CHILDHOOD

1.
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…

2.
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…


3.
Honeycombs

Honeycombs
clinging to the trees
are worthwhile
climbing for,
bleeding for,
falling down
ten hurting feet
or more.


4.
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.
5.
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.


6.
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…


7.
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...   

Copyright: Mario d'Offizi

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.

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.

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.

LOOP STREET 4 A.M.

“nice butt” she teased
taunted
flaunted

“I’m on a pluck”
he threatened finger jabbing
eyes stabbing
“don’t screw 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 the transvestite
in the crutch…
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.

DING-DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

Its Xmas time in Cape Town
Ding-dong merrily on high
The street kids sniff glue
And the yuppies sniff “snow’
Ding-dong merrily on high.

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 grasstuffed
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.

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…somehow

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 the dream come true.

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
shopboy
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
I n 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.

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.

COLOURS

It was the worst June in Cape Town
what 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
clamoured:
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 fruitsellers
are to me
a great source of knowledge and inspiration
I mean “ozone-free naartjies” tugs a warning bell
and reminds me that something’s screwed up somewhere
and the news of the floods and devastation
is cause for great gloom
and it draws me closer
somehow 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

BUZZ

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 son threatens to sue me for
sperm cell abuse

(thank God we ain’t living
in america!)

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
than me
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
maybe 10 years younger than me

Give it a try
Miracles do happen

I told him I was having
some trouble with myself

some compulsive obsessive behaviour 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 and barrels of laughter
with Alan the barman
Then and there I appointed him
to be my shrink

He promised to do his best.

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…

AN AFFAIR

an affair
is an affair
is an affair

and so I thought

give me a blonde with big tits I always joked

they usually last about three months, affairs
ask anybody
they’ll tell you I’m right if they’re honest

fucks and lunches
dinner 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 its 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 rather

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,
45 minutes

that’s where 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 her real her
into her virgin soul

and became a willing midwife
and helped give birth to this affair
and I became no longer a client
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, 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.

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

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
and a blanket on the floor
for when he couldn’t make
his way home; he, innocently dead-drunk
in the neighbourhood

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 despatched 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 that night.

RESTLESS WATERS & OTHER POEMS

“It is restless waters only, that reach the highest rocks”


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

WINE!

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 Garliks
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

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
and he opened and let me in

he was just starting on a piece of hardboard
just given it a coat of white

I spent he day and watched him paint
and drink and paint and drink
and the canvass come alive with rivers and trees
and purple mountains and sunlight that was real
he was my hero
he was Michealangelo
he was Monet
He sucked the wine and he painted
and I was in awe

he said “let’s go sell this fucker…have you any busfare”
I paid the fare for both of us
went to Rondebosch to a famous student joint
called the Pig ‘n Whistle
with an oil wet canvass

he hawked the painting in no time
the eye-patch and the beard and the long slender painters
fingers helped and the black beret he wore
capped the image

a student bought the image 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 Michealangelo.
That was when I was 14

over the years as I grew up and started
work 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 new 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 of
Wynberg i say to myself
“this is Leon the artist’s Wynberg.”