Here are some of the poems I wrote on this course.
THE
LAUNDROMAT OF LONELINESS
This
is the place where single people come
from
bed-sitters and rented rooms.
They
sit on slatted wooden benches.
and
listen to the whirring noise
of
wash machines and tumble driers.
Avoiding
one another’s gaze
they
bury noses in worn paperbacks,
while
faded towels and pillowcases
whirl
round with unpaired socks and
threadbare
underclothes.
TOAD IN A HOLE
A shriek from Gairo, my domestic worker
A frog!
a frog! It’s in the shower room.
I run to see compressed there in a
corner
a little shiny, round medallion, yellow
with blotch of black and spots of scarlet.
It is a tiny baby leopard toad.
A species, rare, endangered by the
shrinkage
of habitat and threatened now by us.
We cannot leave it there, but do not
wish
to squash with careless hand its
softness
or let our fingers feel its slimy, toxic
skin
I take a floppy, large spaghetti mop
and try to sweep the creature out the
door
It doesn’t work; the mop is far too soft
I poke it with a canvas covered toe.
My foot is much too big to fit the niche
the animal is using as its shelter.
I take a kitchen towel and as it leaps
away
I fling the towel over its elongated
form,
grab it and wrap it tight, and then
I take it to the garden pond and let it
go
and Gairo stops her shivering and startst
to clean all trace of frog out of the house
Boss
off to loo
Frog
on loo floor
Boss
cross.
Oh!
Oh!
Frog
on loo floor
not
cool.
Frog
got to go.
How?
Mop
no good,
too soft
foot no good
too gross
Stop!
Cloth?
Throw cloth on frog
fold hold
boot frog to pond
Look Boss
Look Boss
No Frog
.
We
see the boiler and the rudder of the wreck
Between
the ribs sand covers all the deck.
The
rest of it lies buried far below.
She
ran aground a hundred years ago
There
was no loss of life, no dead.
The
crew just jumped onto the sand and fled
The
captain stayed for months alone on board
He
hid for shame. He would not say a word
The
captain knew that everyone would say
It
was his fault the ship lay where she lay
He
should have kept her safely as a son
Not
see her wrecked before her voyage was done
The
captain beat his breast; he tore his hair,
quite
overcome by sorrow and despair.
Always
as long as he drew breath
he
would regret this day until his death.
That
stormy day, the waves were big and wild
The
wind wailed loudly like a tortured child
The
surf pounded the shore, thundering aloud
The
gale shook masts and rattled every shroud
To
port a cliff was seen to rise up high
It’s
shape was clear against the sky
The
captain cried above the storm’s harsh sound
“Good
helmsman, turn the ship around.
I
see Cape Point behind it is False Bay,
and
a harbour where our ship can safely stay
(but
no one could have been as wrong as he)
Full-speed
ahead the ship rushed from the sea
She
dug herself into the sand so fair and square
That
a century later she’s still sitting there
of
Cape History just a tiny part
a
ship’s wreck, a captain’s broken heart
DREARY
DRAPES
(Note:
In the Old Age Complex where I live we are required to have only neutral
colours at all the windows.)
Twin
censors of sight,
two
lengths of calico,
three
metres up and three across
cover
my bedroom window.
They
cut out light and block the view
of
trees and sky.
At
the ceiling they deform
in
pebbly gathers,
dirt-road
corrugations from which flow
beige
mudslides,
Cascades
of silty ripples undulate sideways,
grow
into waves and
billow
at the floor
But
at the centre where they meet,
they
grudgingly allow
slivers
of sunlight
to
sidle through
and
make the dust-motes
dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment