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Literature Text
Tremolo dusk. Sunlight rills cast
nets along the tigerstripe waist
dusted by ringlets of rosin smoke.
Protea's loose purple shade
sediments the honeyed brazilwood,
the heartache of acacia down in Soweto;
liquid boléro of heat. Zephyrs trill the aloe's
luthier curves, the purfling of matchbox houses.
Strings tuned to four crystal fifths, glazed
by the vibrato breeze.
nets along the tigerstripe waist
dusted by ringlets of rosin smoke.
Protea's loose purple shade
sediments the honeyed brazilwood,
the heartache of acacia down in Soweto;
liquid boléro of heat. Zephyrs trill the aloe's
luthier curves, the purfling of matchbox houses.
Strings tuned to four crystal fifths, glazed
by the vibrato breeze.
Literature
The Fuguist
Jonah hated Mars. He hated everything about it. Every minute he spent there he was plagued by a vague feeling of unrest: Mars was not quite foreign, not quite familiar, an endless mirage or coma dream. Maybe he was dead, and maybe this was purgatory. Sometimes he considered praying at night, asking for forgiveness, just in case, for whatever sin might have banished him there, but then he looked out over the barren, forsaken wasteland and thought his time was much better spent sleeping, or walking.
But he hated how soft the ground was, how little clouds of dust exploded under his soles with every step, and how he could turn around and see his
Literature
Bathtub Escapade
I am writing this to you
drunk,
From a bathtub in Jerusalem.
This room is gold
like the city itself:
stone sitting smugly
on strata pedestals
looking down haughtily
at my scrawny form:
Scribbling ego
into scraps. scripts. dusty dreams.
Humming history
Till tongue is soaked
in movements and images of
people burying all mystery
in the same old void.
I was speaking to
the Rabbi’s wife tonight,
Slurring my words
and cursing myself
and only thinking about
The dead bird stuck in the Wailing Wall
Its beak jammed in there
like a personal love letter
to God,
its wings flapping like dead weights.
From here the world loo
Literature
Scrutiny
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin…
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect…
“I am lost in my own depth,” I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic prin
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Written as a tribute to the fantastic work of Buskaid, teaching classical music to the disadvantaged children of Soweto, one of Johannesburg's poorest districts.
Buskaid
Buskaid
Comments3
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This made me smile, I love your choice of subject.