Friday, 31 July 2015

on the kitchen table she lies herself down

on the kitchen table she lies herself down
chopping her layered flesh up
as ferociously as she does onions
slicing her squirming limbs
as keenly as she does cauliflower
her tongue rolls off the bloodied surface
wagging and wailing
it has come undone
it has lost a hold of her body
for the first time standing loose
and on its own
a bit frightened in its sudden independence
this loquacious piece of flesh
feels a tingle of something
call it a tinge of excitement
that now it can be expressing
free of and from the body and brain
shamelessly feeling the liberation
to enunciate its wildest fantasies 

Tuesday, 28 July 2015

The Cross Roads VII

In a maelstrom of blankets and dust, curses and glares,
the Cave-Dweller is decidedly on the path of war.
In great insanity he is searching around his gloomy cave for
his left-hand glove. He claims that he has worn it only a day ago.
The Anarchist whispers in the ear of the Prehistoric Postal Agent
“What is all this fuss about a threadbare glove? Why don’t you go to
the Other Lands and get him a new pair?”
The Prehistoric Postal Agent stunned at the impertinence of this request
glowers at the Anarchist and whispers fiercely back into his ear
“It is against the rules of our industry to supply our services to
the selfish needs of a temperamental oaf.”
The Anarchist feigns a stutter “B..b..b..but I thought
your is all ab...b..b..bout fulf..f..f..filling all sorts
of s..s..s..selfish needs.”
The Cave-Dweller long aware of this whispering grabs a stone, 
throws it in a blind passion into the corner of 
the meddlesome whisperers and bellows “How dare you miscreants 
scheme right under my nose?!”
The Anarchist leaps up and in a tone of unsubtle mirth proclaims
“The Prehistoric Postal Agent has kindly offered to procure a new pair of gloves for you.”
“I have said no such...” but before the Prehistoric Postal Agent can 
finish his sentence the Cave-Dweller runs to embrace him.
“Your services to save my dire situation will not 
go unrewarded” the Cave-Dweller chimes in 
tones never heard from his mouth before.
From the shadow of the overhang the Wretch 
shakes his head and murmurs “What is this Cross Roads coming to? 
A Prehistoric Postal Agent turning into a charity and 
a Cave-Dweller feeling and showing immense sense of gratitude?”
For all this while the Carillon stunned into silence by all this ruckus
demurely asks “Should I be ringing in this evolutionary news for times to come?”
The Prehistoric Postal Agent hisses through his clenched teeth “You don’t dare.”
The Anarchist so pleased with the turn of events clamours with
triumphant waving of the arms “Please do, Madame Carillon.
Your ringing will in truth pronounce the devolution of life at 
the Cross Roads and everyone needs to take note of it.”
As the confusion of the day settles in everyone’s minds
the Loner comes traipsing sleepily from the cairn of 
stones to investigate what all the excitement in 
the cave was about. In his casual stride he trips over something.
It is a besmirched left-hand glove.
Scarcely recognising what it is, he unstitches the thing
and winds up the tattered threads into a tight little ball
and mutters to himself “I will gift this to our
esteemed Prehistoric Postal Agent to use as packing string.
He will be most grateful.”

Sunday, 19 July 2015


die stadsduiwe
sprei soos peperkorrels 
oor die winterlug
ek is bly hulle oorleef 
die gehardheid van ontwikkeling 
as die duiwe nog 
hulle dapperheid en 
gesondheid van 
verstand kan behou
dan kan ek ook

Thursday, 16 July 2015


met bene uitgestrek en omhoog oor die reëling
word ek wiegend weggevoer met die greyhound bus 
die swart vrou langs my se arm peul oor die sitplek
soos sy deur haar whatsapp flits op soek na vriende om te teks
steek sy my met haar elmboog tot in 
die ongemaklike werklikheid van busry

in die wolke soek ek my drome
in bob dylan soek ek my woorde
oor en oor luister ek na sad eyed lady of the lowlands
opsoek na leidrade

die einste vrou hier langs my vou haar arms inmekaar
nadat sy besef die flitse van my spasie-irritasie 
is gemik op haar annekserende elmboog
ek bewonder hoe sy met gemak haar oë toemaak 
en in haar warm vel en groot oë net so sittend kan slaap
soos 'n baba hang haar kop op haar bors
en vlieg die kilometers ongesiend verby

ek staar nog stip om my heen opsoek na leidrade

haar donker vingers is amper dieselfde kleur 
as haar baadjie se koper knope
haar kopdoek bedrewe om haar kop gevleg
ek is bly sy slaap
want nou kan ek haar in my helder wakkerheid 
noukeurig betrag
en haar oomblikse stil lewe raak skilder in vers

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

ma en dogter in die tuine

in die botaniese tuine
voel dit soos paradys
ouhoute en witstinkhoutbome
waterkuile en eende
stilte en clivias
klippe en kranse
twee swart arende
moyeni en tulane
wat takke en kos aanvlieg vir
hulle ses-weke oue kuiken
sproeiers oral op die grasperke
dit is so idillies
ek vergeet dit is winter op die hoëveld
op elke bankie wil ek myself uitstrek
in elke skadukol wil ek droom oor
hoe lekker ek kry
dit is alles nog lekkerder omdat
my ma sonja ook saam is
ek kan sien hoe die lig in haar oë ophelder
as sy in haar gunsteling laan afstap
sy kla nie een keer oor haar seer knie of enkel nie
sy is rustig en ongejaagd
ek hou die meeste van haar so -
tydloos in die botaniese tuine
wat voel soos paradys

           Walter Sisulu Botaniese Tuine

Thursday, 9 July 2015

but it is okay

but it is okay if i don’t capture
the thrills
the volcanoes
the fire
of the Love
because in quiet trust
our hearts also
love one another in
simple small beats
the rhythm 
softly shimmering

Wednesday, 8 July 2015


ooijooijooi all these feelings make little
explosions in my blood

i think and think of this love
and it makes me tingle through
to my nerve ends

i try and try to make little volcanoes
within my verse
to capture the life
the fire
the burning
the hot molten flow of this love
that refuses to stand still and
grow cold

this love keeps reshaping into whirls
that does not want to let go of its
fierce hunger to dive into
the core of the immensely small,
quiet and intimate beginnings of its life
and bloom and arch outward into
the great expanse
and make it be
in me
in you

Friday, 3 July 2015

Music of the Ancestors

I originally wrote a poem The Voices of the Ancestors for part of a performance piece at the AfrikaBurn Festival in 2012. I recently reworked it so as to be performed within my current music performances.

Soon after re-writing the poem I discovered an incredibly powerful documentary Alive Inside about the effect that music has on dementia and Alzheimer sufferers. This film shows footage of these sufferers totally disconnected with life in the frail care centers across America. They are at first quite lifeless, unresponsive and even angry. One man has a vision to bring these individuals back to a "connectedness" via the listening of music. The people start engaging, smiling, laughing and even dancing again. It makes so much sense that music has this power. But these institutions simply function around the traditional "medication" and dull their senses rather than enlivening them. 

Since watching this film this poem has become even more meaningful for me. I am aware that the poem can come across as quite "New Age". Whatever your taste in poetry, please read it with an open mind and heart.

Music of the Ancestors I

Let the Music of the Ancestors
shake the Walls of our Existence
Let the Music strike Deep into the Heart of our Beings
and sing the Harmonies of Solace into our Souls

Let the Music of the Ancestors
break open over the Plains
and sound over the entire Earth
the Song that sounds in our Dreams
pushes through the Cracks
and clings onto the Marrow
and does not let go
until it transforms our Bodies
into one Transcendental Wave

Let the Music of the Ancestors burn with the Celebration of Breath
burn with the glistening Peaks of Waves
burn with the Memory of Primordial Frequencies
that once reverberated in our Primal Ears

Music sings in One Language
that all Bodies and Souls fathom without rationality
It is the Unrest of Music
that challenges our Sense of Peace
It is the Embrace of Music
that teaches us to stand Together and Love

Music of the Ancestors II

The Vast Space begs to be filled
with that Sweeping Line of Sound
that colours Space with that Wondrous Harmony
that is so strongly at Home in our Souls

Let the Sound of the Music rise
like the Wind rises
rise like the Tide rises
rise like the Flame rises
Let the Music vibrate
Let the Music cascade through our Souls
and let us live livelier than ever before

Let our Music break through the Deserts,
break through the Forests,
break through the Oceans
Let Fish and Bird hear We can
Resonate With Song just as They can do

Silence is blessed
yet Music is more so
It is a Resonating of the Soul
a Baptizing within that Vibration that gives Life
to our Hearts and Minds

Music moves like Flame
searching for Air and when it is released
it gushes forth like a New Spring

Thank you Music for bringing Solace
in the Dark, Cold and Lonely Days
With your Warmth we can believe in our Dreams
with your Light we can see to the Edges of the World

Thursday, 2 July 2015

we, like rock

we, like rock, endure many pressures
and contort into shapes and strata
eagerly awaiting the day the sun will emblazon
our souls’ odyssey and reveal the quiet writing of our stories
in deep shades of bronze

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

ek is nie my sillabes nie

ek bly skryf en hard-op dink
gedissiplineerd in die hoop dat
die magiese vonk
op my hoof gaan spring
ek kan nie bly gedigte skryf
oor vlerke, wilskrag, 
vryheid en onverskrokkenheid
ek MOET dit weer begin LEEF
ek het nie ‘n keuse nie
ek is nie my sillabes nie
ek is my vlees en bloed