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Jace Everett is a country singer who has ‘crossed over’ into mainstream rock. Anyone familiar with the HBO series ‘True Blood’ will have heard the superb title track, ‘Bad Things’, chosen by director Alan Ball, that kick-started Everett’s stalled career. His voice has been likened to Chris Isaac or even Roy Orbison in its deep, husky, sexy intonation. He writes his own material, invariably with a deep-south bluesy swagger. This music really lifts and is a perfect accompaniment to a cracking late night session of dreaming or dancing … As this is an Upbeat import, quantities are very limited.
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EDIToRIAl Beverley Peirce, a frequent contributor to, and great supporter of, Carapace died on 8 January 2011. He had a long and illustrious career as a broadcaster and was perhaps best known for his work on Squad-Cars. We celebrate his life with his poem Beach with no sand (page 2). His wake was a gathering of fiercely loyal friends and family. Gus Ferguson
CoNTRIBUToRS To THIS ISSUE: Mike Alfred, Geraldine Aron, Mangaliso W Buzani, Margaret Clough, Finuala Dowling, Kelly Dyer, Jane Fox, Stanley A Galloway, Damian Garside, Kerry Hammerton, Rosamund Handler, Jordan Kantey, Frank F Karinga, Allan Kolski Horwitz, Clive lawrance, Jennifer lean, lydia lee, Beverley Peirce, Douglas Reid Skinner, Ruth Rosen, Damian Shaw, Michael Neale Shutte, Jack Spruce, Janice Warman, Hamish Whyte, lucas Zulu
Cover artwork by Greg Kerr. ‘Alter Ego III’. Pastel and aquarelle over monotype. 400 x 280 mm. For gallery and courses offered go to Greg Kerr – www.gregkerr.co.za
to me It’s like walking by the ocean And there is no sea 2 . I’m not the one Holding half love Is like sharing rain.Beverley Peirce Beach with no sand Just to have it all again The way it was The way we were The way that love Seemed to flow like singing wine of rivers to the sea The things of joy I found in you And you in me I wonder where love goes When it’s gone Maybe there’s someone who knows Not me.
Quote of the Issue René Descartes 3 . on a rainy night he suddenly pulled me into his warmth licensed me to take the blind woman’s way to discover by touch his sweetness to understand what must be forgone what distilled: the essence of love which transcends years. white day in the calendar even though it was a rainy night.Jane Fox Homage to Catullus White.
Margaret Clough Starlings (For Gus after reading his poem Alien) The ugly European starling In not anybody’s darling His manners are not very nice He has speckled feathers full of lice He blocks up every drainage gutter With messy and untidy clutter He wakes us early in the morning With unmelodious raucous cawing our redwing is of different ilk His plumage shines like watered silk He has a piping song as sweet As any bird’s that you might meet He is most elegant and slim You are allowed to favour him 4 .
she watches spattered with seagull droppings.08. From the shore. worn out and wearied by the desires of far Northern females looking for Romance 5 . Cape Times 10. make ready for a catch.2010 Fishermen pull boats up on the beach Fine hairs glisten on their muscled arms Dark eyes stare boldly. Black sea-soaked curls dry salty in the sun.Shirley By The Sea The right breast of a statue depicting Shirley Valentine has been worn thin by women rubbing it to bring them luck in love. They spread out nets.
As is pretending you’re not afraid of death. Yes. what an utter shit sometimes. applying a little cosmetic surgery to the authentic. inadmissable you. wise. how many times you had to remove your foot from your mouth along with the cigarette and the double whiskey. 6 . it’s the time for setting alight the skeleton closet. As is pretending you’re a benign. It’s about beautifying your warts-and-all. fumbled challenges and abandoned your lovers. It’s not about senile memory loss. how you exploited your employees. your tenth.Mike Alfred The Task A serious task for oldies is writing the rearrangement memoir. setting the record straight in preparation for that romantic eulogy with which some well disposed oratorical type will confuse the mourners at your funeral. but the act of conveniently re-writing your history: expunging how incompetent you were. loveable old teddy bear.
You see. ‘There.Finuala Dowling What the Easter Bunny brought Finuala Dowling No one else was small enough So they zipped me into the suit and said. I had to hare through the grounds casting eggs from my basket To add to the entertainment. they set the Sub A’s and the Sub B’s in hot. 7 . you be the Easter Bunny’ They made me carry the Easter eggs. and heard them howling ‘But it’s not the Easter Bunny! It’s Nuala Dowling!’ I owe them everything. cross pursuit Gigantic little girls full of ProNutro chased me with the criminal mindset of six year olds: Why take the eggs if you can catch the bunny? My mentors looked on as the rump-fed infants dragged me down. it’s like this: anyone can dress up like a bunny but it takes art to laugh off the mugging.
Kelly Dyer Vertigo He thinks because he’s tall he suffers from vertigo. he tells me: wet earth and steam. while the weight of the atmosphere erases your edges. And what does it feel like? I ask. When I ask him what does the sky smell like. He says: like making your way to the surface. The higher you rise the more dense the scent. like the trees leaning. moist with the altitude of silence. 8 .
More! I see: Degrees of light through shattered sky. like sea. 9 . Patterns in the sand. the ebb of the tides quick in the dark. when the falling to sleep is faster. light like frozen shards of water. And? Ceaseless movement.
that’s brought in by the mice. You wouldn’t pay (at least not full price) for chipped glasses. shop around a bit first. You want charm. a cat missing both ears. 10 .Jordan Kantey The Age of Commerce He’s damaged goods. knocked knees and a quiet sense of harm. We’re sure you’ll find something nice. So put him aside. that guy. deeply bruised fruit. and all he’s got are doleful eyes a taste for books. a car with a boot that doesn’t close.
breaks free. 11 . Then again. an apple tree at Scarborough. suggests the apple is not bound to the tree. you don’t need Isaac Newton’s tomes to have a sense of gravity.The Problem with Proverbs Well of course the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. with smaller fruit – crab apples: now they could fly. ‘Falling’ seems passive. any idiot can assume it’s a straight line down. gathering weight until it has enough. take your eye out. what about gale force winds. which doesn’t quite cover it. Then there’s this notion of falling.
But among them now. ‘locked out?’ I asked cheerfully. red-faced and Brylcreem-haired. the owner. eyes cast down. In the dining room a group had gathered to overlook the canal which guests often did. his wife. ‘They said ’twould be alright to wait here. egg and sausage breakfast on my mind. The pair of them still as statues.’ the man echoed. ‘They said ’twould be alright to wait here.’ the woman said softly. and his waitress and chef. pale and pinched as her new perm. knuckly hands gripping her handbag. 12 . Seated on the stairs between my floor and the next a man and a woman: He.’ ‘We’re waitin’ here. a spring in my step on the new red paisley carpet. to view the swans.Geraldine Aron for Damon Galgut The Couple on the Stairs In a small hotel in Galway I left my room one Sunday morning a bacon. ‘No – it’s the boy. She.’ I went on down.
But sure that drunk.’ We watched as a frogman bobbed up through the murk his gloved hand signalling a firm thumbs up. they say he was.’ ‘He was seen fallin’ in around midnight and never came up. ‘and he only seventeen. But he will soon. please God. murmuring. ‘or I assure you I wouldn’t’ve served him. a comforting hand on each of their knees. red-faced and Brylcreem-haired. to the couple on the stairs.‘Isn’t it desperate?’ said the owner’s wife. murmuring. as if keeping still would keep the news at bay.’ My appetite gone. ‘There y’are now – what did I tell ya!’ said the owner. The pair of them statue-like as ever. though. jiggling her ruddy-cheeked baby. I returned to my room. 13 . ‘The canal always gives up its dead. they sink like stones. eyes cast down.’ the owner said firmly.’ The chef said ‘Relieving himself. A garda hunkered down on the landing. pale and pinched as her new perm. knuckly hands gripping her handbag. He.’ ‘He looked much older. She.
best camera. the living room with its plump sofas. They strongly advised her not to sell. she’d called out ‘Anybody home?’ and was rewarded by the sound of a burglar exiting via the bathroom window. wild life and Prague. best laptop. once. children and visiting grandparents. (Nothing missing that mattered.) Her friends said if the apartment seemed big it was only because it was once so filled with husband. she vowed to make a change. as she always travelled with her best jewellery. she longed to feel homesick. After one such trip. She’d close her eyes and think ‘Home Sweet Home’ but hear only the silence that would greet her return when the emphatic click of the yale lock closed the front door behind her. Sometimes. So she went on more trips. feeling ironic. the mainly-cream bedroom and the views of the heath. She e-mailed her children: 14 .Geraldine Aron The woman who went down to the river Away from home. around day eleven. feigning interest in monuments. She’d picture her crisp white kitchen. as divorced women do. her fellow travellers would sigh their homesick sighs a little relieved that more of their holiday had passed than was to come.
‘I’ve decided to live by the river. and once locked binoculars with a snoop on the opposite bank. waiting for a sign. she took a holiday. and held her breath. her mainly-grape bedroom with the shimmering river reflection on the ceiling. on day eleven. something unspeakable. and recovered. Who could possibly be lonely with a view of the river?’ She rented to a composer with a baby grand with just a hint of spiteful satisfaction that he would annoy her neighbours. helmeted canoeists and – in error – the Thames River Police as they dredged for. a cold hearted lot. Enjoy the passing show. She went down to the river. unappreciative of her efforts to improve the common parts for the good of all. Thirteen days of pretending to be a cowhand on a ranch in Arizona guaranteed authentic. Then. ‘Home Sweet Home?’ she said aloud. the skippers of gravel barges. to test for homesickness. with a bathroom en suite. with its thrumming. she pictured her oak and granite kitchen. 15 . splashy traffic. And the great river itself. minimalist living room. She enticed seabirds with snacks. For two months she waved to sightseers on launches. her many-legged. And heard nothing but a steer’s bleat and a yee-haw.
our anchors of love.Douglas Reid Skinner Intermezzo —i. I thought to ask what your thoughts on the matter were. before you read the lines you wrote. Examined up close. 16 . The photograph I have of you sitting in a striped deckchair Reminds me of just such a post-prandial afternoon one spring when food and wine had all but overtaken speech And intermittent conversation catalogued the losses That accumulate: lovers. certainty. Imagining I’d find you asleep in the garden. are fleeting. unfixed. your face Shaded by a battered old hat perched at An odd angle. Nothing’s ever the same as it was A moment ago. Basho got it right. Faith and joy. That the centre doesn’t hold doesn’t matter—it never did. a book of Seferis half-open in your lap. more air Than anything else. Don Maclennan 1929–2009 In the middle of contemplating the strangeness of what You might call ‘being conscious of self and world’. the strengths We need to solve the singular puzzles of a sheer rock-face.m. Everything requires remaking and renewal.
Rosemund Handler They say At your age don’t you care to dye your hair and go for a peel and scrape? I say hey I like grey and I’m not an orange or a new potato Frank F Karinga Born a Champion 23rd March. Time is ripe for the epoch of his mission In which him the undertaker of turmoil and tragedies will speech in the voice of the outspoken poet 17 . in the royal house of Banda is born a champion in the name of victory. 1988 Unto the Ngoni tribe.
ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT For the best in second hand books try the Mowbray Charity Bookshop 6 Victoria Road Mowbray opposite Shoprite A wide variety in good condition 18 .Kerry Hammerton Lovers I want to send you a moment from the future where it is just you and I and a bed pearled with scents and the honest stickiness of hot skin and the buttery laugh of old lovers. when it is just you and I. I want to send you that moment.
Longing Summer elongates into days of beach sand. brush my shoulders against its fur. finger its soft colours. I don sunglasses to imitate winter’s light. 19 . sun. salt water. blue sky. suntan lotion.
Terror of trilobytes. angry at ammonites. 3201 20 . Killer cannibals snack on each other.Jack Spruce Eurypterid poem A chitinous critter swimming through the seas. beastly to belemnites. you know. 8 lindup Road. Jointed shells writhe in the shadow of a passing ichthyosaur. Pietermaritzburg. From Butterflies & Blackjacks – Poems from a Maritzburg Garden. Tearing a trilobite. are martyrs of mulch dying to enrich the earth. Published by Abound Publishers. bashing a belemnite. the scourge of oceans. 2 Kingswood. one fat sea scorpion is all that’s left. Always hungry. Clive Lawrance Weeds Weeds. eating an ammonite. And in the end.
The menacing boys Circling with sticks. But in this jewelled light The clapboard houses are white As salt.Lydia Lee The Exile ‘I shall be true’ she thought And so stood firm Against all blandishments. the wind. In her ear Faint and fainter the sea roar of a shell Found on a Suffolk shore. Spare and salt. the chilling Call of hounds. Scatters the thin voices of Sunday children running in the brittle grass. Flushing out frightened hares: The horn sound borne along The hollow air. New England-dour. Remembering the spindle tree In the dark copse. metallic Clang of hooves. 21 .
Mangaliso W Buzani The Dust When the rain falls The dust settles down and admires the moon A Butterfly When wings get tired A butterfly poses on a snail shell A Crab In the meeting for peace A crab came Wearing its armour 22 .
all three of us. We see her. white. I follow with my torch And find a white scut in the darkness. stepping go-lightly. For time and the millennium to wheel around And around again. hushing the ground. The fawn folded inside her. A movement in the bushes. Nodding graceful past. head twisted around to watch me. The dog pees. to this moment. frosted stars Pull away from the dark turning earth. straddled. 23 . She’d like to go but she can’t. We wait.Janice Warman The Deer Tight. dark eyes and muzzle watchful. splay-eared. She’s peeing. and the fourth. Huge belly. She’s quite still.
I have no right to water. every drop a mercy and a gift. Stanley A Galloway Leaving You Tongue dry. lips cracked and heading north from Beaufort West. our thoughts are fusing into common thread. knowing water will be more than scarce and my return not even guaranteed. 24 . and if I do. The melting pot is melting in the sun We sense a rise of deep foreboding dread our planet Earth is marching into one. But who may sit in judgment of our times? I see no way to tame the swelling tide For those who have the means commit the crimes It’s destiny that dark and light collide. The cycles reach their zenith then they sleep The world contracts with each expansive leap.Ruth Rosen As the Chosen Cast Their Final Stones As the chosen cast their final stones That once was dawn is fast becoming night While poles apart they build their gilded thrones And breadlines snake and cultures sink from sight.
Even so – when the stone from David’s sling strikes my temple. I die.Allan Kolski Horwitz Roots From the neat surface thrusting into the dark locus of water and mineral thrusting through the drought till the final withering Beyond every surface a surface Damian Shaw Goliath In the 21st Century. A cybernetic being. if only they can afford it. touching my loved ones at the speed of light. 25 . I imagine what I am: A dance of elements forged by inconceivably ancient supernovas and flung through the trackless immensity of spacetime. A wave of probability surfing the quantum excitement of calabi-yau space and multiple universes.
Hamish Whyte Two Lines: a cautionary tale Woke up last Monday with two lines in my head I didn’t know what to do with so I thought if I woke up on Tuesday with two lines and every day for a week I’d have a sonnet but the days went by and not even one more line so here they are on their own and I suppose they could be useful: remember to sleep in the recovery position 26 .
Then as now that tremor putting life into print. 27 . Index finger pushing the big keys down with all the force of seven years i clattered out: ‘i am i n the offic e . checking viscosity of oil.My First Typewriter My first encounter with a typewriter was in my grandfather’s office – hardly an office: couple of tables and chairs – and the typewriter. Saturday morning: Grandpa would be doing something. is saw uncle j imm y and the c a ts in the store’. a hulking Imperial. while I was left at the typewriter to write a letter to Granny. counting drums.
daily: Heard the alarm Got up Breathed deep. because I found it) Heard alarm etc etc etc. did teeth. faced face in mirror Dressed. if you’re like me you have to reward yourself with ticks in the right places. you’re worth it 28 . hair Swore at no-one in the effing traffic not even myself (?) Smiled and greeted at workplace Appeared in control let nobody know I wasn’t Found the wine in the fridge back home Got not unreasonably intoxicated Did absolutely nothing tick-worthy for hours Did not even hear myself snore () in bed (+!. etc Those ticks are an effort.Jennifer Lean Because you’re worth it Sometimes. sometimes. but.
29 .Lucas Zulu Age Creeping beside you like silent footstep at my own pace so mute yet so mouthy like time piece untouchable like wind song on your birthday I take off my old suit and put on my new one when they ask you about my size you count me less.
They were staring in my direction but did not seem to see me. They thanked me as I cleared away as though I’d made the meal myself.Michael Neale Shutte The Waiter at Emmaus I had noticed them come in in earnest conversation deep. on the table a morsel of broken bread. They hardly noticed me even when I brought their bread and poured their wine. their gaze turned inward. It was later that I looked in to see if they were finished and got a shock. 30 . Their supper was complete: only a drop of wine left in the cup.
31 .Damian Garside Medallion onthatile has a medallion a scar she has carried since the dawn of time a myth. that as caves go. more accommodating a slope than anything slippery in Freud or (like or not like) all his word-children. is deeper than Plato’s.
They’ll help us when we’re helpless. but in terms of what we actually want when we’re perfectly all right we might as well not be there. She has her own wars to fight. grandmas unite! The world is all before you. thank you. you who have known it all … AvAiLAbLE fROm Solo Collective. Truly. It will do them good. her own way of making sense of things while this senseless bodily decrepitude creeps in … Younger people should read this book too. true. but she’s certainly one of us. telling the story of a lively suburban grandmother – who is dealing with getting old in her own inimitable way. Cowies Hill. 4 Elgin Drive. no. Meanwhile. Granny Putzig isn’t exactly the revolutionary type. do you realize how many of us there are nowadays? We could start a revolution! Easy to imagine us taking over the centre of town. Well.za R95 (postage free in South Africa) 32 .co. while the world gets more and more ridiculous. 3610 TEl 031 266 5178 or EmAil straussp@eastcoast. Our views are politely ignored. A CALL TO THE ELDERLY! Do you know how many old people there are today? Do you know how many more there are of us than there were a generation ago? And yet the younger ones ignore us.ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT ADVERTISEMENT A Putzig Sense of Proportion Gertrud Strauss A third book by Gertrud Strauss. Struggling with getting old and managing rather well.
is recently out from Shoestring Press. Hamish Whyte is currently an Honorary Research Fellow in the Department of Scottish literature at the University of Glasgow.co. overseas subscriptions: R300.00 for 6 issues. The poem was part of her MA Creative Writing done under the supervision of Kobus Moolman.za Please ensure that your name appears as a reference for the deposit so that we can tie it to your subscription.00 into the following account: w Bank: Santander w Sort Code: 09-06-66 w w Account Name: User Friendly w Account No: 41198284 w Confirmation of payment should be emailed to firstname.lastname@example.org for 6 issues. A Bird in the Hand. Account no 070 826 099. Mill Street. like Joni Mitchell and James Joyce deciding to rewrite Thomson’s The Seasons in the style of Sappho. ISSN 2219-2867 . Window on the Garden (Essence/Botanic Press 2006) was reviewed in Scotland on Sunday as ‘Impossible to describe.notes on contributors The poem ‘Vertigo’ by Kelly Dyer is from her collection.’ CARAPACE EDITORIAL ADDRESS: P o Box 7830. 8010. Branch Code 02 09 09. Light before midnight. Roggebaai. Standard Bank Thibault Square. PAYMENT BY POST: P o Box 12020. 8012 South African subscriptions: R200. His previous poetry publication. Please make cheques/postal orders out to SNAILPRESS. A new collection of poems.za Overseas subscriptions: UNITED KINGDOM subscribers ONLY: Please deposit £25. ELECtRoNIC PAyMENtS can be made to SNAILPRESS. Please use ‘Cara Subs’ as the reference AND NB include your name! Confirmation of payment should be faxed to 021 461 9807 or emailed to email@example.com.
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