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C A R A PA C E P O E T R Y
Mike Alfred ∙ David Attwell ∙ Sue Clark ∙ Patrick Cullinan Gail Dendy ∙ CJ Driver ∙ Maryna Fraser ∙ Dawn Garisch Adré Marshall ∙ Sabelo Mgogoshe ∙ Medzani Musandiwa Candy Neubert ∙ Naomi Nkealah ∙ Luca Olivi ∙ Marcelle Olivier Marí Peté ∙ Michael Rolfe ∙ Beverly Rycroft ∙ Brenda SanWton Damian Shaw ∙ Tim Volem
TERJE RYPDAL Crime Scene
Having just been fortunate enough to catch Rypdal in concert at le Poisson Rouge in NoHo, NYC, I feel I must recommend this album to openminded modern jazz enthusiasts. Released at the end of 2010 it is a shimmering soundscape of electronica. His aggressive guitar structures are counter-pointed by the beautiful trumpet of Palle Mikkelborg, his longtime ECM collaborator. There is even a strange sample by drummer Paolo Vinaccia using dialogue from movies. Rypdal is 65 years old and he has lost none of his vigour. You might find yourself turning up the volume … Shop 15, Piazza St John, Main Road, Sea Point, Cape Town, 8005 Tel +27 (0)21 434 1994 (land) Mobile +27 (0)83 310 0265 Email email@example.com www.upbeatmusic.co.za
Ninety One and still standing. Your support and enthusiasm is, as always, deeply appreciated. After all without a readership … A special thanks to Nicolaas Maritz for the use of his brilliant and entertaining images that grace the cover and inside of this issue. Yours Gus Ferguson
To contact Nicolaas, email firstname.lastname@example.org or visit his Facebook page. Check out his online gallery at http://sites.google. com/site/nicolaasmaritzgallery/
but by now famous. into the tip it went. a photojournalist braved the track to conduct an interview with the solitary. The Superintendent inspected the MS closely. A farmer found such a manuscript blowing across the veld. perhaps the author was dead at the time? But later. the door remained closed to his knock. he sent a fine manuscript by donkey cart to the local rubbish tip. 2 . Only once.Mike Alfred The manuscript maker He chose to write in a solitary place between the mountains. the annual MS was once again. unpublished author. Every year or so. thrown into the tip. Sometimes he asked his assistant for an opinion which was offered after an upside down. Without exception. he used it in the outhouse. backto-front reading. Alas. A thrifty man. He thought. at the end of a rough road.
Man and his mistress woman and her old lover – ambivalent trope. I’m well defended by the wall of five senses – The numinous now. 3 . The traces of you in my bed give no clue as to how we crackle.Sue Clark Four Haiku Always the dragon pursuing the flaming pearl – I am a dragon.
now a lumpy football pitch graffiti’d in Republican pride. where the children he gave her smile out of floral frames. Mrs O’Hanlon’s husband’s last pair of Hush Puppies lie bronzed in the hearth. Newton – I should not have asked – 4 .David Attwell History Lesson At ‘Padua Guest House’ – Mrs O’Hanlon’s B&B on Cathedral Road. and where in the early evening only my footfall interrupts low English voices at the checkpoint. Mrs O’Hanlon doesn’t know the ancestral name. Tea and scones done with – price and suitcase settled – I set off for the other quarter in search of ancestors. where Cromwellian antennae beam from RUC turrets. Armagh – Shakespeare in Royal Doulton smiles across the road to the Shambles.
she knows every single one. Tears of the aged tears of the aged seep from cheeks the colour of tea and stained lace. they leak from dark places. welling up after desire’s last wringing-out. thinner than water. brine of holes dug in beach sand. bodies long fed on futurity’s bread now return earth’s original solution.but the names of the ivory women and skinhead boys in the alley. 5 . and the children whose starry voices now gather with the sparrows in a violet summer night-fall.
I’m fine. That’s why I’ve written nothing. Henry vomited not once. I’ll scribble all this down in verse. But in 20 days. and Livvy chewed the plastic flex with the electric switch still on. though you’re not here. but twice. and it’s broken loose. there’s really not too much that’s left to say apart from how are you? and yes. If this is hell. but here all hell has broken loose: Ollie tore the couch. and why this Nothingness still feels like hell. dear. believe me. and why where are you? and I’m still in town only makes it worse. 6 .Gail Dendy Verse Averse In nearly 20 days I’ve written nothing. In nearly 20 days our lives have carried on.
Luca Olivi a tiger awaits ready to pounce on its prey maybe it is me 7 .
a life without sorrow.Maryna Fraser Memories Memories of you an eternity of joy my heart overflows. Then our yesterdays will blend into tomorrow. If we borrow time together today to relive that joy. 8 . Till we meet again our memories must suffice to keep hope alive.
Let me walk you through the landscape of my mind to where we may find a place to rendezvous. a song about my history and weave you a tapestry from the strands of my memory.Song of Songs Let me sing you my song. A story within a story about sights I have seen and places I have been. 9 . that put music in my voice and made my soul sing with the joy they still bring to my innermost being. engraved in my memory. Let me tell you my story. Let me show you this place where a clear mountain stream meanders through a deep ravine a place where you may dream of a life of happiness and grace. Places that made my heart rejoice.
we did not wait in vain. He came shrouded by night. not to reveal his flight from the puppet master hidden from the light. on a dark. home to his own. there his demons to face. Just as we had expected. starless night. alone. to redeem his fall from grace. He had been to a faraway place along the road to Damascus. the road home. He had travelled the long road home. wanting to stay out of sight. 10 .The Quest He came with the first spring rain just as he had promised.
11 . Michael Rolfe A Failed Sonnet How do I lust after thee? Let me count the ways. One.Naomi Nkealah A Response to Marlowe Marlowe penned a string of words Which sang a song of melodious love For men to listen and heed the words Of the passionate shepherd to his love. CJ Driver Life History Sol nos alios umbra (Sundial in Sees) The light comes flooding in The dark goes drifting out The dark comes flooding in The light goes drifting out.
Medzani Musandiwa Mervin’s bird I the bird so beautiful flaps its wings furiously. every argument. religious iterations.’ exclaimed the visitors. ‘my. feathers dropping to the floor of the bird cage. what a beautiful bird you have there Merve. personal iterations. every clash of world views. incongruous iteration) 12 . (and every other divisive. II quietly and impassively Mervin’s bird sits there – through every disagreement.
the honey in her eyes he slumbered with her face in mind. perhaps.I keep my eyes set on the wide open sky beyond the confines of this cage. 13 . a hollow reminder of her beauty: lost. for we both know that the day will come when you’ll have to release me to the wild. in the honey of her eyes. lost in a dream.
that birthday promise? Who stole the candles burning with life? And where is the sweetness the tongue has been queuing for in a lifetime of lies? Scars (Haiku) My pain is a song : hummed by the dripping of tears and echoes of stars. 14 .Sabelo Mgogoshe Cake Where is the cake.
Marcelle Olivier wedding st peter’s. horningsea at the kissing gate – an imprecise meeting point – they tied a white scarf. it shook in the eager breeze like a windsock while the congregation sang and afterwards was tugged at by a child in a bright frock. 15 .
the eunuch’s dream a bream. a fish the shape of a gap. looking up to you: flat and undeep. it is like a finger to the membrane of a petalled heart. and. past. phantasy this miscellany is a herd of blushing puku rusting out life on the banks of a grim and sandy river. embarrassed for running when the time comes. into the unshallows of a bream. mouth of sea-skin. 16 . still just wanting to be near water. guava-red scales. it is like a eunuch’s dream.
or the bleak mystery of a spring famine in the horn of africa. not eat. as if she loves. but inhale out of her body. and then we lie in a bed and talk. still cannot die without dreaming. she says: i am tired. i see my own lips shiver. no. her hair is colourless. like bleached scarab legs kept airless in a jar on the windowsill. memories of serotonin flood the cavity of her.proserpine i eat her lungs. while she lies beside me. her hair is colourless. in a dream. without touching comfort becomes papal – she sinks into the sheets as if she loves. 17 . talk nonsense – as if we knew each other. goats can graze on sand. too. and when she speaks. the potential of neural pathways. i eat her lungs. harsh memories of serotonin. she says: i am tired. like the undreamt. when i look at her. where the goats can graze on sand.
18 .Beverly Rycroft The Albatross I could think of a million things he did wrong not one of them bad enough to warrant this penalty: halted in midair. So lay him on the couch Read him The Ancient Mariner. He’ll listen. through the mist of morphine as he never listened in the ordinary days when he was too busy getting places climbing higher. Checked at last. he’ll steeple fingers above withered chest and sigh: I never thought I never thought your mother and I could produce a fine-boned daughter who loved writing poetry. the deadweight wings lose the sky spiralling and dwindling down to the deck of a deserted ship.
He didn’t make a sound. I got up and went to the bedroom. 19 . Suddenly something jerked. Dad is delivered to spend the morning with me. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing still. The Age of Innocence The Age of Innocence was showing on MNet and Winona Ryder had just begun to work it out: there was something funny going on between Daniel Day-Lewis (her fiancé) and Michelle Pfeiffer. In a magnificent garden with sun-sprinkled fountains Winona stood in her white dress innocence untainted. The fountains dulled inside her.Babysitter A suitcase of nappies and a vial of morphine. a desert started to unroll. lying on the bed like he’d been dumped there.
twisted up on those woman-washed sheets. I stood looking down at him. someone else sat watching eager to discover how our story might end. he was naked except for the plastic nappy protecting us from yet another load of laundry. stitch up pigeons and broken carburettors and how I believed for far too long there was nothing my father couldn’t fix. remembering how he used to vault over garden gates how he’d hammer and saw and break down walls and mend punctures.It was February. Then – bizarre – I sat down again to watch Daniel Day-Lewis unpeel the glove from Michelle Pfeiffer’s hand my mind all the while scanning the credits of the dream in the next room Somewhere else. 20 .
Carved for sure and true the arrowhead from bone. In firelight surreal shapes to make. Now only desert sand so blurred and bled Does ever call and claim from you your dead. An artist of an ancient age now gone Did etch your lives upon that sandstone cave In hues of ochre. Still gathered up the eggs of ostrich tall.Brenda Santon The San People A tribute to the Bushmen of Africa. In mystic trance you passed to meet the souls Of regal eland beasts. 21 . You slayed the prey and hauled it safely home To feed the old and wrap the infant small. white and soot that shone In triumph of the shaman’s vision-rave. the sacred snake. And danced and sang in rhythm ’round the coals.
22 . dog ear (a sin!). hand-written note scribbled in the margin. Choice – of hard or soft cover. Punched ticket from a train trip. Fairytales and faith. Flaws: fish moth. A date. place & birthday wish on page 2. suntan oil stain. Smells escape … take you back to Sunday afternoon blues. tear drop or rain. spine stitched or glued? Anchors. Small love note.Marí Peté To a printed book On using a Kindle for the first time Faint whiff of air on eyelids. fonts that fit the story’s mood. cheekbones and the tip of your nose when you measure what’s read … and what’s left between fingers and thumb. Cigarette packet foil with a telephone number embossed on it. Bookmarks: autumn leaf.
won’t be there today …’ A murmur escapes a dove-soft throat. She imagines Ophelia in a wispy dress floating on her back amongst lilies. Tonight white moths will circle the lanterns in the old oak garden. lands on her palm: ‘I have been delayed. Mouth warm with barley and peat afternoon longing.Waiting by the Pond She sits on the stone slab that touched her hamlet’s thighs. a brown leaf twirls through winter blue. hair trailing like weeping willows. 23 .
Two poems by the late Patrick Cullinan 24 . front paws aloft. Peace in your garden: Wild squirrels walk On telephone wires.Patrick Cullinan To have love To have love and then lose it: the white hail in the orchard lying with leaves it has stripped and the storm moving away. Praying. Urbane in grey felt fur The silence is never still.
25 . or the wine. endlessly. What I have left: the rest of my life getting shorter as I write this. It might be the vindaloo. and who did what to whom. or to myself: how life is unmoved by who is right or wrong. we are mere players in a great pantomime. in the dark. in full view of those who wish to enjoy their food. unfathomed story repeating. I’m trying to explain to you. repeating. performing parts which must stay true to narrative alone. snot-nose. this might mean weeping salt into a chilli stew at a table near the sea – that other consistent.Dawn Garisch How Life Is In the savoury air of the curry joint we sit and eat – two women divorced from husbands and lost lives. but I am crying. right now.
then shies and stumbles at an unexpected block. anchor it to yours. tumble when they converge their motive. The way – so clear when we first met – was lost for over thirty years. shadows slowly arc across our path. You take my arm within the woods. Brambles and ivy keep catching at our ankles. 26 . I’ve come to you from far this time and find these two streams that run alone for years by habit.The Walk At first I couldn’t tell where we were going. Our conversation wanders on towards the woods. We’ve met again. This warm and easy link arouses memories of how our bodies bridged when our hurting words ran stagnant. The dogs stop and bark at something hidden. The sun manoeuvres low on the wrong horizon in this unfamiliar hemisphere.
and creatures at the edges staying out of sight. word.Now we stride along. with its half-calls and hush-flights. We walk on. yet still alert to that which interrupts the flow of argument. The separate lives we’ve lived that fed us. further into night. through poetry. or even water. now find us on this common thrust – still not knowing how or where we each will end. 27 . We’ve talked for miles through country and town. with what pleasure. at what cost. criss-crossing the straight. wanting most of all to understand the maze that lies inside each other’s minds. Two dogs that know without a thought the way that leads to home. This time around there are the dogs that roam – and at the same time bind our walk – snout-sniffing the track. more confident. hardly ever lost. heart. politics and what went wrong.
you know. and one thing would lead to another as the evening grew late. for a prime rib dinner and some dancing. there’d come Harold. handing me the keys to the pickup. darlin’. of course. saying let’s go home. They’d take it outside. We’d go out. and Harold would get to tangling with some fella.Tim Volem The Logger’s Wife I remember always laundering Harold’s white shirt on Sunday and there was usually blood on it from a Saturday night fight. and the next thing I’d know. 28 . looking satisfied or sometimes a little stunned.
29 . Yes. I know this is rubbish. lying on a white couch gazing at the ceiling. Odd thoughts enter my head: I concentrate on the traffic. he says. he can feel where the life force is broken. it will lead to imagining light poured through my body. a signed cheque. An unidentified bell keeps clanging. advice to drink more water. I turn up now and then in waiting rooms familiar with their low lamps and three chairs. accepting another man’s attention for the full hour.Candy Neubert open window This diminutive Frenchman has one hand under my pelvis and the other spread between my iliac crests.
becomes a lampshade perched on top of the pink tablecloth behind your chair where you used to sit. is reconstructed in hard-edged cubes and wedges until it settles at last into the unrelenting square of granite now weighted at your head. The rounded silver head atop the pinkish jersey dislocates itself. And so our picture fractures.Adré Marshall Viewed from the River your familiar form is sitting framed in your accustomed window on the stoep It leans forward in benign greeting as we glide our boat in towards the bank We look in as at a scene of Vuillard domesticity: your face in relief against a square of paisley patterned space But now. as we swing in past the jetty your form changes. 30 . dissolves.
31 . Ruanda. Grey heads swiftly. with unwrinkling brow bend and cluster now not over the problems of the world – Iraq. evading the dangers round her path May we always have a house with children kept safe. Darfur. like a moth drawn to the light of the larger world.When the child appears With acknowledgement to Victor Hugo When the child appears swaying on still unsteady legs like a tiny sailor newly disembarked on unfamiliar shores flailing her white arms as a novice tightrope-walker we all turn. white sails flickering. smile and applaud all conversation stopped. unviolated – especially by their own. May we keep at bay the dark shapes prowling round this fluttering soul May she walk steady. xenophobia are instantly dispelled – but round this tiny vessel tacking its unsteady path across the oceanic carpet.
Apples fall on our heads. How much of a bite did we get Of that first apple? 32 . Every day. That’s the way it is. But not what it is. We know that we die. We know what gravity does.Damian Shaw Apple We know what time is like: Clichés flow in a river.
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