i’ll wash and stack the dishes
and peg and fold the washing
like you taught me, mama
like your mother taught you
but I will not learn to stir a pinch of bitterness
into my morning cup
or to fold away joy at the back of a drawer
to only be displayed
on special occasions
As a little girl I had a huge Art Deco-style poster above my bed. Printed on thick brown paper, it depicted a square-jawed golden prince, determinedly invincible atop his fierce and loyal silver steed, one manly arm tenderly supporting a frail copper-green maiden seated side-saddle in front of him with her eyes demurely cast down. I would look at this image until I fell asleep, and to my impressionable young mind this was the romantic ideal personified.
I read voraciously from the time I got the hang of stringing letters, then words, then sentences together. In a book of fairy tales – the title alas long forgotten – I read a story about a magic mirror that would reveal the face of The One you were destined to love for all time, and another impossible ideal was added to my perception of romance.
Then came early teenagehood, and I turned to music to further my understanding of the ways of the world in general, and romance in particular. From my parents’ stock of tapes I unearthed an album by Françoise Hardy and was immediately smitten. When I grew up I would be just like her. I, too, would have long, straight, windswept hair with a too-long fringe that fell into my heavily-lashed eyes with their languid lids, while I’d sing with a pretty pale-pink pout: ‘Eef we are awnly fwiends, why do you keess me…awl night lonk?’
I would drive through the Sixties’ streets of Paris on a red Vespa to meet my lover at a sidewalk cafè with striped awnings and wrought-iron tables and chairs. Perhaps there would even be window boxes spilling over with bright geraniums, and supercilious fat French pigeons picking jadedly at baguette crusts and camembert rinds. Ah, yes, it was a detailed fantasy, and I spent many happy hours perfecting it, but the face of my fabulous lover was always indistinct, shrouded in shadow.
These fond musings were followed by a couple of longstanding and serious relationships in my late teens and early twenties, interspersed with some briefer and more frivolous encounters, during each of which I adopted a new persona. In my late twenties, craving certainty, I consulted a psychic who told me that I had found a soul mate, but must seek my ‘twin flame’ – he who burns as bright as I. Apparently I had found this magical person once before in a lifetime as a Native American, and had lived my happiest life thus far. Heedlessly I forged ahead with a marriage that produced two beautiful sons and caused much heartache and despair on the winding, rocky, and inevitable road to divorce.
For a while I assumed the role of cynical romantic, that most sad and doomed of creatures, affecting a black wardrobe, a sad-eyed, self-deprecating smile, and a propensity for alcohol.
For the first time in my life since the age of seventeen I was officially single. Of course there were tears, but there was laughter too. I moved to a new town, reconnected with old friends, caught up with family, branched into a new career, took up running, read many books, and found the time and courage to put pen to paper.
Recently I read a novel* based on the theories of quantum mechanics. In laymen’s terms, as far as I was able to comprehend it, quantum theory posits infinite possibilities – the so-called wave function. Somewhat like a PlayStation game, as soon as one option or possible outcome is chosen, the wave function collapses, rendering the other possibilities null and void. In the novel an energy converter is developed, creating such a strong energy field from negative matter that the wave function does not collapse, allowing for multiple universes and lives – past, present and future – to co-exist simultaneously.
This concept was immediately appealing and curiously reassuring to me: perhaps there does exist a parallel universe in which I am paddling a canoe fashioned out of green branches and doe skin across a glass-clear lake with the autumn colours of maple trees and the blues of snow-peaked mountains reflected in it; my papoose strapped securely to my breast and my twin flame close behind me as we row in unison to our womb-like teepee where we are as one, as a world.
* Mobius Dick by Andrew Crumey
… who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness.
If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.
kahlil gibran - the prophet
you lie like a rug,
erstwhile sweet lover mine
your lies were so white
they blinded me
your honeyed words so smooth
they rolled off your tongue with ease
and caught in my throat
your hold was so strong and so sure
it ensnared me
then I got wise, baby
but how it hurt
when I opened my eyes
some like to travel light –
they favour speed and ease of movement
they may think you ponderous and slow,
but wherever you go
you’re home
i’m gon spit an polish dis scuffed lil ole heart a mine
yessiree till it shine
glue my soul back on an clamp it tight
till it fit right
like dem boots were made fo walkin
dis heart be made fo lovin
an dat’s just what it gon do
cos one a dese days
dis heart gon be
right over you
lately memories of a time dated ‘us’
keep breaking through the surface unbidden
like a corpse that won’t stay hidden
forcing me to contemplate the sodden, distorted remains
I’m taking no chances this time:
in the dead of night, armed with strong twine
I’ll roll smooth, heavy boulders to the water’s edge,
then weigh it down;
watch it sink into the depths,
leaving only a string of slowly dispersing bubbles
and wait
til it settles into its silty bed among plants waving embracingly
now the fish may feed on dreams and reminiscences and regrets
until it is stripped to the bone
and eventually fossilizes
to flummox forensic archaeologists
in a time dated ‘future’
you came round to say goodbye
on a day perfect for leave-taking:
heavy grey skies drizzled dolefully,
even though it was the beginning of spring
we sat in a small café
and I watched the trees crying outside
the kitchen was out of milk,
so I took my whisky black with a shot of coffee
you brought me some keepsakes:
a chopping board you’d made,
and a duffel coat to keep me warm,
and all your CDs, for safekeeping
(and an excuse to return some day)
we held hands across the table;
your hand was rough and warm and familiar
your mouth moved, but all I heard was the background music:
david gray singing ‘say hello, wave goodbye’
it was ironic, clichéd; another time I might have laughed
but your eyes were wet
and I brushed something from my cheek
when the weight on my chest became too great,
I said I had to get back to work
we walked in the rain;
you carried the bag heavy with keepsakes
that you hoped you could make amends with
and knew you couldn’t
my hand slipped into your jacket pocket
I said I’m not angry
you said you’d come for me one day
and take me far away
but you’d said that before
and we both knew it
‘Gee my daar ’n Riekie Louw, meisiekind,
en moenie skaam wees nie – lig maar die elmboog.
O, jy ken hom?
Ja, wat’s die fancy ‘Richelieu’ kak –
ek ken die ou mos al lank,
ek roep hom sommer Riekie.
Nee, watse ge-meneer is dit die –
sê maar Buks; almal ken vir Buks, vra maar.
Sit maar dam by – ek weet visse naai in die water,
Maar ek’t mos die Coke gelos –
check die pens.
Dokter sê ek het hoë cholesterol;
moet minder rooivleis eet, meer hoender.
Maar dis mos fokken groente, man.
Ek tune hom: Dok, lyk ek vir jou soos ’n fokken vegetariër?
Was nou die dag daar in Wellington –
ek verkoop mos ploegskare –
nou as ’n man daar dors raak beter jy Wellington brandy order,
maar hulle roep hom ‘Dorp’ –
Dorp en Dam of Dorp en Coke.
Jis maar jy’t darem flippen oulike boudjies –
Dink jy sy’s ’n gillertjie, Piet?
Nee, check daai gesiggie –
Sy’s stil soos ’n bedlampie;
sien alles en sê niks.
Gooi maar nog ’n rondte daar, niggie
en kry vir jou ook iets –
’n lekker ou Springbokkie of so –
julle girls like mos soetgoed.
Ja, die lewe is maar kak –
die vrou het mos gesê ek moet kies tussen haar en die drank.
Dit het my bietjie laat dink,
toe sê ek vir haar: Fok, baby, ek gaan jou mis.
Nou kruip sy weer gat by my –
soek seker geld –
so nou’s my fokken egskeiding ook op die rotse.
Die jissis weet, ek bid deesdae onder ’n skuilnaam.
Gooi maar weer, nooi –
gooi maar ’n rondte vir die bar.
Ja, daai twee moffies in die hoek ook –
ek’s mos ’n generous ou.’
step into my boudoir, hot stuff
what was your name again?
whatever
house rules:
don’t cup my cheek in your hand
like you’re tender
don’t breathe hot words into my ear
like you’re sincere
don’t close your eyes when you kiss me
like you’re drowning
don’t spoon up to me and hold me
like you’ll never let go
never ask me about the dreams
that wake me crying
just fuck me true, baby
fuck me hungry
fuck me pure
then kiss me and walk away
like you mean it
Translated literally, the succinctly descriptive Afrikaans term ‘derms ryg’ means ‘to pull out intestines’; figuratively it is taken to mean ‘baring one’s innards/gut’.
When I was a little girl, our family visited a peanut farm in the then West Transvaal during a school holiday. My brother and I were allowed on the back of the bakkie when the farmer and some farmworkers went out on a baboon hunt – naturally baboons were a major problem on a peanut farm.
A large male baboon was shot in the abdomen; he threw his head back, baring his teeth, and made sounds like I’d never heard before or since.
He tore open the bullet hole with humanoid digits and started pulling out his intestines, trying to get to the source of pain.
His innards and organs lay on the red soil before him in a glistening heap, steaming in the early-morning air. He didn’t stop pulling and he didn’t stop howling until one of those fuckers with a gun finally managed to aim true and put a merciful bullet into his head.
It seems that ‘confessional art/expression’ is the mode du jour, and communication technology makes it possible for anyone to ‘bare their all’ to whoever is willing to engage with it. Lamentable then that so many are pulling out their innards only to reveal that they never had a bullet in the gut. The ‘work’ is frequently little more than undisciplined and self-indulgent emotional projectile vomiting without style, substance, or, indeed, sense.
one gin too many
one pun too funny
their words are arrows
that strike to the marrow
his fist in her face
explodes womb-red behind her eyes
punch-drunk they pace
a grotesque tango of accusations and lies
her throat between his hands
he squeezes until all grows faint and dark
breathe.. breathe in.. breathing quicksand
the tiles so cold, the overhead light stark
somewhere someone’s banging on the door
she hoists herself up from the floor
his badge glints in the moonlight
thank you, inspector, everything’s alright
the next morning her smile is in place
she wears too much concealer on her face
her sons are laughing and rolling on the lawn
Saartjie is clattering dishes in the sink,
her headscarf bright as the dawn
tell me, Saartjie, as one who prays, do you think
that God’s grace truly goes on and on?
i
uit ’n wrak van verwronge yster
(merkwaardig sonder letsels)
het hulle jou lyk gehaal
jy het geslaap daai aand
in ’n laai van koue staal
jy slaap nou vir altyd
goeienag
’n duisend maal
ii
dit was donkermaan
so jy moes weet wat jy doen,
wat jy wou doen
jy was so oud soos jesus aan die kruis
die witstinkhoutboom was jonk,
maar die mik was sterk genoeg
onder andere ’n matroos
het jy die tou pragtig geknoop
gebalanseer
gevloek? gebid?
en vry
gespring
iii
die pataloog se verslag
het die afgryse tegnies verwoord:
5 hamerhoue teen die kop
(die eerste het die skedel deels verbrysel)
11 messteke in die bors en keel
(uitsluitend die afwerende hale op arms en hande;
insluitend die laaste – die nekslagaar, oftewel karotis)
die staatslykhuis kon jou trouring
nie terugbesorg aan jou naasbestaandes nie
dit was ‘onherstelbaar beskadig’
running into a headwind,
stride hampered by the camber,
sand stings my face and legs
a rush of ozone in my nostrils,
salt upon my tongue
i read the rorschach patterns in the sand
of windstrokes and watermarks,
the runic prints of birds that passed before me
wind and blood roar through my ears
my heart is pumping; lungs expand and contract
knees and elbows are pistons driving
oh, my body is a beautiful machine
and the song it sings:
i’m alive
i’m alive
Die Son! Die Sôôn! Mornings, lufly laydy, Die Son?
hy verkoop rampspoed en ellende elke dag
’n paar tanne ontbreek, maar die smaail is breed
/die man op sy hande en knieë
verteer deur vlamme, skaars meer mens
kop smekend gedraai
/
/die nuwe lewetjie in die asblik gelos
saam met gister se koerante
en oorskietkos/
MOORDVERKRAGTINGROOFSODOMIEBLOEDSKANDEPEDOFILIEGEWELD
lelike woorde; grusame dade
’n vuishou in die buik
laag en hard
ek draai my kop weg en knip my oë,
kyk prentjies buite die treinvenster
’n hond met rug gekrom knyp haastig ’n drol af,
loer angstig oor die skouer na sy baas wat vooruit loop
die see is troebel groen; grys wolke hang laag
’n rob draai lui om in ’n brander
tussen dobberende seewier
en oral óm my mense
soveel variasies van twee oë, een neus, een mond
elk in ’n eie web
smartvreugdehaatliefdesondevreesgelukpynrou
my seuns se slaapwarm omhelsing vanoggend
my ma smeer haar liefde op hul broodjies vir skool
al dié oomblikke ryg ek
soos pêrels in my bidsnoer
om uit te haal en oor en oor te voel
om die boosheid te besweer
om die donker af te weer
die snoer bind my dag, die week, ’n maand, ’n jaar
my lewe
dankie vir ons daaglikse brood
dankie vir die reën,
die sterre en die maan
dankie vir die son wat alles sien, alles verdra
en ondanks alles
elke dag nuut opkom
in the small hours of morning
he prowls the chambers of the blog;
sifts through the offerings of the day
the father of many offspring,
he visits them in their rooms
where their eyes moving rapidly
behind sleeping lids
project their dreams
onto the walls and ceilings
through the halls
echo his footfalls
he looks on this web that he has wrought
and sees that it is good
lank dink ek aan jou:
‘n deuntjie nie vergete,
ook nie mooi onthou
The Wild Whites
Seven at the Golden Spur
We real cool. We
passed school. We
watch weight. We
are straight. We
stay in line. We
sip wine. We
attend jazz festivals in June. We
have no sense of impending doom.
dive into the kagablog!