kagablog

a is for

abandon, abase, accountability, accusation, activism, affirmative action, africa, african, afrikaans, aid, aikona, alexandra, alienation, allegation, ammunition, anarchy, anc, animosity, anxiety, apartheid, apparatchik, arrest, arrogance, arson, assault, asylum;

b is for

babel, baby, back door, backhander, bafana, balaclava, banned, beer, beetroot, belonging, bigotry, biko, black economic empowerment, blanket, bliksem, blockade, bloody, border, boundary, bra, braai, bread, bribe, broken, brother, bury, butcher;

c is for

cabal, cacophony, car guard, censorship, children, church, citizen, cleveland, clothing, cold, coloured, combustive, community, compassion, complacency, conflict, congolese, conscience, constitution, consumerism, cordon, corporation, corpse, corruption, cricket, crowbar, crowd-control, culture;

d is for

dagga, danger, darkness, death, decay, decree, deficit, degradation, demarcation, democracy, denial, deportation, desperation, destruction, detour, diarrhoea, diepsloot, difference, dignity, disappear, discontent, discriminate, disgrace, displace, dogmatic, domestic worker, durbanville;

e is for

early grave, earth, eastern cape, ecocide, economy, education, eina, eish, ek sê, electricity, elder, elite, emergency, emigration, enclave, entitlement, epidemic, ethnicity, eurocentrism, everyday, eviction, evil, exile, expatriate, expectation, exploitation, expulsion, extortion;

f is for

faceless, family, fast buck, fat cat, father, faultline, fear, fester, fight,

finish and klaar, fire, flashpoint, flesh, flight, foe, folktale, food, foreigner, foul, fraud, freedom, frenzy, frozen, fuck-up, fuel, funeral;

g is for

gag, gang, ganja, gash, gate, gatvol, gaunt, gender, genocide, gesuip, getaway, ghetto, ghost, gibe, girlie, glad hand, globalisation, glutton, gold, gossip, government, gravy train, graze, grievance, guard, gugulethu, guilt, guns;

h is for

half-blood, half-jack, hamba, hammer, hangover, harassment, hardship, hatred, haunted, heartbeat, heritage, hhayibo, hillbrow, history, hiv, homeless, homebru, hopeless, hostel, housing, how’s your mind, howzit, human rights, humiliation, hunger;

i is for

identity, ideology, ignorance, illiteracy, immigrant, impotence, impunity, inadequate, incite, independence, indian, indigent, indololwane, induna, ineffective, inequality, infection, inflation, injury, ifp, insecurity, interest rate, interrogation, intimidation, intolerance, isit;

j is for

ja, jacaranda, jack of all trades, jaded, jammer, jammie, jam session, jargon, jazz, jeer, jesus, jeppestown, jimmied, jirre, jislaaik, jive, job, joint, jol, jolt, jostle, jova, jozi, justification, just now;

k is for

kak, kalanga, kangaroo court, kaposi’s sarcoma, kasie, keep to yourself, kettle, khaki, khaya, khayelitsha, kick, kif, kill, kin, klap, kleintjie, klippies, knobkerrie, knowledge, koran, kraal, kwaai, kwaito, kwazulu, kwela;

l is for

land, langa, lank, language, larney, latrine, lawless, leadership, lecher, lekgotla, lekker, lesbian, liberation, lie, life, lightey, lights out, lingo, litter,

load-shedding, loathing, loneliness, looter, lotto, love, lucky strike, luxury;

m is for

machete, madiba, makeshift, makwerekwere, malawian, mampara, mansion, marginalisation, mbeki, mealie meal, media, memory, migrant, millionaire, mine, minibus, minister, mob, money, mother, mourn, mozambican, mpumalanga, mugabe, murder, mute, mzanzi;

n is for

naai, naked, namedrop, nation, nationalism, nca, nê, necklace, need, negative, neglect, neighbour, network, nepotism, neurosyphilis, newtown, ngo, nigerian, nightmare, nihilist, nooit, north west, now-now, numb, number, nutrition, nyanga;

o is for

objectify, observe, occupant, ocean, ochre, odd job, offender, officiate, oil lamp, old-age pensioner, oom, open-mind, opportunity, opportunism, oppression, oprah, opulence, oral history, orphan, otherness, ou, outcast, outrage, overcrowd, overpaid, ownership;

p is for

panga, passport, pavement, pawn, pedi, perimeter, permit, persecution, petrol, phillipi, plunder, pogrom, policeman, political correctness, politician, position, poverty, pozzy, power, preferential, prejudice, president, prison, privilege, procrastination, progressive, promise, propaganda;

q is for

quake, qualification, quality of life, quarantine, quarrel, quarter-final, queasy, queen’s english, queer, question, queue, quick-fire, quick-fix, quickie,

quiet diplomacy, quit, quota;

r is for

racism, raid, rain, ramaphosaville, rape, raze, reconciliation, reconstruction, red cross, refugee, reiger park, renaissance, repression, resentment, resident, resolution, revolution, righteous, rigor mortis, road rage, robbery, robot, rooinek, riot, rubble, rugby, rumour;

s is for

sanctimonious, sanitation, scapegoat, scorpions, screwdriver, sensationalism, shabeen, shacktown, shadow, shakedown, shame, shangaan, shatter, shoot, short left, sister, silence, siyaphapha, skabenga, skyf, somalian, sotho, soutpiel, spear, squatter, stereotype, stigma, stress, strike, survival;

t is for

target, taxi, tension, territory, terror, theft, third force, threat, tik, tinderbox, tokoloshe, toilet, torture, tourist, toyi-toyi, township, transformation, trauma, trembling, tribe, truth, tshwane, tsonga, tsotsi, tsvangirai, tuberculosis, tutu, tyranny;

u is for
ubiquitous, ubuntu, ugly customer, ululate, umshini wam, uncertainty, underbelly, underclass, underpaid, undertaker, unemployment, uniform, union, unity, universal, unjust, uplift, upmarket, urban guerilla, urbanisation, urinate, utility vehicle;

v is for

vaalie, vaginal swab, van der merwe, vasbyt, veld, velskoen, vehemence, venda, vent, verstaan, vibe, victim, village, violence, virgin, virus, visa, visitor, viva, voetsek, voiceless, volatile, volunteer, vote, vrot, vulnerable, vuvuzela;

w is for

waai, wail, waiver, wake, wander, want, war, water, wealth, weary, weep, wena, westernize, white, widow, windgat, wise guy, witchdoctor, witness, womb, women, word, world cup, worry, wreckage, wrong side;

x is for

x chromosome, xenogenesis, xenogenous, xenophobe, xenophobia, xhosa,

x marks the spot, x-ray;

y is for

yale lock, yank, yap, yardstick, yarmulke, yashmak, yawp, y chromosome, yearn, yebo, yell, yellow-belly, yellow fever, yelp, yes-man, you and yours, your humble servant, yourself, youth, yuppie;

z is for

zairean, zambian, zanu, zap, zapu, zeal, zealot, zebra crossing, zeitgeist, zero hour, zero in on, zigzag, zilch, zimbabwe, zimbabwean, zol, zola, zombie, zone, zonked, zoom, zulu, zuma, zweletemba.

here, where we live,
within our high-walled suburbs
and beige eiderdown beds,

we do not count
the body bags, the mortuary vans,
the displaced lives, the scything tides.

here, where we wake
to good intentions crowded out
with monthly mortgage repayments,

we are puzzled
by the strange metallic taste
we cannot rinse from our mouths.

You are born on a Thursday
in a city of sirens and smoke
in the season of lost tongues:
your strange downy crown
is shrouded in mystery,
your tiny pink fists
are a revelation.

You, little mammal,
curious fingers unfurling,
crumple up your face,
an unpunctuated yowl
strangling the dark,
as your newly born mother,
freshly stitched and love heavy,
stumbles over your crib
to feed you.

You, suckling bud,
with your milky warm breath
navigating the flesh
of a blue veined breast,
at five days old
refuse to take no
for an answer.

it is dusk.
the air is heavy with salt spray and kelp.
the seagull’s tongue is dumb.
dark wings hide the face
of the madonna on the beach.

twin silver starfish lift a long skirt,
reveal pale knees, a cerulean scarf
flutters in the breeze. unseen
mercury eels seethe in her currents.
the moon is a gaping mouth.

she turns away from
the promenade’s ice-cream smiles
and waving kites,
shrugs off the leer
of the dirty weekend hotel
moored in the harbour’s grimy embrace.
she climbs out of her pink shell
to swallow the bruised mountain.

once more,
her spirit becomes a sail.
her eyes are the horizon.
her feet are freighters from foreign ports.

she walks on water.
she walks on water.

her bare white limbs shine
with phosphorescence.
the stars lean over to sing a softer song,
plant kisses on her forehead. slow time.

in the dazed morning haze
the air is heavy with salt spray and kelp.
wisps of fog drift in with the waves.
a cerulean strand washes up on the sand
amid splintered timber, plastic wrappings,
sodden cigarette butts.
from his guanos-stained perch aloft a jiving mast,
the seagull keeps her secret.

silent words shuffle into cautious lines
scoring ice with impermanent design.

you and the poem teeter alone
on the pond, a balancing act -

arms outstretched, your red overcoat
smells of mothballs and smoke,

underneath one thick glove
a cigarette burn chafes.

untried muscles tremble
tied to second-hand skates,

you enter into something
which cannot be named.

all roots and prayers left ashore,
words in mind gracefully align

with a strange sense of lightness,
nothing to hold.

cold air from your nose
swirls in your throat - then

you turn, and more or less
glide, half degas dancer

striking out toward the centre.
the winter sunshine dazzles you.

it was mostly a mistake
the first time
it happened
(you couldn’t have
anticipated
how good
it would feel)

dizzy
dizzy opiate
day’s despair broke surface
kept your eye on the razor
rosy ribbons mapping
the
pain

a screaming ibis
in the flamboyant tree
broke the trance
broughtyouback
to yourself
again

arms smeared red
soggy Rorschach tests
clogged up
the toilet bowl
(the paper ran out
& feeling guilty hung-
over
used
a dirty sweatshirt

wiped the blood
off the floor)

yousaidyousaidyouknew
(even then)
rage buried deep
underground
would
rise to call you
again

fury
furywouldnotliedown
fury
wouldnotsleep
hungry
yousaiditwouldcomeback
anditdiditdid

you used
a carving knife
instead.

the puzzle
on the dining room table
is broken apart.

strewn across table,
chairs, rug, there are fragments
in the fruit-bowl.

edges, corners - the dog
chews picture scraps
desultorily.

no one has time to clean up the mess,

to put it together again.

previously published in green dragon (2006)

it’s july, it’s an overcast, grey day.
the sable-haired woman standing, smoking,
at the kitchen sink
has disappeared.
they haven’t pasted up
the missing posters yet:
she’s untied her apron.
there’s low cloud cover.

her husband looks straight through her
as he helps himself to scrambled eggs;
(he thinks she’s cleaning the bathroom,
again).

the children bicker back and forth,
brandishing jam smeared knives
across the breakfast table;
they too, have forgotten she’s there.

icy water drips
into a bowl of milky dregs.
she’s supposed to be washing dishes
but she isn’t and doesn’t care.
the air is cleaning fluid and burnt toast:
a reference point
like the lines on her palms
which read escape.

she exhales,
watching cigarette smoke
drawn by an invisible current
drift through the bars and out the open window …
her thoughts spill like a fallen tarot pack:
she imagines a future soundtrack of
swooping gulls, calls to mosque and
dancing thunderstorms.

without warning,
she has crossed the border.
without warning,
she has peeled away the labels:
housekeeper/nurturer/mother/wife/cook;

she has peeled away all ‘thou shalt nots’;
removed every trace of their sticky residue

and vanished.

she feels no remorse. hollow and light now,
she is a creature of myth:
an enticing stranger in dark glasses
and a long silver raincoat,
a crescent moon birthmark
above elegant lips.

her translucent fingers
push against the metal latch.
movements fluid and sure
cast no shadow on the floor.

it’s july, it’s an overcast, grey day.
there’s low cloud cover.
the air is cleaning fluid and burnt toast:
when the back door creaks open,
the cat slips in from the rain.

the penises i know
park next to each other.
they have names like
sani, cherokee, discovery 3.
they devalue with
every passing month.
i wouldn’t drive one
if it was going free.
 
 
previously published in green dragon (2006) and carapace (2006)

Michelle McGrane reviews Uselessly by Aryan Kaganof
Jacana ISBN 1-77009-100-9

buy uselessly now (in south africa) (in united kingdom)

All things are delivered unto me of my Father:
and no man knoweth the Son, but the Father;
neither knoweth any man the Father, save the
Son.
- Matthew 11:27

Often the subject of controversy, artist and visionary Aryan Kaganof has abundant energy and enthusiasm. He works constantly at interpreting creative processes and developing a new language of art. Kaganof defies categorisation, living creatively, devoting his skills to absorbing the world around him and transmuting what he touches into the unusual and revolutionary.

Uselessly, Kaganof’s most recent novel and his first to be published by Jacana, takes the form of a collection of letters to God. As once might expect from a multi-media artist, the humorous, idiosyncratic cover is imaginative and visually appealing. The book comes with recommendations from both God and the Devil.

Dear God, Sorry I haven’t written for so long. It’s been a bad time. I’ve been hurting inside and I just couldn’t put pen to paper. I hope you’ve been okay. I noticed some world wars and stuff. Guess you’ve been busy enough. Had your own shit to take care of without worrying about mine.

The letter writer and protagonist, J J (James Joyce) Uselessly, is born in the South Rand Hospital, Johannesburg, in 1964. He is the illegitmate son of Daphne Nobody, The Sinner Lady, and Harry Uselessly, The Devil. His aptly named mother plays a far from nurturing role, while his father flees the scene before his birth when Daphne refuses to have an abortion.

Like Kaganof himself, Uselessly Jnr. leaves South Africa as a young man to avoid conscription into the apartheid army. We find him aged thirty-five in Amsterdam, indulging his considerable hash habit and penchant for the feet of very young girls, while sending out begging letters to fund his louche lifestyle. That is, until a letter arrives postmarked Sea Point, Cape Town, from his estranged father’s girlfriend, S Cohen. It is a letter which is to change the course of his life.

Harry Uselessly is recovering from the removal of a malignant Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, the “ultimate status symbol” in cancer circles. Uselessly Jnr. takes up an invitation to stay in Cape Town, returning to the country of his birth, both native and foreigner, to spend time with the father he has never known. It becomes apparent that the journey he has embarked upon is more internal than geographical as the novel focuses on the intricacies of a developing emotional involvement between father and son. Through this unexpected connection and the establishment of a paternal bond, Uselessly Jnr. discovers his true identity.

Uselessly Senior is a “shrivelled-up old Jewish man whose brush with cancer has cost him thirty kilos.” Sixty-nine year old Harry is a marvellous paradox. He is an irresponsible, self-absorbed miser, but also a charming Libran with a wonderful sense of humour and frequently unconventional, sage advice for his son. The eccentric old man exhibits an unconstrained zest for life and this, along with the dignity and lack of self-pity with which he faces his illness and consequent chemotherapy treatment, make him hard to dislike.

J J’s letters to God include evocative childhood reminiscences, hard-won insights from lived experience, poetry, philosophy and instances of keenly observed social hypocrisy. Under his unflinching gaze, sometimes abrasive exterior and the shock value of misogynistic sentiments such as “if the bitch is old enough to bleed she’s old enough to butcher”, he is an essentially likeable and profoundly sensitive protagonist. “I’m not a nihilist. I’m not a cynic. I just don’t believe in bullshit anymore,” Uselessly writes in his opening letter. In a later missive he writes: “Finding my dad has made me happy. I never felt this happy before … When I laugh I cry, and I don’t need to cry any more unless I’m laughing. I love you Dad. I love you.” It is in this novel, perhaps more than in any other of his works, that the author reveals his own complex psyche, vulnerability and personal ambivalence.

In an essay entitled “Politics and the English Language”, George Orwell offered the following rules for good English: “Never use a long word where a short one will do. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.” Kaganof’s writing is an example of precise, economical prose. Although Uselessly is written in a non-linear fashion, shifting between past and present, his deceptively simple writing style and colloquial tone make for easy, compelling reading. Short sentences are delivered with intelligence, originality and conviction within the paradigms of an engaging and morally complex book.

Uselessly is challenging, funny, mystical, tough and touching. Kaganof has created a courageous and unapologetic portrait of the relationship between a father and son in a story about freedom and the redemptive power of laughter and love. An inimitable novel by an agent provocateur, put this book on your reading list. Even go out and buy it now.

this review first appearred in green dragon #4

by ariel levy
pocket books
isbn 1-4165-2638-2
reviewed by michelle mcgrane

in the opening paragraph of her introduction to female chauvinist pigs, thirty-year-old feminist ariel levy writes: “i first noticed it several years ago. i would turn on the television and find strippers in g-strings explaining how best to lap dance a man to orgasm. i would flip the channel and see babes in tight, tiny uniforms bouncing up and down on trampolines. britney spears was becoming increasingly popular and increasingly unclothed, and her undulating body ultimately became so familiar to me i felt like we used to go out.”
 
the author may be viewed by some as the latest in a long line of uptight radicals, old-fashioned moralists and prissy sissies, waving tattered, fishmoth-eaten flags for an archaic women’s liberation movement, but this is not the case. the provocative, contradictory subject of female empowerment in our plastic, pervasive, ‘post-feminist’ 21st century culture, is exposed in a fresh, articulate and well-researched book.
 
“if you were to put the last five or so years in a time capsule, womanwise, it would look like a period of explosive sexual exhibitionism, opportunism, and role redefinition.”
 
in this celebrity-obsessed, reality tv world, where lusty, busty pole-dancers, outsized breast implants and waxed vaginas are de rigeur, feminism is considered ‘uncool’. but, levy demands, how far have we come when women are socialised to objectify themselves in order to be more desirable? it’s about sexual power and consumerism, she writes. now, more than ever, sex sells. yet “‘raunchy’ and ‘liberated’ are not synonyms.”

 
female chauvinist pigs is an important polemic which calls out for our attention and examination. it is an arch, yet profoundly serious, thought provoking and, ultimately convincing read.
 
ariel levy writes for new york magazine. her work also appears in the new york times, the washington post, vogue, slate, men’s journal and blender magazines.

by kate braverman
seven stories press
isbn 1-58322-571-4

experimental writer kate braverman begins her bold, incandescent fourth novel with a pablo neruda quote, “in this net it’s not just the strings that count / but also the air that escapes through the meshes.”

frida kahlo was an artist, a revolutionary, a morphine addict, a bisexual and a crippled wife. a pagan, she was a solitary renegade, an unrepentant heretic and a water woman.

“i was born in rain and i will die in rain. know me as a river, as harbor. they will say I was a slut with a brazen sailor’s mouth. they will not remember my elegance and restraint. they will say they looked in my eyes and counted one hundred forty-six pelicans flying in a wavering line into a marina at sunset.”

the incantation of frida k. is a fantastical, fictional meditation on the life and times of the mexican visionary.

born in philadelphia and raised in los angeles, the subversive jewish braverman brilliantly depicts kahlo’s ferocity and passion for her work, her physical and psychological pain, and the complex carnage that was her relationship with muralist diego rivera, her husband.

“they will say, she wore flowers, hair a bouquet of intricate ribbons. she dressed as if for a fiesta. listen. that is not the case. i wore gardens pinned to my head like floral tumours rising from my brain. i wore orchids not in celebration, but in mourning. i prepared daily for my funeral. i painted myself with birds and monkeys, with a necklace of thorns and with the well where my heart should be gouged out, as if by scalpel.”

this novel is an exotic and formidably intelligent feast: a tiger lily, a rare black pearl, a flash of violet lightning, a brutal red neon sign. braverman’s sentences are fireworks, mortar rockets and scars that startle and shock. she is a writer of luminous and explosive talent, of secret journals and delirious kisses, of guerilla barricades and life rafts. she stands on the cutting edge of literature, a member of an endangered species.

(cento: a composition made up of quotations from other authors;Latin: patchwork garment)

once there was a path and a girl with chestnut hair - - - we met when we were almost young - - deep in the green lilac park - - you held on to me like i was a crucifix - - as we went kneeling through the dark - - - i loved you in the morning - our kisses deep and warm - - your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm - - yes - many loved before us - i know that we are not new - - in city and in forest they smiled like me and you - - - let me see you moving like they do in babylon - - show me slowly what i only know the limits of - - dance me very tenderly and dance me very long - - dance me to the wedding now - dance me on and on - - - there’s a concert hall in vienna - - where your mouth had a thousand reviews - - i remember you well in the chelsea hotel - - you were famous - your heart was a legend - - i thought you were the crown prince - - of all the wheels in ivory town - and everywhere that you wandered - - love seemed to go along with you - - - lost among the subway crowds - - i tried to catch your eye - - i saw you there with the rose in your teeth - - i’d been waiting - i was sure - - - but you’d been to the station to meet every train - - - i knew i was in danger of losing what i used to think was mine - - just dance me to the dark side of the gym - - chances are i’ll let you do most anything - - so we’re dancing close - the band is playing stardust - - balloons and paper streamers floating down on us - - - i know you’re hungry - i can hear it in your voice - - and there are many parts of me to touch - you have your choice - - - the women in your scrapbook - - - (i was in that army - yes i stayed a little while - - though i wore a uniform i was not born to fight) - - - now your love is a secret all over the block - - - i’m just a station on your way - - - where are you golden boy - - where is your famous golden touch? - - the sun pours down like honey - - and yes it’s come to this - it’s come to this - - hey prince you need a shave - - - i forget to pray for the angels - - and then the angels forget to pray for us - - - your letters they all say that you’re beside me now - - then why do i feel alone? - - i’m standing on a ledge and your fine spider web - - is fastening my ankle to a stone - - - everybody knows that you love me baby - - everybody knows that you really do - - everybody knows that you’ve been faithful - - ah - give or take a night or two - - everybody knows you’ve been discreet - - but there were so many people you just had to meet - - without your clothes - and everybody knows - - - and i can’t wait to tell you to your face - - and i can’t wait for you to take my place - - - i cannot follow you - my love - - you cannot follow me - - i am the distance you put between - - all of the moments that we will be - - - i choose the rooms that i live in with care - - the windows are small and the walls almost bare - - there’s only one bed and there’s only one prayer - - i listen all night for your step on the stair - - - i don’t like your fashion business mister - - and i don’t like those drugs that keep you thin - - - some women wait for jesus - and some women wait for cain - - i was waiting for a miracle - i waited half my life away - - - lately you’ve started to stutter - as though you had nothing to say - - - you don’t love me quite so fiercely now - - you’re weak and you’re harmless - - you’re sleeping in your harness - - - you thought that it could never happen - - to all the people you became - - the rain falls down on last year’s man - - that’s a crayon in his hand - - - like any dealer he was watching for the card - - that is so high and wild - - he’ll never need to deal another - - - (o you’ve seen that man before) - - his golden arm dispatching cards - - (but now it’s rusted from the elbow to the finger - - and he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter) - - - everybody knows that the dice are loaded - - everybody rolls with their fingers crossed - - everybody knows that the war is over - - everybody knows the good guys lost - - everybody knows the fight was fixed - - the poor stay poor - the rich get rich - - that’s how it goes - everybody knows - - - well - I found a silver needle - I put it into my arm - - it did some good - did some harm - - but the nights were cold - and it almost kept me warm - - - in a dream of hungarian lanterns - - in the mist of some sweet afternoon - - some girls wander by mistake - - into the mess that scalpels make - - - morning came and then came noon - - dinner time a scalpel blade - - lay beside my silver spoon - - those who earnestly are lost - - are lost and lost again - - - i journey down the hundred steps - - the street is still the very same - - was i - was i only limping - was i really lame? - - - i can’t run no more with this lawless crowd - - - you say you’ve been humbled in love - - cut down in your love - - - you say you’ve gone away from me - - (i see you’ve gone and changed your name again) - - but i can feel you when you breathe - - - you stumble into this movie-house - then climb in to the frame - - - your pain is no credential here - - of course you’ll say you can’t complain - - you who wish to conquer pain - - love calls you by your name - - - why do you stand by the window - - abandoned to beauty and pride - - the thorn of the night in your chest - - the spear of the age in your side - - lost in the rages of fragrance - - lost in the rags of remorse - - lost in the waves of a sickness - - that loosens the high silver nerves - - - yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control - - it begins with your family - but soon it comes around to your soul - - - well i’ve been where you’re hanging - i think i can see how you’re pinned - - when you’re not feeling holy - your loneliness says that you’ve sinned - - - it’s four in the morning - the end of december - - it’s dark now and it’s snowing - - the cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas - - the cities they are broke in half and the middle men are gone - - - all the rocket-ships are climbing through the sky - - the holy books are open wide - - - the blizzard - the blizzard of the world - - has crossed the threshold - - - do you remember all of those pledges - - that we pledged in the passionate night - - ah they’re soiled now - they’re torn at the edges - - like moths on a still yellow light - - no penance serves to renew them - - no massive transfusions of trust - - why not even revenge can undo them - - so twisted these vows and so crushed - - - i’m cold as a new razor blade - - your shirt is all undone - - - will you kneel beside this bed - - that we polished so long ago - - your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red - - and you’re speaking far too low - - - you don’t know me from the wind - - you never will - you never did - - - the crumbs of love that you offer me - - they’re the crumbs I’ve left behind - - - and is this what you wanted - - to live in a house that is haunted - - by the ghost of you and me? - - - i’ve lain by this window long enough - - to get used to an empty room - - and your love is some dust in an old man’s cough - - who is tapping his foot to a tune - - - and why are you so quiet now - - standing there in the doorway? - - you chose your journey long before - - you came upon this highway - - remember when the scenery started fading - - i held you till you learned to walk on air - - so don’t look down the ground is gone - - there’s no one waiting anyway - - the smokey life is practised - -everywhere - - - looks like freedom but it feels like death - - - i balance on a wishing well that all men call the world - - we are so small between the stars - so large against the sky - - - and where do all these highways go - now that we are free? - - the age of lust is giving birth - and both the parents ask - - the nurse to tell them fairytales on both sides of the glass - - - there is a war between the rich and poor - - a war between the man and the woman - - there is a war between the ones who say there is a war - - and the ones who say there isn’t - - - there is a war between the left and right - - a war between the black and white - - a war between the odd and even - - - i can’t pretend i still feel very much like singing - - as they carry the bodies away - - - there’s blood on every bracelet - - you can see it - you can taste it - - - (every heart - every heart - - to love will come but like a refugee) - - - too early for the rainbow - too early for the dove - - these are the final days - this is the darkness - this is the flood - - and there is no man or woman who can’t be touched - - but you who come between them will be judged - - - so the great affair is over but whoever would have guessed - - it would leave us all so vacant and so deeply unimpressed - - - it’s like our visit to the moon or to that other star - - i guess you go for nothing if you really want to go that far - - - it’s over - it ain’t going any further - - i’m sick of pretending - i’m broken from bending - - i’ve lived too long on my knees - - - the river is swollen up with rusty cans - - and the trees are burning in your promised land - - - along with several thousand dreams - - - there’s nothing left to do - - when you know that you’ve been taken - - - it’s CLOSING TIME.

* * *

lyrics taken from: songs of leonard cohen: suzanne; master song; winter lady; stranger song; sisters of mercy; so long marianne; hey, that’s no way to say goodbye; stories of the street; teachers i’m your man: first we take manhattan; ain’t no cure for love; everybody knows; take this waltz songs of love and hate: avalanche; last year’s man; dress rehearsal rag; diamonds in the mine; love calls you by your name; famous blue raincoat the future: the future; waiting for the miracle; closing time; anthem; light as the breeze death of a ladies’ man: iodine; paper thin hotel; memories; death of a ladies’ man songs from a room: the old revolution; the butcher; you know who i am; tonight will be fine new skin for the old ceremony: is this what you wanted; chelsea hotel #2; there is a war various positions: dance me to the end of love recent songs: the guests; humbled in love; the window; the gypsy’s wife; the smokey life

michelle mcgrane and vonani bila

smiling hostess, happy husband,
clean, pink baby tucked neatly in bed,
lighting low, garden flowers
arranged
in sprays of
immaculate ease,
 
formidable
domestic conversation,
resounding silence resumes,
the awful scrabbling for
common ground to
contrived recollections of single days,
 
perfect choice of wine
matches
cordon bleu meal,
filter coffee
winds things up at
a suitable hour,
 
a faultless appearance,
flawless
performance,
silence & sensibilities
compartmentalised,
you & i
sit together,
 
swearing off
picket fences
for the rest of our lives.
 

we stuff our faces,
not for the taste, more
for the feeling of fullness.

about fishing &
the art of loving women,
you were beguiling,
seductively knowledgeable,
 
always made the best
of what you had,
 
a real professional,
you used all the tricks
of the trade
to tip the scales,
 
reeled me in from
cool, deep waters, gasping,
a prize catch on a rusty,
well-used hook,
 
before you gutted
& prepared me
with your favourite sauce.

in sugar-drenched
candy-striped
fascination days
gulped down with mutual adoration,
convinced we needed each other
more than air -
it was you, me
& carole king.
 
now wax-drippings flickering,
carole, queen of
chocolate promises,
broken hearts,
sings plaintively
into endless insomniac night,
defining the well-worn path
you trod across my heart
with every bittersweet note.

the jar of satay sauce
you bought
last year,
is still
in the fridge-door,
i miss you
when i see it.

i’ve kept it hidden
in an ice-box
waiting
for the thaw,
 
for you
to make it
beat again,
 
still
 
quiet
 
nothing

writing is an addiction
like cheap brandy
parcelled
in a paper bag
 
firewater blood
streams flowing
molten rivers
the senses set on fire
 
hand starts writing
loops and curls
turn to
voracious scribbles
 
it feeds, feeds, feeds,
always hungry, insatiable,
raging, rampant,
reaching
 
sleep stumbles
dragging its feet,
settling roughly
in a grudging stupor.

wild & intemperate,
i am only worthy of your love
when i am good.
i am a snail girl covered in salt
as your reproach dissolves
my substance.
 
the tyrant that inhabits my inner recess
does not allow
for imperfection.
it whispers constantly
in a ragged voice,
in a frothing fever my shell cracks.
 
i don sackcloth & ashes,
conscience-striken & contrite,
i become pure & pleasing,
on my best behaviour
i cast out the guilty, graceless snail girl
to purge my offence.
 
austere & ascetic,
all that remains
is a fading silver trail.

a hundred fish-hooks
catch my tongue
whenever we meet,
 
traceless barbs leave
no mark, but
the heart knows,
 
it knows.

he was late,
drinking with his friends again,
you were mad,
another cold dinner,
another empty promise.
 
he was drunk,
angry at your lack of understanding,
i laughed at you,
knowing all the time
i would have felt the same.

full moon early winter
sitting cross-legged
on dew-damp grass
before a giant
statue of buddha
 
scent of lavender
fills the air
a black cat
rubs itself up
against my legs