Roy Blumenthal
Pursuit: an ordered cycle of three poems
Preoccupied
You danced
while your hands
stayed still.
Body Fluids
When you said
"I love you"
you spat
on my face.
After the Beep
The only messages
I'm sending you
are those
on my answering machine.
Roy Blumenthal
Declarations: a semi-ordered cycle of
three poems
Spoke
Someone spoke.
Someone listened.
A voice broke.
Ears glistened.
Bar Belle
That man
with some
lady's smile
smeared down
his neck.
Spread
You taught me
about longing
when you sat
like that.
Roy Blumenthal
"SLOW POETIC..."
Slow poetic as the long ride with no respite
no respite from enhanced lubrication
advertisements calling for flinging wheels
on the long ride leaving me with oily
me with oily me in my hands and greasy
towel dry and apply when damp
and her lips fit me and her hunger
looks for mine to feed with no respite
this is certain there is hardness in her pout
with no respite and it is not her teeth
it is not her teeth it is not her teeth
it is her lips which bite me.
Blommerok
deur Roy Blumenthal
Ek wil die blomme
een vir een
van jou rok
afpluk.
Roy Blumenthal
Shout
Shut out. Shut me out. Shout me out. My footsteps. Dull
thumpetings in
my burning ears. You've shouted me out. Your front door. Brass
knob
bitter in my palm. Why does it hurt? Twisting it too hard. Out.
Winter
night. My jersey on your floor. My keys? Pocket. In my hand.
Pressing my
thumb into the serration of my ignition key. The streetlamp above
my car
is off. My breath tastes like your mouth. Mist. From my mouth. My
breath
tastes like woollen silence. My jersey is lying near your couch,
near my
book, the one I was reading before you shouted out at me. I am on
your
pavement shivering under the ice of your burnt out lamppost. The
night
smells of eucalyptus. My breathing is clogged on your cigarette
tongue.
My ears are not burning now. There is nothing out here to hear.
Your
doorknocker. I turn. My car door. Key. Click. Start. I will drive
away
without dialling the heater on. I will shiver in the silence of
your
shout.
Christina Coates
The Island
Banished at creation
- the island
hand from the ocean
- sand
crayfish into crevices
periwinkle, limpet
black
oystercatcher
- nests.
Across the bay
- the Mountain.
Autshumatu
- beachwalker
Makana
- prophet
Who knows the lepers?
Palm held high
- the island.
Seagulls scream
Lizards in limestone quarry
Saturn burns
In
moonlight
- the island.
Thistle blooms on concrete drizzle
Messages rolled into cigars
Lighthouse searches
Let this be the one -
the one from
the island.
Christina Coates
Border Crossings
I loose something of who I am
in patrol ports, passports
tremble at strangeness
at horizons unfamiliar
will I be welcome in this place
where I speak no language?
Sometimes I am undone getting into bed
the crossing where love is made
and broken
these hostile features have held me so long
the yellow stains on the mattress
urine, semen
of blood, a cup of tea
This bed where chidren are conceived
suckled, fondled
where they play and hide
I gather my shell, a tortoise
where else to lay my head
each day a curved ball
I search Orion's belt and Cirrus
loyal at his feet
a moment to flower then
a dry wind
the destination is the journey
how else can I know the way?
Christina Coates
A Woman at Fifty
I see you
a full moon rising
in the red desert
I see you in owl flight
own flight
I see a great moon rising
over the sand
I hear a drum
beating your rhythm
a crone voice in the dark
singing
This is life after earthlife
homelife, children
Your altar
I see the ruby wine, the bread
Have you ever listened
beneath the voices?
Can you see the white candle
breaking open the black cave?
I see a light-limbed dancer
hands throwing fire ash into the night
It is time to make love to a place within
small pleasures with no price.
I see an even-handed drummer
stepping through the fire in beat to your night poem
bringing your hidden self to the dance
so you fly in your own body
through an underground river
the blood courses
held once only in love-fevered veins
now in night flight, star flight
I see a woman in her own time
crone and owl
in her own fantastic history
I see you
And when you are
far away
when I look for you
I will find you - feet in Kalahari sand
and an audience of hands applauding
May 1999
Mike Cope on Ken's Bats
Ken’s bats came from hell
through the poetryWeb
in a swarm, maybe ten or eleven,
too dense and moving too fast
to be counted. They tumbled their
foul leathery opinions flappingly
over how many screens. We watched
in awe. They had the large presence
of a natural phenomenon.
Stealthing out of the pit of the night
they brought ice comfort. They were not nice
or kind or cuddly in the mind. They caused a brief flurry
among the screen-compelled moths.
Then they were gone.
Their electrons scattered,
their high sonar whinings about evil
(in any case inaudible through the mundane screen)
become a magnetic trace
forgotten.bat
no longer in the
‘what’s new’
section
Mike Cope
Soutpiel
Colossus of Rhodes,
ocean-spanning stride,
garguantuan wick
dipped in the briny?
Someone said: “Folk etymology...
think rather of Lot’s wife,
‘n soutpilaar,
waiting for rain to
melt you into
land-choking
salination.”
Mike Cope
The Rands
They’re not as crisp as they once were. They’ve been
in pockets, wallets, fingers, bag and purse,
on counters and in bras. They’ve lain between
others of their kin. They’ve been in worse
places than you’ve been. They have done things
you’ve never dreamed. Corpuscles, pulsing through
the social body, empty value clings
to them like oxygen. They are not true
or kind or bold or sad - they only own
another’s meaning, an indefinite state
of attribution, much deferred. Taken alone
they have no worth except to designate
desire. These are yours, so note how they compel
allegiance, fear and duty. Guard them well
Mike Cope
The dark suit
A boring suit of aging wool
(like you)
The kind of suit an aging fool
would wear (like you)
A dark wool suit with sleazy knees
(like you)
A little stained, with thinning sleeves
and cuffs (like you.)
A garment once possessed of class
(like you)
Now only fit to coat an arse
like you.
Mike Cope
Long Street
The street is hard beneath your feet,
with gravel, tar and grey concrete.
The cars go up and down all day
in a loud and busy way.
The people on the street look down,
their faces weave a worried frown,
anxious look, distracted stare,
as if you had not been there.
The people on the street look down,
the street is hard beneath their feet:
their faces blur and melt and drown.
The cars go up and down the street.
And if you had not been there
the fear would still exist all day:
in its noisy swarming way
the full street would be bleak and bare.
Mike Cope
Jerry Adams, Psychologist
He’s a charismatic guy. His office sprawls about without
being precisely untidy. Full of stuff, of art from far places
and shelves piled high with books and rugs and the
two big chairs facing each other
where the action takes place
face to face with this big man with a beard.
Looks like Fidel Castro. Talks like a boykie from Sea Point.
And he listens all day to people’s troubles with his sad
eyes
and he knows he must not drown in this wave of troubles
and he remembers to laugh even among all the troubles
and at night he goes home and walks on the beachfront
with his lover and his woeful eyes and when the stars
prick through the dark blue evening he offers his troubles
to the wind and the gulls and the booming waves
and goes home and eats and talks and makes love and sleeps
and wakes up and comes back here to go fishing
in his dark lake of troubles.
Mike Cope
The dentist’s waiting-room
(or, Why Western Humans Hate Nature)
The National Geographics look thumbed.
They go back five years or more, they lie in heaps
with furry corners. There is a chart which shows
correct brushing techniques, plaque, cavities and bleeding gums.
The woman at the desk wears a nurse’s uniform.
She may be one—a dental nurse. She makes no eye-contact.
That sound could be the whine of a drill, the vacuum’s
slurp.
A radio plays but it’s turned down low, the music light.
Nobody here is thinking of the future joys of healing
or the robust pleasures of proper dental care.
Over the soothing wall colours and the plants in the corner
The room is filled with the anticipation of certain pain.
The woman with the little girl sighs and flicks her fringe.
The thin young man probes with his tongue, making a bulge
that runs around on his cheek. He rolls eyes, jiggles feet.
The article you read is about whales or elk, or Butte,
Montana....
Mike Cope
SurgEquip Medical Suppliers
Room deodorant. Ether. Cleaning fluid.
There are brochures with high-gloss pictures
of prostheses in tasteful pastel colours.
No smoking. The woman wears a uniform
like a nurse. She smiles. She’s not a nurse.
Three chairs to sit on. A coffee-table with
some magazines, a glass case with crutches
in assorted models and sizes. Nebulizers
and polished steel bedpans share a shelf.
Gas bottles stand in a group near the trolleys.
Hardware of healing, the steel and glass,
the plastic, the hoses and forceps, the sterile
bandages, the silicone breasts: a hard high
permeable wall against old age, disease and death.
Mike Cope
The broom closet
It smells of wax polish
and old rags. Wooden
handles rattle together
as your hand reaches in.
Mike Cope
The Stairway
The railing is a long low gong—
an angled spiral reaching vertically away
to perspective’s hypothetical middle.
The cement treads have trowelled-in ribs.
They’re painted black. There is no window
but forty-watt bulbs in cream glass orbs
on each floor cast a yellow glow. Steps echo.
Mike Cope
Crossing the Desert
from Marco Polo — for Beverley
The desert is said to be so big
that it takes a
year to travel its length;
even at the
narrowest point
the crossing lasts a lunar month.
The desert is only
mountains and sand,
valleys and sand
and there's nothing, nothing to eat.
But if you travel a day and a night
in winter,
there is drinking water —
too little water to quench
the thirst of a big company,
but enough
for a hundred or so men
and their retinue of animals.
And so, all the way
through the desert
you must travel
a day and a night
till you find water.
I can tell you that
in three or four places,
the water is bitter and brack;
but at the other watering-holes,
twenty-eight in all,
the water's sweet;
though there are
no beasts or birds
because there's nothing to eat.
But I assure you
that one thing is found there,
a very strange thing,
and this is the truth of it:
When you ride
through the night
of this desert
and you loiter
or doze in the heat
and fall behind
your company
and, coming to,
hurry to catch them
then you hear
spirits talking,
in the voices
of your companions.
Sometimes they seem to call your name,
you leave the path after them,
and and don't come back to it.
Or you may hear the clatter
of a cavalcade of riders
luring you from the road;
and follow them,
and when day breaks
find you are
the victim of illusion.
There are some who,
travelling in this desert,
have seen a band of men approaching
and fled, suspecting robbers,
and gone helplessly astray.
Even by daylight they hear these spirit voices,
or the strains of many instruments,
especially drums
and the clash of arms.
And this is why
travellers tend to stay
very close to one another,
and before they go to sleep
they put up signs which point
in the direction they're heading,
and they fasten little bells
round the necks of all their beasts
so that by listening for the sound
they can keep them from straying.
Well, that's how they cross the desert.
All that discomfort!
And now, let's take our leave of it
and talk of what's on the other side.
Phillippa de Villiers
1. die trou pak
o paterfamilias
jy dra die jas
en jou vrou dra die broek
druk vas jou das
gryp die lem vas
hoop die hemp pas
en spring
aanhou om te strewe
aanhou om te bewe
aan ons gee jy lewe
o, beeld van 'n heer
2. self-discovery
Little son of morning
with your face that lost its label
in the night.
Peering in the mirror, you hope to
recognize yourself.
Identity sealed
With bright blood
The razor-sliver of pain
Yes, that's me
With the shred of toilet paper
Stuck to my chin.
3. letting go
a blue house in the jungle
swilled around in the indigo drink
of night.
We roll like cocktail olives
scarcely bumping
stuffed with pepper
4. krismis 97
Niemand kan dit verdra nie om deur
die Huisgenoot bestempel te
wees.
Ons cruise die shopping malls,
'n dun silwer strepie spoeg
hang van ons opene monde
ons hopende wonde
a stitch in time could save nine
lives
nine less lives to live if only i
can be happy in this one
visse in 'n stille dans
turgid met begeerte
born with a silver spoon
and nothing, oh nothing to eat.
5. stuck in the mud
luister na die duister fluister
van die huis waar sewe siele slaap
sonder slaapsakke
omgekrul in droom-reise,
elkeen op sy pad, sypaadjie
waarop andere verskyn
handelaars van vrugte,
horlosie-smouse, diewe, hond-moordenaars,
middel-mannetjies laat die wiele
draai
jy wil vorentoe
maar die wiele draai
sand spoeg na agter
jy staan op die selle ou plek
onder die warmwit son
6. honey moon
I lean over backwards and catch
the sun in my mouth
An orange ant investigates the
sugar levels of the house
Come love, it's quiet.
Let's allow the morning to rise up
in us like sap
7. if I ever buy a cluster home, please
shoot me
somer op die plaas.
fat green metallic flies hover on
the thick air
looking for shit.
pikfyn geelslang le onder die gras
Doodstil dorp in the distance
My god how can anything be so
frozen in this heat?
Chicken and egg factory
Bacon plantation.
Metal miaaaaaaaaaouw of the car
passing by
moving through
a billboard up against the bright
blue sky tells you to
take up the challenge to become a
Schachat Cullum battery chicken
ag
call me a coward, but I've always
been more of a free-range chick
clinton v du
plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme
the
gospel according to
fidel castro
i rule,therefore i am
divine brown
i suck,therefore i am
mother
theresa
i suffer,therefore i am
jimmy
swaggart
i fuck (and weep),therefore i am
michael
jackson
i molest,therefore i am
patience
ndlovu
i squat,therefore i am
bill clinton
i did not inhale,therefore i am
charles
manson
i kill,therefore i am
clinton v du
plessis
(take 1)
i write,therefore i am
clinton v du
plessis
(take 2)
i consume,therefore i am
clinton v du
plessis
(take 3)
i shit,therefore i am.
clinton v du
plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme
art or ism ?
stop your fussin',
monkey, roll with it, cynical heart
heart of mine, don' t blame it on that girl,
hold onto love, i don't wanna live without your love,
i don't wanna go on with you like that,
breakfast in bed,
paradise, diamond sun, perfect world,
waiting for the world to turn,
rush hour, fast car, joy,
this is me, all fired up,
under the milky way, chocolate girl,
one good woman, forever young,
everyday is like sunday, born again,
the king of rock & roll, get to you,
the blood that moves the body,
chains of love, simply irresistible,
surprise surprise, got to be certain, hold in my heart,
(all the way to china)
glory! glory!
rooty toot toot, wap-bam-boogie
never tear us apart, better be home soon
teddy bear
i owe you nothing.
*Top 40
songs,Radio 5:16/10/1988
clinton v du plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme
in the
house
(hein willemse:die stormtroepe is in die strate)
the americans are in the streets
the poets are addicted rappers
the pastors are panic-stricken prophets
the young boys wear earrings
the young girls carry the pregnant burden of life
the hard livings are in the streets
the women earn extra-marital dollars in sea point & at the
waterfront
the old women anxiously await their pensions
the men queue jobless against padlocked gates
the old men are unclaimed baggage on stations with rusted
rails
the clever kids govern the streets
they bmw boys Xstatic from rave to rave
the streets are deserted
the west coast boys govern the streets
the writers are famous in foreign countries
the preachers are ghetto-blastered into silent submission
by tupac shakur & puff daddy
the virgins carry mandrax in their barren barrels
the corpses mushroom red like roses under white sheets
on the pavements
the 28's are in the streets
the boys wear caterpillars
the clever kids bump & grind more clever kids out onto the
streets
the girls wear designer jeans
the gangs are liberated
there are no children in the streets
clinton
v du plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme
brief
encounter
she studied
psychology through unisa,
she showed me the books
she carried in her ruck-sack,
sheila, swazi
small tits, she
aroused burly balding white men
with dripping hot candle wax,
whipped them into hardened submission,
i took her
in front of the window
the curtains open,
overlooking the pool
and the parking lot, security guards,
punters boarding casino busses,
hoping to leave their lives of losing behind,
durban was humid,
she left
to spend the night
with her books
getting up the nerve to face another regiment of suits,
i was left alone wondering
whether she was perhaps more
than just a whore.
clinton v du plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme
interim
report
this country has
too many poor people with nothing who couldn't give a fuck
too many unfit boisterous pregnant students try to study at
too few representative universities with
too many conservative lecturers
too high is the tuition fees &
too short the vacations
this country has
too many informal settlements
too many directors-general & deputy directors-general
too many people inhabit the prisons
too many luxury german cars are financed by mandrax, there are
too many locusts &
too few dolphins
too few beaches & warm seas with foaming waves
nothing distracts the criminal & serial killer
blood flows like rain against the windows
there are no miracles happening in the townships
there are
too many hollow holistic approaches
too many magazines filled with spread beavers & drooping tits
too many radio stations
with phone in programmes & heroes
like reformed far-right activists & sex therapists
too many intolerant democrats & strippers
too many attractive jolly escorts high on coke
too many imported streched sedans with bulletproof windows
too many cellular sluts &
too many traditional leaders
with their induna & impi
too few jobs &
too many consultants &
too much money is worth
too little
there are
too few warm swimming pool weeks
the wind dusts relentlessly
there is
no purposeful interchange of words & ideas
no enlightened beacons against narrowmindedness
too few meaningful debates
too far removed are promises from delivery
and between truth & accusations
too many shit-stained mirrors
there is
too much transparency
too little accountability:
christ ! i passionately hate this country...
clinton v du plessis
dispatches
(21/02/1999:19h00 to
20h00)
on 3
two birds mating
the male with
fluttering wings defying the law of gravity.
on 3
a 3rd year b.comm student
had a gun held against
his head
had his brain blown to
pieces
his parents
devout christians
found comfort
between the covers of
the book,
and naively forgive.
on 2
male designers who
talk bitchy
with their hands
& eyes
journey gay & effeminate into african couture.
on 1
i, like jeremy, try to
come to terms with the many tongues of this land
on the in house adult
channel
of the holiday inn
garden court
i escape the drivel of dali tambo & steve hofmeyr
and watch amazed from the comfort of my bed
as the actress eyed
the camera and gave bobbitt head.
clinton v du plessis
graffito
black
used to be
a state
of elevated consciousness.
now
it's just another color like
white
used to be.
i close
my fingers,
a thight feverish fist
& stroke the riotous rising member
calmy into obedience.
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