles

tumbles

my mind in memories,

glimpsing

glances

of the ‘living you’…

Of yesterday.

Not of shadows.

Not of wreaths.

The living you

beside

not beyond…

Sadly,

they’re only glances

quick to edge away;

darting back

to yesterday.

 IRELAND, DEAR IRELAND

Land of a hundred thousand welcomes

And a myriad shades of green,

Only when the bitter past subsides

Will sweet loughs of love be seen.

Only when anger and mistrust fade

Then will your blood be blended,

Then will your heart be mended,

Then will your soul be truly rendered,

And forever, peace be made.

Then will red, pink and white-capped hawthorn,

With sweeps of golden gorse,

Welcome the smiles of a bright new dawn

On an island,

On an Ireland,

On a land…with no remorse.

Elegy on John.

I.

He went in,

agile,

hardened sense of reflex,

into the three

who beat an old man,

robbed,

upon the ground.

He went in,

‘protector’,

heart a well of kindness, head a hive of anger

years of violence and scars behind him;

ex-reformatory boy.

He did not come out

dancing fists

steady feet…

But dropped.

three men   three knives    took him

behind and above that robust heart.

He went in then,

into the hospital,

carried by his friend who pleaded:

“Die man is ernstig beseer, hy’s bo die hart gesteek…”

He was refused.

“…ons deel nie met sulke aanvalle nie…”

Another hospital was recommended

where he went in…

                   …into a wheelchair

                       in the passage,

                       head sunk

                       down

                       into his chest…

his friend:

“Roep ‘n dokter, roep ‘n dokter, help die man…”

to everyone he saw,

helpless himself

behind the colour of his skin.

And time ticked by.

And took him…propped-up;

robbed…

of a precious chance of life.

And the doctor came along

to pronounce him dead.

II.

He was buried by his people,

a multitude of mourners

Who wept, and many, though

in mourning, sang joyously

and clapped and swayed

believing in the peace and rest

that lay ahead for him.

While preachers raised all hell

and brimstone

(vying with each other: where his Soul

had gone!)

reminding all that none

had yet escaped the wrath of God.

Then, recalling his life

authoritatively:

“This woman, the mother, is a church woman!

Her son did not go to church. This man…”

Thus he would never reach the gates.

And, then, calling him a liar

for signing his name ‘John’

‘Why did he live lies with this name ‘John’…”

No guns in salutation

for a man who died for a fellow being.

A man, then and there

The Law.

III.

Throwing shovelfuls of soil

to fill the grave, the earth

he loved, I stopped to see

a rose upon the smooth mahogany.

A single bright red rose.

(Bright as the blood staining

the sheet beneath his white-

draped shoulders; there for all

who had looked upon that peaceful

face, to remember with silent shock

the tragedy of his death).

The rose as large as life

I remembered his advice

as we shared our wine:

“…look after your sweetheart, my friend.

A woman is a rose; all who see

want to smell and touch…”

So I remembered him.

And that smile that never

failed to capture smiles;

that open face a hearth

for friends and strangers both.

IV.

The mourners crowded, thronged,

upon a score of graves

fresh mounds of earth strung

row upon row

almost on top of each other.

The wreaths laid.

The little epitaphs read aloud:

" why did you leave

without saying goodbye…”

I bent to lay my wreath.

Someone tapped me on my arm…

Wrong grave.

Stumbling over this

I found

the mound

that held a little cross

which read:

Abednego Soshweshwe.

Died: 14^th October 1973.

Manie

Old Manie

with the horns

tattooed on his forehead

one above each eye

high into his receded hairline

like the devil

the children taunted

but so far from the devil

was Manie

he tended the roses in the Parliament gardens

and was a gentle drunk

we used to leave our kitchen door

open at night for Manie

a blanket on the floor

for when he couldn’t make

his way home; he, innocently dead-drunk

in the neighborhood

a story was told to me about Manie

by his friend the blacksmith in the blacksmith’s yard

adjoining our kitchen door

that Manie was in fact

an English gentleman from good stock

who on his return

from the great war in France

all shell-shocked and broken

was turned away from his family

and quickly dispatched to the Cape

So here was Manie

a friend of the blacksmith

and our family friend

I used to help Manie blow the bellows

in the blacksmith shop

and he drank wine with my brothers

very early one morning

after a terrible, terrible winter’s night

one brother, on his way to work to catch the train

found Manie curled up on a bench

on Wittebome station

just across the road from us

He tugged at the sleeping Manie

but Manie was dead

one of us had mistakenly

locked the door

 ‘Cocaine Kimberly’ was her working name…

and she swore out loud every time she came

she came so often that night

her expletives, sometimes stuttered,

rolling frantically off her tongue,

gleaming pink and thrusting, licking lips and curling

in   and   out   in   and   out, 

drowned her gutted cries        

she  moved      trance-danced      pounding

on  and  on  and  on

beautifully beneath me, hands molding my back-flesh butt-flesh

to her fingers and her palms,

beautifully astride me, nipples taut, hands reaching to the ceiling

like sun-kissed poppies to the light    

her oyster vagina

enveloping the muted pearl

of my pulsating soul

coiling, uncoiling, recoiling

like a Browning machine gun                     

she fired off burst after burst of

multiple rounds of ecstasy

I had my hands full, my wetted body burning

and wracking with her delirium,

her sweated stirring, her tireless,

shameless,

shuddering

I too came a few times that night

sadly like a single-shot rifle    

load    pause    reload    pause   load  pause pause reload 

pause  pause  pause  reload…

how I wished I was a tireless Browning machine gun

when the sun suddenly perked erect and rose to join in our waning action

light jabbing and dashing sharply through the lace curtains

coming at us

she upped     dressed silently

left with a soulful smile                

 blue eyes dazed and dazzling

                                                               and a butterfly kiss

and when she left it felt  it felt

it felt as though somebody had put a bullet through my head

and if somebody had put a bullet through my head right then and there 

my life

would have been more than lived and fully rewarded

you can’t get a night like that for

a few hundred bucks

like I did way back then

not for all the money in the world

Leather soles & tripping in the rain

sheer shit

these shoes

cushioning

soul from soil

these polished

hides

smoothed

of senses.

Oswald Joseph Mtshali

I brush you by

in the busy streets of town

in the urine-reeking alleyways

in the shadowed subways

- where you often lurk –

in the fish and chip shop

where you sway to the jazz

blaring from the duke box.

I hear your voice

raucously on crammed buses;

above the roar of pneumatic drills

tearing up the street;

shouting greetings to a friend

some fifty yards away;

swearing drunken abuse

at foe and passer-by.

I see you, yes,

slick gentleman

in white shirt, suit and tie,

strutting the sidewalks;

(and women clutch their bags!)

browsing arrogantly

in the departmental stores:

“One Stetson, please. The best.”

In sweat-drenched overall:

“Aaii baas!”

Khaki-clad, barefoot, manacled:

“Freedom baas”.

In rags; with crutches,

or without; no legs;

no arms; no eyes:

“Bread baas…bread!”

Oswald Joseph Mtshali,

“boy on a swing

shirt billowing in the breeze

like a tattered kite”,*

lend me your heart

to wear in my chest…

Son of Mother Africa

field hand

miner

shop boy

beggar

convict

thief

businessman

detribalized;

Poet of the people

lend me your boots…

I have already borrowed your eyes.

Let us

walk together

in the busy streets

the alleys;

among the ripe corn

In the valleys…

talk

together

on crowded buses,

in the shebeens,

in my city home.

Yes, by all means

in your thatched hut

if only as poets

my voice

not so full of pride

(a lot of shame; a lot of guilt)

your voice

as resonant

as the sounds of a cowhide drum.

*taken from a poem by Mtshali

Steve Biko

Biko dead

Dispute

Despair

Believed

And so was snatched upon

The pen will spur

This sacrifice

This stand of sorrow

Even song

Will weave

Into the souls of men

This awful wrong.

 Cowboys

See the cattle

being herded

from lush pastures

to arid land:

whirlwinds of hatred

smoking behind.

Hear the drumming – deep

bellow of despair

rumbling along

their broken ranks:

plodding

heads down

horns cut

hearts scraping the ground.

Feel the whiplash of fear

moving them through

the gauntlets:

from arid land to desert.

The cattlemen wield .38’s

and round up the strays

in mobile cages.

Wake-up Thought.

Earth is a hatchery.

Souls are bred.

There are no dead.

The Tribal Song

Their hate

is a tribal song

chanted in unison

by many rasping voices

throbbing wildly

with the beat

of many hardened hearts

hammered out

like a bad-luck-shoe

on the anvil-earth

by stomping soles

calloused

through

poverty

toil

and walks

to nowhere

The Afrikaner

He is a nation.

Buried his father

in this cattle-dung

thorn-tree

wheatfield soil

spawned his sons and daughters

spread his roots.

He is a nation.

Krans-high; pit deep.

And the gun on his back

is life.

The brown child,

his babe,

he has cast aside.

Cast aside (and cast in steel)

the child has grown.

His child is a nation

without roots.

Mother Africa, Mama

Mama,

washer-woman

cook

let loose the garb

strapping your rhythm

starching your blood

let loose your tongue

that holds your voice

in these silences

(the cages of subservience)

let loose

your limbs

in dance

ecstatic

with lioness-pride

and deer enchanting

grace.

Italy, my father

Italy,

my father,

I sprung from your

imperialist loins

cool as a Casanova

cruising a piazza,

you slapped the buttocks

of Mother Africa

and had me from her womb.

The spoils of war -

blood-torn,

cut-down-to-size -

you laboured beneath the number on your back.

Italy,

my father

I have your breath

fierce in song,

in love of life;

your fountains in my veins,

your marble in my bones.

Monumental in my pride for you,

my children

A Curtain Drawn

Swallows dip into the sunset colours

swooping up

down

on wet wings after chasing away

a summer storm

dogs in the yard yap and fight

over after-supper bones

flying ants whirl

like sandstorms

on buttered wings

children catch them with wild hands

clawing the air with whoops

and eat buttered bodies

with the smoky smells of dusk

peach blossoms and the tang of freshly ploughed fields

then go indoors and sandwich themselves

between the blankets and the sheets

while lamplight glows warm as cellophane

to wrap them in a package of innocent embryo dreams

the night

a curtain drawn

across the sky

hangs down unadorned

in heavy rolls and curls