Token

From a sick woman's countenance
memory of caring,
from a man who lost his legs
a betal-chew smile,
from the sunday papers
the courage to say no,
from the roadways
an unexpected colour-mix,
and from the sky
the poetry of cloud movement;
strung together
with words from adictionary conversations.
wrapped in heart-paper made for breaking
at touch and kiss and glance:
my token of love
on a slow afternoon.

[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]

LEAVE A COMMENT 

For Tutu

Who are you,

tell me,

two years is long enough

incognito is not forever,

are you a lizard

of the colour-changing kind

or a monitor,

a tick perhaps,

or grasshopper,

are you clown, politician or hobo,

or is this long obstinacy of not-telling

a marker of knowing,

arrogance of a kind

or compassion?

Are you a constitution

a corporation or cooperative,

a flea-farm or field of dreams?

Are you story book or lovability,

gatekeeper or head-of-household,

and do you say to yourself

in the national language of your choice

as you offer blanks tagged with wag

to my daily questionnaire,

‘I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about, man!’? 

LEAVE A COMMENT

Love masks

And love

is about masks

the make-up that makes-up

the lavish blush

of divine colour

the immemorial woo-dance

and the inevitable sweats

of maintaining the unsustainable

and then the undressing

and dress-down of knowing

caress of believed perfection

sharp pull back of hand

at wart and scar

the congenital dry skin of fallibility

abrasioned by the masking years

and the slow and difficult learning:

beauty doesn’t have to come smooth

or in pleasing geometries.

LEAVE A COMMENT

Fire works, really!

And what goes up
must come down,
that which burns bright
explodes, delights and is gone,
like is a sparkler
an ahas koora
along whose trajectory
eye will run
and whose upward curve
is made of squeal and laughter
and when it ends
the night is no less bright
no more dark
the universe is cleared
however
collapses into true dimensions,
but that's for certain eyes
and in days of celebration
and thanksgiving
it's good to soar
good to delight
good to be a child. 

[published in 'The Nation', April 15, 2015]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Shelf life: Indeterminate

(for oldness)

These are the libraries

of our land,
made of novels and epic poetry
rarely perused
seldom cited:
and yet there are letters
words and metaphors
tapestries woven
with labour
and the threads of being,
the bartering without permission
wheels that turn
despite impediment and age-limit,
the fruits of our today
the catch that fell through
the butterfingers of political economy,
the story of a child
and her tomorrow
and the transcripts
of a timeless,
careless
civilization.

[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]

LEAVE A COMMENT