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
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
the artist
bearded eye-patched
like a Russian spy
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.
it was in his blood
his blood of red wine flowing.
I first met Leon
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
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
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
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
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.
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: 14th 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.
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.
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
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