Issue 4 - February 2008 - Poetry
Hout Bay by Christopher Baker
(Winter 1977)
I roll over and hold her,
Large, soft, brown eyes searching my face
as she smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips.
Can this be so?
She lived in the shadow of loss
all those years,
and yet still loves with a passion and concern
I feel I don't deserve.
Outside the forest,
tall pines flocked with snow,
massive boughs drooping with the responsibility of the season.
The dark pine panelling of the little room
curiously bright and the scrubbed wood floor glowing healthily
in the fulvous light that permeates our bodies,
warming skin that glows firmly in my hands.
I can feel her warmth enveloping me,
hear her breathing, slow and content in the stillness,
borrow her mind for long moments when the world stops
and lambent shadows play softly on our bodies.
A cool breeze tugs the curtains,
teasing fibres of the mind,
recalling fairy tales and far off lands,
iridescent memories in the magma of time.
I laugh, a shared laugh
echoing through the corridors of our lives
until abruptly it ceases.
She puts a finger on my lips,
confirmation of the secret that we hold,
and affirmation of feelings that a language made for others
could not know.
The harsh knocking breaks the stillness of our love
Like a bell tolling.
She has my eyes and I have hers,
an involuntary tightening of the muscles
in the hands and throat,
and time hanging motionless in the lapse between the strokes.
Yet I have to go.
She closes her eyes and I kiss them both.
Revenge by Benjamin Dahlbeck
A 1930's Hollywood Glamour Queen;
silk encased hips and breasts
slinking and sliding
slowly towards you.
A scent of gardenias
fills the air,
fills your lungs
till you almost suffocate.
A silver fox fur
falls from alabaster shoulders
as single-minded arms
wrap hungrily around your neck.
Warm lips press tenaciously
against your ear
as she whispers her reason
for coming to you now.
Triumphant lips quicken towards
your waiting mouth and
a sharp, cold tongue slithers inside:
Climax - Epiphany - Final fade to black.
The Death of Two Ten-Year-Olds by Andi Kato
We hung upside down
and drank.
and drank.
and drank.
3 feet off the ground,
the closest we'd ever be to astronauts.
We quoted Forrest Gump in the rain,
and ate rocks and raw potatoes -
despite the silly, trembling pain.
I picked out the most colorful ones,
and told myself I could eat more than you,
which even now sounds like something I'd do.
And we consumed these things,
like our parents were starving us at home.
We performed plays that I wrote and directed,
but you all forgot the lines,
and you were off in regards to time,
and to my ten-year-old chagrin
I felt a great loss
paired with a great pride.
We voted each other out of the group,
like we were on reality TV.
I said you were fat, and you threw your eyes up.
I don't think they ever came back down.
I wonder if they're still there,
in that little Mountain town.
We played in the hot white sand,
and put bees in bags -
watched them suffocate,
and watched them die -
yellow as the sun,
limpid as the sky.
Ferry Journey by Robert Leach
A horizon pip, then here:
the ferry boat seemed to come for us
so quickly.
We stumbled downhill,
tripping over clods, laces,
and clattered the slats of the jetty
where a pale, tall, skinny man
with tufts of ungrown beard
barred our way, demanded our money,
that we pay.
Then we were aboard,
juddered by the dull chug-chug,
while a white wind whistled in
from the north and east.
Over the water, martins dived and spun
for grubs; but we were scarves and hoods
and crouching together.
At the next jetty
hoards loaded the boat - tourists in wellingtons,
old folk and their hats, almost everybody
away from home, a medley of languages
and purposes, the world and his wants,
all well wrapped.
And the wind barbed-wired us,
scoured us, peturbed us, cool to cold,
and the boat slugged on and on,
getting perhaps nowhere, just perhaps
a ship of fools.
Lying to Myself by Josh Morritt
I don't even remember her name -
nor the way she fit
perfectly in my arms
or how her hair
tickled my nose as she slept, pressed
against my shoulder on late-night buses and in
empty movie theatres
I don’t remember the curve of her neck
or every single freckle she possessed,
every single growth mark and
embarrassed scar.
I never kissed them all,
whispering “I love you”
in English, in French
in my head -
nor the way she’d shriek, raucous and uncouth
like crashing thunder or peak hour traffic
as I kissed her neck
in public.
Or how she lay rabbit-still, trembling
as I ran my tongue down her back -
her skin puckered and sensitive
like a fresh bullet wound,
like a Zen garden where every rounded
stone purrs like a frustrated string section
yet to climax.
I don’t remember how we
took clichéd walks at sunset
nor the way we argued
my politics, her religion, my drinking -
her friends and how they thought
she could do better (they were right).
Nor the way she
tried so hard to be serious
and mature as if her parents
were always watching,
or how she
couldn’t keep a straight face
when I made fun of random strangers
and poked their children.
I don’t remember the way
her voice could rise or
fall,
nor the way she moaned,
guttural and strange -
as if we’d never met before,
knuckles - white and drowning.
I don’t remember her scent, part cinnamon,
part cream and butterscotch -
or the way she danced,
like a drunken angel,
like a hopeful romantic,
like perfection.
I don’t even remember her name.
Magnus by Steven Munro
And so you have been born.
Face crumpled, blood smeared and black eyed,
A tiny Gollum.
I felt a tight constriction in my belly
And, in the clinical gleam, a primal ancient stirring,
Unfamiliar in its pulsing.
Your eyes were open, fists clenched and I looked at
that blank stare of fury.
One cry, short and loud broke something.
I cried myself
And I too was born in blood and tears.
The Wrong Way Down Brookline by Barrett Steinberg
in yellow moonless buzz, Scene.
You know it's not quite like
the walks through dusk's fireflies
or gliding down mountain snow,
both of which remind you of death.
There was never the pop out of
writhing flesh and heavy distortion to the cement;
this is too silently alive to compare,
and no one likes the word "kafkaesque" anyway.
It's more like a scene that the Director
turned and left the camera on,
but we're still filming.
Colour and Smell by Andrew Tertes
A dog's wet coat
chills the bones of my feet
under swollen clouds
Wisteria, orange and jasmine
are open glands
purple bells, white stars
Unable to spray
hibiscus flourishes in false pride
morning glory coils in shame
Must a flower atone
for having no scent?
If I sniff a yellow or red
hibiscus blossom once more
would I fathom
the hooded crow?