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.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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.
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
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!)
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.
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…
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)