Written by hand

The way I make these marks
with my hand
expresses more than the meanings
of the words.

Each letter is individually formed,
far, very far, from the standard shape;
it talks about the emotion
with which I do this,
the energy I have,
the fears I feel hunted by,
the worries that stand laughing at me,
the joys I keep carefully sheltered
in the inner places of my mind.

My handwriting is an entity on its own,
part of, but yet a little apart
from the poem.

When will the last marks
on paper be made,
only perfectly shaped letters
produced by word processors?

I do not want to hand
everything to the machines,
I do not want now, or ever.

Stabo ego.

The moisturous life of an analyst

Due to an ad hoc sequence
of thought patterns
I realised that I will perceive today
in liquid terms,
explained the systems analyst
to the imperfect reflection of his face
rendered by the wet surface
of his steamed-over bathroom mirror.

Mucus, the analyst mused,
is instinctively shunned by all;
yet, without it, we cannot live.
The slimy linings of his mouth,
lungs, intestines – slid through his mind.

And my conception, he thought,
was splendid in its unseen mucosity.

My blood - he breathed moisture-laden words
on the mirror, to turn into tiny drops -
is sea water, coloured red to symbolise life.

My tissues swim in water,
my cells are all but water.

I'm a water creature, murmured the analyst,
living on land in my survival gear.

Perhaps I should not give my beloved
a diamond, he perused his musing;
a dry and unyielding diamond
that can cut and bruise her hand.

The solution flooded into his mind:
I will, he announced to his watery image,
bathe her in my love.

You have to play today

Yesterday was a cello,
it's notes slowly sinking into memory,
a melody that contained complex parts
and sections that shared notes contemplatively.

Today is a clarinet,
beginning to play an adagio,
its body in a tremolo,
ready to set off
into interwoven melodies
yet to be created.

Today will be blown by me,
the inexpert musician.

The colours of women's hands                   

The hands of Chinese women

embroider ancient patterns

on brightly coloured materials,

the hands of Czech women

stitch beads in clever designs,

the fingers of English girls

fold taffetas and cottons

and artificial silks into wedding dresses,

the hands of Ndebele women

paint geometric designs

in sparkling acrylics,

the fingers of Indian mothers

dab scarlet bindis

on their daughters' foreheads;

the palms of all mothers

are white,

the colour of light.

Mother Africa        

They buried rocks

under their fires

for a day and more

at Blombos cave

on the beach of Stilbaai

where they gathered mussels.

The rocks changed

to a greasy sheen,

and hardened.

Then they flaked them

into thin, deadly blades.

Far in the north,

one hundred and sixty years ago,

white rhinos grazed

over the outcrops

of a rich gold reef.

People knew that lions

were stronger than they were,

leopards more cunning,

baboons a stronger tribe,

elephants the wisest of all.

But at night, around the fire,

they clapped their hands and sang

sun, sun, come again, sun!

The other animals never did that.

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?  

Early in the morning

the moon was half awake,

sailing through the dawning hour;

I was still picking off

streamers of my dreams.

Last night that moon was wild,

trying to become intimate

with some street lights.

Long conversations

in which words became

aimlessly sprayed deodorant.

That moon

eventually sobered up a bit,

sitting stiffly

in the branches

of a thorn tree.

Hey moon, you're living, aren't you?

What's the use of staidly

stepping your beat

with never a wobble?

You and I still have

a lot of light to wantonly waste,

a lot of lying through our teeth;

this thing we do,

this living.

The meaning of life and related phenomena            

Two men argue
about the colour of apricot jam;
one, an IT specialist,
feels that it is predominantly orange,
the other, and advertising media expert,
sees yellow and green tinges.

The IT specialist sits on the bonnet
of his friend's high-performance car,
the media expert paces to and fro,
absentmindedly fumbling with his cell phone.

White clouds hastily scurry over
in an effort not to look like sheep,
and spread over the sky,
obscuring the progress
of a boeing passenger plane.

I have no idea why we have this conversation,
the IT specialist remarks in irritation.
I must watch out for constipation,
the media expert thoughtfully replies.

A career dog trots up
and lifts his leg to splash
the car's back wheel.
He has his eye on a discarded hamburger lying in the flower bed;
everything makes sense, the dog realises,
eminent sense.