Storage Space
A Collection of Contemporary Poetry
Darren A. Stein
Copyright © 2011 by Darren Stein
****
Copyright © 2008 by Darren A. Stein.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008910063 ISBN:
Hardcover 978-1-4363-8377-6
Softcover 978-1-4363-8376-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
The author may be contacted at:
Email: darrikk2002@yahoo.com.au
Website: http://www.redbubble.com/people/darrikk
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/darren.stein1
****
CONTENTS
Storage Space
Watching Old Men Playing Tennis
The Consistency of Baby Poo
Toy Cars and Immortality
Odds and Evens
The Curse of the Ordinary
Exercising Patience
I Think I May Be Dying
Bird Watching at the Western Wall
The Holy City
They
The Golf Mad
Among the Eucalyptus
In Passing, I Said to Rikki
Picture Window
Bahama Sunset in Soweto (1994)
Stars
South Africa
Letter to Karen (March 22, 1995)
A Dog Called Spot
File 13
Trying to tantalize...
Howard Davis
Concrete Worlds
****
Ode to Writer’s Block
Two Feet
Mr. and Mrs.Nostradamus
Lost
Tin Cup-Tin Heart
Mists
A Fear of Ghosts and Distance
Ode to the Solutions of a Math Problem at
Two o’clock in the Morning
I Wonder
Caged
Red Dust
On Asking for Directions
Frayed Nerves
The Thought of Her
Here and Now-Now and Then
An African Picture Postcard
In Their Eyes
Love and Space
The Fishermen’s Sacrifice
Last Words for a Blind Duckling
Love in Pretty Packages
A Message from the Damned
On Missing the Dead
When All Was Done
****
So Tired
To Be or Not to Be?
I Felt the Days
When I Least Expect It
No-daddy-else
****
For my best friend, Ryan Schroeder,
whose memory is always with me,
and for Grandpa Ted and Grandpa Pete to whom
I promised I would one day dedicate this book.
****
Self-Storage
‘You have a rented storage space!’ he laughed contemptuously,
‘Whatever happened to the shed in the backyard?’
‘It went with the backyard,’ I replied, thinking of my tiny
two-bedroom unit for my wife, my two children and me.
‘You need to learn to get rid of your junk’, he sneered,
‘If you don’t use it, you don’t need it.’
So I thought of my little stockpile – among the odds and ends,
the baby cot and pram that we may or may not use again;
the antique furniture my grandmother left me, which isn’t
practical, but which I just don’t have the heart to throw away;
a bicycle which my son is still too small for, and extra chairs
that we might need if we ever have that dinner party we’ve
been planning for years;
In boxes: old books, comics and CDs, which, like old friends
provide a warm reminder of an earlier time, and like all
good friends, we daren’t betray.
My little storeroom is a window to my soul – a snapshot
of all my hopes and dreams, my memories and relationships.
To discard it would be to reject a part of myself – to amputate
that which I find meaningful.
We all need a little space to store the things we treasure, no
matter if its worth cannot be weighed in gold. No one denies
a bloke a bank account, where fictitious ones and zeros
rise and fall in virtual vaults, but do not have the comforting
smell of granny’s inlaid side-table, or the dusty CD you
used to play over and over again.
‘So, I’ll keep my junk, thank you. I’ll risk being called
pretentious or over-sentimental, because there’s nothing
wrong with that.’ Like a child clinging to their teddybear,
I gain security from my physical memories, and when I
am gone, then they can sell my junk, or my kids can
put a little bit of Daddy in their own storage rooms, which
is impractical, but which they too may lack the heart
to throw away.
****
Watching old men playing tennis
Watching old men playing tennis,
Limbs held together with tape and
plaster, knee guards and arm straps;
Cardio-monitors and Nike shoes worn
by the world’s top athletes.
Like pros they smash their service,
their free hand clutching at the twinge
in their hip or lower back.
‘Good shot!’ he shouts,
‘Humph!’ he answers,
‘Aaagh!’ they chorus, ‘Game set and match’,
and off they shuffle in painful preservation
of their manhood to the loving arms of their
physiotherapist or chiropractor.
****
The Consistency of Baby Poo
Where once we spoke of art, philosophy, music
and film, local politics or international news,
now we speak of the consistency of baby poo;
the colour of mucous, and the sleeping habits
of our three-month-old son.
Our intelligence has all but evaporated –
Wide-eyed we babble nonsense, dance to the
beat of purple dinosaurs, and constantly seek
advice from others, our adult confidence lost
in sea of parental perplexity.
We tiptoe around our home at naptime, drive
ten-kilometres below the speed limit, and
decline dinner invitations because they clash
with routine.
We are doting slaves to the biological whims
of an infant – compulsively obsessed with
the consistency of baby poo.
****
Toy Cars and Immortality
I watch my son playing with his toy cars
on the lounge-room carpet, making
vrooming sounds and crashing noises
like I did when I was his age.
I still have some of my own old cars
which I have given him, which he adds
with glee to his Lightning McQueen
collection and that other Disney character
whose name I always forget.
I watch and smile at his expression of
intense concentration, lying prone on the
floor as he pushes them to some imaginary
destination; I feel that warm glow inside,
and realize that I am the continuation of
my father as he is the continuation of me;
and that it is through our children that we
will truly live forever.
****
Odds and Evens
Every religious person talks about values a lot -
about how they have them, and why those who
are irreligious do not.
Every irreligious person justifies their values too -
why they have them, even though they don’t do
what the religious do.
To the religious, those who are more religious
than they, are fanatic; Those who are less so, are
heathen.
I guess, all-in-all, that makes just about everybody,
even.
****
The curse of the ordinary
When should we give up on our ambition?
When should we realize that our poems – our novels –
will never yet be published, or that our paintings will
never be displayed:-
our self-assured genius unread, unseen
and unappreciated.
When will we stop sending entries in to contests,
or letters to publishers? When do we come to
terms with the fact that we are just a teacher,
just a husband, just a father, and that is all that
we will ever be.
We are just ordinary men with overblown ambition,
and our talents, through lack of luck or quality,
will never win us fame or recognition.
Be contented with the little things we tell ourselves.
Pay your taxes and love your children, and abandon
the frustrations of a broken-heart.
****
Exercising Patience
‘Mr. Stein,’ said the woman’s voice on the other line,
‘We have processed your CT Scans and need you to
return to your doctor right away.’
Hmmm...waiting...moments waiting;
Waiting to see the triage nurse,
Waiting to see the doctor,
Waiting to see the surgeon,
Waiting to see if the medication works,
Waiting for more test results,
Waiting, dear God...waiting.
****
I think I may be dying
I have been carrying around a pain in my left-flank
for six weeks. Every day it gets worse.
Eventually by GP prescribed an ultra-sound. It
indicated that I had a distended liver and should
avoid fatty food, but the pain kept getting worse.
Next, a CT Scan. This time they discovered an
infected appendix, but they could not operate
because it had attached itself to my colon and
threatened to take my lower-intestine with it.
So out of pre-op onto two weeks of antibiotics,
with a colonoscopy and further tests to come.
But I am still in pain, and it keeps on growing.
I am told not to worry, however, I have no
fever nor vomiting, but I am worried; with two
kids and a new job...well, at least I have some
form of life-insurance...still, I am worried.
I think I may be dying.
****
Bird-Watching at the Western Wall
There are small birds which live between the cracks of
the Western Wall:-
Tiny sparrows that dart behind the weighty clumps of
Shikaron plants to unseen, hungry families in their nests.
Outside, black swallows swoop back and forth in some
arcane dance, pausing every now and then to cling upon
the rocks for rest.
Watching them, I often wonder, are these birds holy?
Do they absorb something of the stone in which they live?
Are these bricks holy, or merely old?
And does God notice the hypnotic sway of the
Swallows as they weave in rhythm to their avian song?
I have glimpsed a rare, white dove perch briefly
on the wall, only to be driven off by common pigeons
who peck and scratch and defecate upon its sacred edifice.
****
The Holy City
Years of praying towards the Western Wall –
of staring at photos of soldiers and men in
prayer shawls weeping at its ancient stones –
have given way to disappointment.
The first thing that strikes you is the stench –
the dirt, the unwashed streets and piles of
uncollected refuse that litters the streets of
East Jerusalem and the Old City. I have gone
back to my township days in South Africa;
To Soweto; to Dobsonville; to Snakepark;
This holy city is a third-world slum.
Of course, it isn’t all like this;
I made the mistake of avoiding the birthright
programs and whistle-stop bus rides that hurry
old Americans and bleary-eyed penitents from
the sanitized end of town.
I have walked instead along Saladin Street, through
El-Wad and the dingy avenues of the Muslim
and Christian Quarters – small doors with damp
darkened rooms, jack-knifing higgledy-piggledy
in the shadows, while above them, television
aerials like metal trees strain skywards, desperately
trying to grow towards the light.
But this squalor is not racist; it is not unequal –
As I trudge back through the religious ghetto
of Mea She’arim, two black crows eye me
suspiciously, pecking at the rancid poverty on
the streets, while standardized men in dark attire,
like Oompa Loompas scurry back and forth
with concentrated purpose.
Tomorrow I will hire a car and leave the city –
explore some other part of this ancient land and
the home of my people. I will leave behind the
tour guides who force themselves upon you and
rob you blind for the courtesy of advising you
which corner to turn. I will cross to the other side
of the road and steel my nerves against the
terrifying rush of Israeli traffic and its flagrant
disregard for life.
****
They
They stole my neighbour’s car,
They robbed the local bank,
They murdered him in cold blood,
They raped that poor girl.
They drove up oil prices,
They increased taxes.
They are the universal association of evil.
They are the nameless perpetrators of wrong.
They must be stopped.
****
The Golf Mad
My brother-in-law, the accountant, plays golf
once a week. The rest of the time he pretends
to play golf. At any moment you might catch
him swinging or putting with an imaginary
club – rocking to and fro as he lines up the
perfect shot or lands that elusive, yet brilliant,
hole-in-one.
He spends long hours in front of the television
watching men in mismatched trousers stroll
across the countryside; cameramen like World
War Two search-light operators scanning the
sky for dimpled, enemy balls.
And again, while saying grace, or sharing a
family celebration – like a birth or the coming
of age - there he is dancing back and forth, not
to the sound of the band, but in his constant
quest to be below par. I cannot help but agree
with him when he happily refers to himself as
a Golf Nut:
The first step towards mental health is admitting
you have a problem.
****
Among the Eucalyptus
(On immigrating to Australia)
There is a different mood among the
Eucalyptus. Here, the rustle of leaves
does not cause one to start in fear
that there will be a hungry charge from
out the dark, with talons sharp, and
white fangs all that are welcoming.
Here, the soil does not pound beneath
one’s feet, and all that is glimpsed amid
the rustle of leaves are the luminous
eyes of a possum or the shaded beauty of
a lyre bird.
The land does not reproach one here;
It does not revile one’s very presence;
It is not, like Africa, an angry land,
and its people, like its beasts, make
ineffectual calls that pierce the night,
but do not stop one’s heart, and allow
one to sleep in peace beneath the stars.
****
In passing, I said to Rikki
As I said, ‘I do not write poems about you.’
This is not a bad thing – it means I do not
twist sentences or make phrases do tricks in
order to convey some sentiment with queer
metaphor or awkward simile.
My feelings cannot be measured through
words or misrepresented by their inability
to distil the magnitude of real emotion.
When it comes to saying how I feel, as
a poet I am dumb,
and fall back on that old cliché,
those plain three words of common stock –
“I love you”
That’s somehow enough,
the truth is made of simpler stuff.
****
Picture Window
Proposal to Rikki
I had a dream we were standing in
front of a large picture window,
staring out onto a garden where
our children laughed and played;
And we stood, watching, slowly
growing old with experience –
and in love –
forever safe in each others’ arms.
****
Bahama Sunset in Soweto (1994)
Perhaps we will sit like Post-
Revolutionary Cubans, in their
sidewalk cafes and Spanish
Squares, puffing contentedly
on aromatic cigars;
We will sip beer in our shebeens,
and laugh together with a sense of
collective satisfaction, at some
accomplishment - a scale now tilted
in our just favour.
And we will smile, over fermented
bellies, at a future full of hope,
and vague promises of freedom.
****
Stars
I saw the pictures of our old, South African
presidents, and I recalled images of earlier
times in far off places, of little grey men
with short moustaches, who also spoke
peace, but spread misery.
I remember people saying, ‘Oh come now,
it’s not as bad as all those outsiders say it
is.’
But they never felt it.
They had forgotten what it was like to
wear those little yellow stars, or have a big,
red “J” stamped into the front page of their
passports. Of course, it was never as bad
as all that over here. Their skins were
stars enough.
And we all sat back, numbly, blindly,
answering our own age old question:-
‘How could anyone have let it happen?’
****
South Africa
The land wants blood,
the soil thirsts for it –
The time of relative peace
has made the baked cracks
run deep,
now it demands
anointment.
Already we can hear the
rumblings in the earth
affecting the minds of men;
The land wants blood,
the soil thirsts,
and it will be fed,
Oh Lord,
it will be fed.
Can we not renew its thirst
for water, or has it grown
fat on this human delicacy
which we feed it,
unsatiated,
with both abundant ease,
and a little pleasure.
Letter to Karen (March 22, 1995)
It is cold in Johannesburg.
There was an indifferent rain which wet us
on our trip up to the city –
Despite this, a fire burnt in the veldt at
Vosloorus, blurring our view, making
the motorists in their Mercedes squint,
but for a moment, at the many shacks
that lined the side of the highway.
There are ghosts on these roads –
in these townships,
and in the rain-puddles there are red
reflections of crimson skies that are
not there.
In the smoke I was seized with apprehension,
plagued by images from memories which did
not seem to be my own.
It was all a dream, it seems-
Nothing, but a dream.
And at night, or in the day,
with the help of the Imovane,
that is what they are –
only dreams.
When I pulled-up to the house, I thought,
‘Had I ever left?’
But when I stepped inside, I knew I had.
Things had changed.
The Earth had shifted beneath my feet,
and from where I stood and viewed the
world objects cast long shadows –
long and frightening shadows in which
things lived and crawled,
and I,
too tired,
could no longer fight
those battles I had done.
Had done,
though not entirely won.
Yet from the hills whence I had come
there was a sun. Its feint glow all but
piercing the clouds; Its weakness, its
failure to stand up and take back the
sky, corrupted and exploited by the
shadows which cast now even longer
claws along a long-time battered ground.
I have so hoped to kiss that sun again:
To raise it high above the shade, and
hold it so it never sinks from view.
Perhaps this place will always be in
darkness, but I, my heart one day
released from night, will escape to
the warmth, and move to some place
bright and new.
****
A dog called Spot
Young Billy had a dog called Spot
he said would snap and growl,
He said would guard his home
against all burglars on the prowl.
But Spot would never show his fangs,
he’d never keep the watch,
He’d simply take his cold, wet nose
and shove it up your crotch.
****
File 13
You said that’s where you put things,
unwanted things – painful memories
and events.
It’s a big file, File 13. A veritable
Pandora’s Box which you bury deep
inside your brain.
As an outsider, I fear that file.
I fear I may be thrown inside, or
probe so deep I’ll lift the lock
and loose its raging contents to
yours conscious mind.
You are scared of File 13 –
your demons in a box –
those things which haunt the
texts and mental pages of
your mind.
You avoid them, yet feed them,
and they wait for you, patiently,
till one day you might pull
that file and show those gasping
thoughts the light.
I dread that file’s affect on you,
I fear that it will shut you off –
It will not let you find your love,
express your love,
accept my love.
I fear the monsters in your brain,
the creatures of a surreal past,
will crush the petals of my rose –
my gift of love –
and leave it mashed into the dirt,
the dying scent within the air,
the wonder of its bloom undone,
the promise of our love left bare.
****
Trying to tantalize...
‘Does it give me pleasure to kiss your neck?’
‘Why yes it does,’ I answer you. ‘It gives me
pleasure to give you pleasure,
to silence you amidst your speech
and tickle shivers down your spine.
Perhaps one day you’ll let me kiss the small
curves of your lower back,
and gently trace my fingers down
your shoulders like a railway track.
I’ll glide my hands across your skin
and nibble soft upon your ear,
while purring words so moist and sweet
which only you will ever hear.’
****
Howard Davis
Poor Howard Davis,
just twenty-one,
Gave his young life
on the fields of the Somme,
From his blue, faded portrait
he asks just one thing,
To end our own lives
in the name of the king.
****
Concrete Worlds
I look through the glass wall of a world cast in
concrete.
I look through glass walls at smoke-filled skies
and flickering images of fires burning around
the globe.
Somewhere, in deep pots, are museum displays
from a younger planet: Green vestiges of a
healthier, cleaner time gone by.
I read the pages of other men who watched the
world – Poets, who sang their praise to that
which was...
And I, the cliché of modern, grey man,
singing nothing but clichés of lost innocence
and the decent into hell.
****
Ode to Writer’s Block
I have nothing at all to write about, really,
nothing to write on at all.
I just lie back trying to think now, really,
with nothing to think of at all.
My stories have no beginnings, no middles
or endings in sight,
And no characters form as I scratch with
my pen, or doodle with all of my might.
Why can’t I write epic poetry,
like Homer or Milton once wrote?
And am I to lie till the day that I die,
never able to scribble a note?
****
Two Feet
In memory of a young boy run down on
Bertha Avenue, Johannesburg, 1994.
Just two feet sticking out from below
a grubby blanket.
Just two feet, naked to the world,
a body flung out of its shoes by a
passing car.
The scurry of gesticulating police
officers, slowing traffic; helpless
paramedics administering syringe
needles to keep the spark from
extinguishing inside a shattered
body...white from impact...wet
with fear.
All those passing by indignantly
stop and stare, or pass a hasty
glance over their shoulder as they
hurtle towards a more discernable
destination, leaving behind-
two feet,
that wave goodbye
to a heartless world
****
Mr. and Mrs. Nostradamus
‘Could be you’re wrong,’ she said.
‘Could be? Could be I am,’ I said,
‘but so many times I have been right –
those people are all dead.’
‘They should have listened then,’ said
she.
‘They should have, yes,’ said I,
‘but that’s people for you, once again,’
I said and breathed a sigh.
‘Don’t fret so, Nostradamus, dear,’ said
she in tones so biting,
‘It’s not your fault the silly fools can’t
read your bloody writing.’
****
Lost
I got lost somehow along the road
and couldn’t find my way about,
The more I searched the more I strayed
and no one heard my cries for help;
No sign posts lined this rocky path,
No faceless strangers could I ask
to point the way, or show me how
to end what seemed my senseless task.
I stumble through infinity,
each step I take I try –
Not think that I might trudge this path
until the day I die.
****
Tin cup – Tin heart
I think there was a hint of compassion in
her eyes as she crossed the street in
avoidance of the bundle of fleshy rags
with the blanket and tin cup.
Years of conditioning and a fear of disease
almost gave way to the toss of a coin or a
timid approach, but at the last second, her
courage slipped, and crossing the street
seemed easier somehow, less wrought
with anxiety and the fear of improbable
reproach.
Across the street a hawker grinned,
slightly hopeful at the approach of the
distracted woman, the lanes of traffic
putting a world between her and the
beggar. Making eye contact, her hand
fumbled for her purse, testing its security,
but the surge of the pedestrians tilted her
intentions, and she was swept off towards
Woolworths, before fetching her children
from school.
****
Mists
Her face still haunts me through
the mists of memory;
A brief glance;
A chance meeting,
And an image which snags
at my mind like ivy.
How is it that people’s faces,
their simple presence can have
such an effect upon one?
A mask without a past,
an unknown personality –
A work of art – the human being.
****
A fear of ghosts and distance
We are both so scared of pain,
of hurt and disappointment;
We carry with us rooms of ghosts -
the memories of happenings we wish to bury
deep inside.
We speak in codes, dancing around the edges of
conversation –
a little symbolism here,
a little poetry,
and the constant emotional and intellectual probing.
I thought I’d killed my past,
I thought I’d plucked it from my brain,
and sliced it from my night-sweat dreams.
But my past was stronger now it seems,
those ghosts so strong and I so vulnerable
that now I dread have lost my chance,
have lost that opportunity – have lost you.
Will we always hide behind these mask of words,
or will we liberate ourselves with honesty,
a show of love – a kiss?
I fear that I will frighten you,
and stir your own beleaguered ghosts.
I fear to tend the status quo is better than to let you go,
Thus hold that thought, though far away,
I too reside inside your heart,
And pray, that in this world, this horrid world,
I’ve finally found someone to love,
someone with whom I wish to stay.
****
Ode to the solutions of a math problem
at two O’clock in the morning.
For Heidi
An integral equation keeps
my mind awake at night,
And robs me of my rest
till I can get its answer right.
Geometric problems plague
my thoughts and weary brain,
As algebraic fractions make me
break beneath the strain.
I’m vexed by long-division sums
and algorithms too,
Kept up by calculations like
the square of twenty-two.
At last I finally gain relief
and drift to sleep again,
When the bloody answer hits me
in my bed at two a.m.
****
I Wonder
I left the seeds of someone’s death
behind me in an open field,
A dozen, silent limpet-mines
by freshly planted grass concealed.
I waited for that unknown foe
to leave their unknown home and base,
To march upon this open field
and met the Reaper face to face;
And somewhere in an unknown land,
an unknown boy about my age,
Packed plenty socks and underwear
to cloth him on that violent stage;
He waved to all he loved goodbye
and smiling then turned to depart,
Not knowing on which foreign field
his fragile life would blow apart.
I never met my deadly foe,
I never saw his frightened eyes,
I never had the chance to see
that one I’d so learnt to despise:
I wonder if he thought of me
while blundering to meet his fate,
I wonder if he too was filled
with someone else’s senseless hate.
Caged
For Ryan
They’ve clipped all your wings my friend,
So you couldn’t fly;
Strapped you to that cage there
And thought you would die.
But you never obliged them,
You never gave in,
Your mind could still wonder,
Your soul could still sing.
Confined to that wheelchair,
A sardine in a can,
But no other person –
So walked like a Man.
****
Red dust
This red dust,
a fixed rectangle in the ground.
This red dust,
Six feet of mud that hides the
coffin of a man – a friend –
about my age – with whom I cannot
walk, talk, or pass the lonely
years that remain for me:-
The bandaid of life – a community
of misery – sharing and consoling
the one mirror image of ourselves –
the one who knows and gives a damn
that we exist.
God, if you exist, then you have
smashed my silver-glass, and
left me standing helpless
and
alone,
to face the days of solitary
contemplation, unshared ides,
and my own future plot of red dust.
****
On Asking for Directions
I’d have asked, my friend, what I should have done?
What decision I should make?
In the past I would have turned to you for guidance
and advice,
but now,
it seems that I am on my own, and perhaps with
such decisions always was.
I know what sentimental memories can do. It
augments abilities, heightens fondness, and invests
in lost friends virtues that weren’t entirely theirs,
but were raised in the intensity of our interaction –
the hard things forgotten, for in truth they dwindle
in importance, and go where they should.
I remember that Frost poem when I imagine your
answer – the one you liked so much –
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Should I tread upon that unknown path, Ryan?
Should I take the road less travelled by?
Frost never spoke of the fear I feel, the
devastating doubt and the agonising possibility
of making wrong choices.
In the end, I will travel by faith – blindly.
I will do my best, and never know where the
other road might well have led –
a more satisfied stomach,
but a dying soul,
and a heart that knows it should have tried
the road not taken.
****
Frayed nerves
My nerves are frayed, you know?
And I just can’t cope anymore,
I just can’t cope anymore!
The other night a drugged-out
carjacker pulled me out of my
van, and I lived my death,
I lived my death,
as I’d done, so many times before.
But my nerves are frayed now
and I can’t live my death anymore.
Somewhere,
I have to live my life.
****
The thought of her
For chances not taken and unknown possibilities
Maybe there was something in the thought of
her that made me think I could feel her, that
made me think I knew she was thinking of me.
Somehow it did not matter that we did not see
each other, never talked to one another,
because to me it was her being in the world
that counted, a reassurance that there was
always a chance that she would be there when
I needed her, or when she needed me; The
idea that things work themselves out in the
end and that God brings together whose who
should be. Somehow I thought all this, yet,
somehow I might have been wrong, about her,
or about God.
Why do we condemn ourselves to life? To
live it the way we do – through a sense of
imaginary obligation or dependence? Why
do we create our own hells and live with the
ghosts of dead memories for years to come?
Why could I never forget her?
And why do I love her so much?
****
Here and Now/Now and Then
I came to this Egyptian land,
this ancient land, and saw its
wanders - its temples, its statues
and high pointed buildings
that prodded the sky.
All this I saw, but in the streets,
in the alleyways,
I saw more.
I saw the people’s past in its eyes,
I was the people’s present in the way
it lived and breathed.
Beneath the tracks and footprints in
the sand left by tourists who wondered
across the picture post cards in the
desert, was another Egypt-
another India-
another world.
Behind the well-built walls – the
proof of pasts that shook the world –
was a hunger in the streets, a cramp
in the belly of the people.
Here and now were the legacies of
fallen empires;
Here and now its children left to die.
Now and then the lens would cross
the plains of Africa, and now and then
the blind would see the children cry.
But now and then did not relieve the famine,
did not destroy the weapons,
did not condemn corruption,
did not propose the question:
Why?
****
An African Picture Postcard
Let us walk hand in hand
across the hills like others did in
greener climes in England way up North.
But this is Africa, where chocolate box
scenery can’t be found, and we stumble over
loose rocks, past thorn trees, black-jacks,
snakes and khaki bos, that make up the unseen
building blocks of Africa’s picture post-card.
Let us walk, you and I through this country.
Let us probe the old stone circles of native
tribes who, like us, still wonder under the
grey-blue storm clouds of Highveld skies.
Let us stare in wonder at the
valleys of a thousand hills,
and the fire-bright yellows,
and the wind, and at the
end of the day I will pick
the black-jacks from your
clothing, as you will do
for me, and I will read you
poetry from Africa,
about real people,
and a real country,
and you,
and me.
In Their Eyes
I’ve seen their eyes -
when you tell them what you want;
when you tell them what you do;
what you dream.
It’s callous, scornful, snobbish.
People tend to break each other down,
try to bend them to their idea of the
collective normalcy -
public acceptability -
and slowly people die,
inside,
where it counts,
where their eyes reveal the
disappointment and hate
that looks on other people,
and breaks them too.
****
Love and Space
I would like something clean, comfortable -
something nice.
I’m tired of the dis-ease of mismatched dates
and sexual tension.
I’m tired of feminists who dictate our equality
and then make me pay for dinner.
I’m tired of brats, or greenies for whom I do
not suffer enough –
I want, I want, I want...
something simple,
with no hang-ups,
no rules,
just me,
and her –
Let her keep what she is.
Let me, be me.
And let us be ourselves,
together.
****
The Fishermen’s Sacrifice
The sea spray danced above the grey-
white, churning violence of the waves
as the fisherman prepared something
bright and colourful, pretty, at the
end of a sharp line - a gift for the fish.
Yet as the object of his generosity was
accepted freely into the mouth of the
fish, the man revoked his offer, tugging
back and taking with it the life of the
fish.
And when the fisherman ripped the brassy
hook from its fighting mouth, slimy and
gasping for breath; he tossed the bate -
the gift - high onto the beach where the
waves could not claim payment of their
stolen prize.
So when the mother screamed upon a
sandy beach, swarming with startled
bathers, their bellies full of seafood, she
did not understand that it was a sacrifice
which was taken by the waves in retribution
for their scaly comrades stolen from their
homes in the murky depths.
****
Last words for a blind duckling
Nature blinded a baby duckling today.
It clawed out its eyes so that the blood
and vitreous humour streaked across its
downy face:-
The rest of its body – perfect.
Its tiny wings – perfect.
Its soft, webbed feet – exquisite,
but for two inky ribs where the eyes had
been.
The duckling lay there paralysed, unwilling
to move. It made no sound nor gave no fight
as I lifted in and watched its chest heave
with pain, or fear, or effort.
The needled the Vet gave it was, I think,
for mercy. There is no room in this world
for a blind duck.
There is no room for a perfect little body
with a ravaged face, or a little soul, which
though in youth, is unwilling or too tired
to move.
****
Love in Pretty Packages
For Roxanne
In a shop on the corner there’s a man
selling love on pretty paper – processed
cards with messages manufactured in
bulk with heart-shaped chocolates.
It saves time that way. We purchase
emotions along with our groceries and
barter one poet’s words for another, over
dinner with complimentary Champaign.
Romance is not dead. One can find it on
special at the local newsagent for five
dollars, including tax – cuddly teddy
bears with silky red hearts to tell us
that we’re sexy.
In a pre-packaged world we are lucky
that there are people behind typewriters
writing for Hallmark and other card
companies, telling four million people
in the same words, “I love you”.
How do we face the ones we love?
How do we cope with any reality which
is not on TV? How do we connect?
How do I touch you?
Perhaps that is why we need someone
else to say it for us; To give expression
to our emotional illiteracy.
As much as we have refined
communication, rising high above
the beasts to send messages across
the galaxies, or email England in a
matter of seconds, we still cannot
say the simple words: I love you.
****
A Message from the Damned
I am choked by the inability to express
myself in poetry- that perpetual feeling
that nothing’s right.
This is a message from the damned:
the ranks of souls who’ve seen the lie,
who know the truth about the mind’s
own hell, and the way Life triumphs
over those who live it.
This is a message from the damned:
who’re out of sync with chance and luck,
who’ve felt the stinging roll of dice,
who’ve seen the smiling face unmasked,
and know our race’s secret vice.
****
On Missing the Dead
Why is it that we so long to talk to the dead,
to kiss their lips,
to sense their touch,
or feel their presence in our bones?
We long for some communication –
some contact with the ones now gone.
We dream of their faces,
their voices and smiles;
We dream of their love
and their embrace;
We put words in their mouths in
conversations in our heads, and when
we dream, we dream of something
which is gone, and hang our hopes
on empty space.
****
When all was done
At once the land had slid away,
The little I was sure of – gone,
My so-called strength and peace of mind
Had come to naught when all was done.
****
So tired
My eyes both burn, the mind is dead,
the only inspiration’s – bed.
I cannot write, the ink will keep,
so close my eyes and go to sleep.
****
To be on not to be?
There are no poems for times like this,
just slide the blade and hope for bliss,
and if by this the Church me curse,
then read them Hamlet’s famous verse.
****
I felt the days
I felt the days go by like eternities.
Not that they took long in the living,
or that they dragged behind, but that
our time of departure seemed eons
gone.
I remember thinking of her, trying to
comfort her – failing in both. Perhaps
the conflict we know in one life is
ended in the termination of another?
I do not regret those moments, centuries
ago. They seem like distant dreams of
innocence, or purity, a lack of judgment.
One day we will see them for what they
were – an Eden prior to the fall of man.
Perhaps, tomorrow, or the years ahead,
I might catch your reflection in a shifting
glass of a shop window, or an old man’s
mirror, and you will turn to me and smile,
and dream of that which could have been,
but never was.
****
When I least expect it
There’s a man with a machine gun hiding in the
corners of my mind. Well, they’re not really
corners - The mind has no angles you see, just
curves which cast long shadows that blend with
his camouflage gear.
He hates men, and women, especially women,
but men too. He sees people through gun-sights,
and he makes my trigger finger itch, my muscles
twitch, and he comes out when I least expect it.
He has been there for a long time, my man with
the machine gun, though he sometimes looked
a little different – A long time ago he might have
had a spear or a battle-axe, but he has always been
there, and he comes out when I least expect it.
****
No-daddy-else
Many dads are heroes –
they catch crooks or put out fire,
but none of them have what I have,
‘cause no-daddy-else has Gaia.
Many dads are skilful –
unblock pipes or string up wire,
but none of them have what I have,
‘cause no-daddy-else has Gaia.
Many dads are millionaires –
with money to retire,
but none of them have what I have,
‘cause no-daddy-else has Gaia.
If I could choose to swap my place
with any dad I desire,
I’d say no thankyou, all the same,
‘cause no-daddy-else has Gaia.
(With Inspirational Credit to
Ogden and Frances Nash)
72