POETRY
I don't claim to be a poet by any means, but sometimes moments move me to write, and these are some of the collisions I have had with words...
As a teacher, I feel that everyone should be able to appreciate the power of words, but if you would like to use any of these, please let me know.
As a teacher, I feel that everyone should be able to appreciate the power of words, but if you would like to use any of these, please let me know.
The Wheel Turns
(Written after an accident on my bicycle at the start of the 947 Road Race, being stranded and helped by strangers to find my way home...)
I limp on, buckled wheel
In the crook of my arm,
A dusty road stretching beneath my feet.
My legs are a grated graze
That makes me whine
And there is a dry pencil line of blood
That has dried along my left arm.
My bicycle is a lame horse
It trails behind me.
I am alone.
My phone
Tucked in my back pocket
Is cracked and useless.
The race has left me far behind.
My breath is ragged
And the scratching of my shoes
On the dust
Etches my solitude in the silence.
And then from the horizon behind me
A thread of brown dust
That looms larger.
I move to the side of the road
My shirt feebly avoiding the dirt
That chokes my throat
Anticipating a storm as the car passes.
A blue taxi stops beside me.
Deep base music thumps
From throbbing speakers.
A sliding door grinds open
And I am welcomed by
A beaming white smile
Drawn on a friendly round face.
"Uyaphi?"
I am sorry, I don’t speak isiZulu
"Where are you going darling?"
I don’t know myself.
"Somewhere where there is a phone?"
"Jump in."
"I don’t have money for a fare."
"Don’t worry."
The door slams shut.
My broken bicycle
Is jammed between two small kids
Who ring its bell
To punctuate the music.
I squash between the passengers
A dog wags it’s tail
As it sits respectfully on the floor
Among the spaza bags
And two wide eyed chickens.
Someone passes me an orange.
I have nothing to give in return
So I try to refuse,
But there is an insistence I cannot ignore.
Gratefully, I smile as the sweetness wets my lips.
I wipe a smear of dust from my cheek,
Wondering why my filth is accepted
What I did to deserve such generosity.
There is laughter as I tell the story
Of my limping bicycle and a race lost.
It makes me smile as a giggle
Rubs shoulder to shoulder.
Twenty minutes
The dirt has become tar,
The streets filled with more people and cars
As the driver pulls over at a shopping centre.
My intentional stop.
I feel inadequate.
How do I show gratitude?
You do I express the way
These people
Have delivered my faith in people.
"Thank you, ngiyabonga."
Doesn’t feel enough.
We smile at each other
Because there are more good people out there
In the kindness of strangers.
(Written after an accident on my bicycle at the start of the 947 Road Race, being stranded and helped by strangers to find my way home...)
I limp on, buckled wheel
In the crook of my arm,
A dusty road stretching beneath my feet.
My legs are a grated graze
That makes me whine
And there is a dry pencil line of blood
That has dried along my left arm.
My bicycle is a lame horse
It trails behind me.
I am alone.
My phone
Tucked in my back pocket
Is cracked and useless.
The race has left me far behind.
My breath is ragged
And the scratching of my shoes
On the dust
Etches my solitude in the silence.
And then from the horizon behind me
A thread of brown dust
That looms larger.
I move to the side of the road
My shirt feebly avoiding the dirt
That chokes my throat
Anticipating a storm as the car passes.
A blue taxi stops beside me.
Deep base music thumps
From throbbing speakers.
A sliding door grinds open
And I am welcomed by
A beaming white smile
Drawn on a friendly round face.
"Uyaphi?"
I am sorry, I don’t speak isiZulu
"Where are you going darling?"
I don’t know myself.
"Somewhere where there is a phone?"
"Jump in."
"I don’t have money for a fare."
"Don’t worry."
The door slams shut.
My broken bicycle
Is jammed between two small kids
Who ring its bell
To punctuate the music.
I squash between the passengers
A dog wags it’s tail
As it sits respectfully on the floor
Among the spaza bags
And two wide eyed chickens.
Someone passes me an orange.
I have nothing to give in return
So I try to refuse,
But there is an insistence I cannot ignore.
Gratefully, I smile as the sweetness wets my lips.
I wipe a smear of dust from my cheek,
Wondering why my filth is accepted
What I did to deserve such generosity.
There is laughter as I tell the story
Of my limping bicycle and a race lost.
It makes me smile as a giggle
Rubs shoulder to shoulder.
Twenty minutes
The dirt has become tar,
The streets filled with more people and cars
As the driver pulls over at a shopping centre.
My intentional stop.
I feel inadequate.
How do I show gratitude?
You do I express the way
These people
Have delivered my faith in people.
"Thank you, ngiyabonga."
Doesn’t feel enough.
We smile at each other
Because there are more good people out there
In the kindness of strangers.
Stop the clocks
I always knew Ian as Iantjie, A Brindyism which was adopted By my children as Grandpa Iantjie. He accepted me into his family Some ten years ago, And my life has been so enriched Because he has been in it. I will miss his mind the gap grin And guffaw of a laugh, His “jeans are not for dinner” values And sneezes that lifted the roof. Most of all, I will miss Iantjie’s advice That always had such clarity of perception. It was simple, straightforward, honest and wise. He had an engineers mind That created elegant solutions: Iantjie understood that simplicity always trumps From hydrogen power to relationships. He was a real man in every sense of the word. He was resilient, strong and resourceful, But he could also sew, hug, love and support. His hands were a wonder: Iantjie could build something beautiful from nothing: Balsa wood planes, boats or even broken hearts. He was musical as well, with fingers That could dance across guitar strings, And somehow Iantjie could pick up any Instrument and just play. There was a creativity to his engineering Spirit too, Anyone would see that from Iantjie’s writing; He could make words come alive on a page. How could one person be so good at so many things? I think it is because if Iantjie did anything, He held nothing back and it would come out perfectly. If he had written this poem, It would ooze with witty references And probably rhyme. When I think of Iantjie, I’ll remember Burns Nichts at the Pretoria Club Family celebrations at the Cavern And the warmth the home he made with Granny Rose. Iantjie had 13 grandchildren, 6 children And everything else that is bundled in with that. But somehow Iantjie made room in his giant heart For a family that bursts at the seams. He was methodical and precise with everything: Including how he gave so much love to all of us. Despite his shortness, he had a presence in a room, A presence which, now gone, Feels like there is a void left in the world. I wonder what advice Iantjie would give me About coping with that void? I am sure he would laugh, Have a wee dram of something wet and Scottish, And tell me to draw on the rich memories that He has given every one of us. He would say that a little Piece of himself is alive In each of us. Good nicht de noo, Grandpa Iantjie. We will all miss you so much. Ian Fraser 7 February 1940 - 25 April 2022 |
Mohave in Spate
The transition is quick.
One moment a smattering of silver raindrops
The next a torrent of water that obscures the sky.
It comes in sheets with the wind:
Fierce and violent.
Trees attempt a retreat, flailing their limbs in distress.
Leaves are gathered up like flotsam
And tossed towards the clouds.
The Mohave River:
A dry sand-course that has been starved by the sun
Begins a metamorphosis.
A muddy tongue of rainwater
Gathered through the rivulets that join the main channel
Create a bow wave that crests
But cannot fall.
It is curls forwards with the force
Of rushing water.
The rumble of thunder
Like the roar of a lioness
Becomes a growl of muddy water.
The river fills quickly with the assault of rain.
Lightning creates yellow geometric patterns
That strobe through the night sky.
They illuminate a frozen moment of falling water
Of twisting trees
And a river beginning to flood.
Water rises, eating into the river banks
And sending them crashing in a wave of debris
That sounds like a crumbling building.
The river becomes animal
A serpent eating everything in its path
Devouring unanchored trees
And swallowing elephantine logs whole.
It rises in less than an hour
Taller than the horn-tip of an old Kudu Bull.
Everything is saturated with water.
And then the storm quietens.
Rain petering itself out.
The storm retreats.
Rushing water left behind.
Rumbling.
The transition is quick.
One moment a smattering of silver raindrops
The next a torrent of water that obscures the sky.
It comes in sheets with the wind:
Fierce and violent.
Trees attempt a retreat, flailing their limbs in distress.
Leaves are gathered up like flotsam
And tossed towards the clouds.
The Mohave River:
A dry sand-course that has been starved by the sun
Begins a metamorphosis.
A muddy tongue of rainwater
Gathered through the rivulets that join the main channel
Create a bow wave that crests
But cannot fall.
It is curls forwards with the force
Of rushing water.
The rumble of thunder
Like the roar of a lioness
Becomes a growl of muddy water.
The river fills quickly with the assault of rain.
Lightning creates yellow geometric patterns
That strobe through the night sky.
They illuminate a frozen moment of falling water
Of twisting trees
And a river beginning to flood.
Water rises, eating into the river banks
And sending them crashing in a wave of debris
That sounds like a crumbling building.
The river becomes animal
A serpent eating everything in its path
Devouring unanchored trees
And swallowing elephantine logs whole.
It rises in less than an hour
Taller than the horn-tip of an old Kudu Bull.
Everything is saturated with water.
And then the storm quietens.
Rain petering itself out.
The storm retreats.
Rushing water left behind.
Rumbling.
My Favorite Things
Kettles on campfires and wallowing warthogs Showers by starlight and chorus of reed frogs Bateleurs spiraling up on their wings These are a few of my favorite things Nightjars that whistle and sunsets that glisten The chatter of insects that stop when you listen The shape of a kudu and antelope springs These are a few of my favorite things. Lioness footprints and dung beetles rolling Patterns on riverbeds like stitches of sewing Elephants swimming and waterbuck rings These are a few of my favorite things |
No Fences at Night
The disappearance of the sun and exposure to the moon
Forces me to abandon my eyes in favour of my ears.
So I wait for it to begin.
First a gentle ovature of insects.
Their flute-atious voices become the founding night's choir.
An invisible conductor creates the ebb and flow
Of shrill repetitions that energize my sightless vista.
A blind following of nightjars is next.
Their soprano voices trill and swirl in the darkness
Like a plume of well-versed feathers
Each note is a deliberate melody.
An intrusion of wailing
Discords the perfectly placed symphony
Like a baby crying in the back row
A jackal bates the evening air and then is gone.
Her howl is replaced by an excited whoop
As a teenager's encoure lolls off the tongue
Of a loping hyena
Confidently hidden by the still night air.
The crescendo comes much later
After the rhythm and ecstasy of animal voices
And unplaced instruments
Grow tired by the dawn.
The searching drawl begins deep
In the bowels of a lioness.
Her breathe forced between incisored jaws
A laboured density of semiquavers
Seem to penetrate the earth itself
But achieve no response.
Without a roof or enclosure,
The concert in blackness
Makes me feel less vulnerable
My wilderness displacement
Replaced by an elemental joy.
The disappearance of the sun and exposure to the moon
Forces me to abandon my eyes in favour of my ears.
So I wait for it to begin.
First a gentle ovature of insects.
Their flute-atious voices become the founding night's choir.
An invisible conductor creates the ebb and flow
Of shrill repetitions that energize my sightless vista.
A blind following of nightjars is next.
Their soprano voices trill and swirl in the darkness
Like a plume of well-versed feathers
Each note is a deliberate melody.
An intrusion of wailing
Discords the perfectly placed symphony
Like a baby crying in the back row
A jackal bates the evening air and then is gone.
Her howl is replaced by an excited whoop
As a teenager's encoure lolls off the tongue
Of a loping hyena
Confidently hidden by the still night air.
The crescendo comes much later
After the rhythm and ecstasy of animal voices
And unplaced instruments
Grow tired by the dawn.
The searching drawl begins deep
In the bowels of a lioness.
Her breathe forced between incisored jaws
A laboured density of semiquavers
Seem to penetrate the earth itself
But achieve no response.
Without a roof or enclosure,
The concert in blackness
Makes me feel less vulnerable
My wilderness displacement
Replaced by an elemental joy.
The Little Five
When did we reduce the grandeur
Of nature onto five of our fingers?
Eenee, meenee, minee, mo
As we trundle off in search
Of the big game, forgetting
That an Antlion
With its conical of quicksand
Booby trapping the small earth spaces
Can be just as enchanting
As a full-grown lion asleep.
Or the Buffalo Weaver
Using a red beak for dexterity
Balancing a blur of black wings
Showing ingenuity in weaving
A buffalo cannot match.
How about the Leopard Tortoise
That will outlive its furry counterpart
Because methodical protection
Is something that can count more
Than fangs and claws.
And the Elephant Shrew
With wriggling proboscis
And speed through pathways
Remembered through the undergrowth
Like an elephant that never forgets.
And finally the Rhinoceros Beetle
A fearsome battleship of an insect
That is stocky like a staffie
But shares the fragility
Of its behemoth ally
When did we reduce the grandeur
Of nature onto five of our fingers?
Eenee, meenee, minee, mo
As we trundle off in search
Of the big game, forgetting
That an Antlion
With its conical of quicksand
Booby trapping the small earth spaces
Can be just as enchanting
As a full-grown lion asleep.
Or the Buffalo Weaver
Using a red beak for dexterity
Balancing a blur of black wings
Showing ingenuity in weaving
A buffalo cannot match.
How about the Leopard Tortoise
That will outlive its furry counterpart
Because methodical protection
Is something that can count more
Than fangs and claws.
And the Elephant Shrew
With wriggling proboscis
And speed through pathways
Remembered through the undergrowth
Like an elephant that never forgets.
And finally the Rhinoceros Beetle
A fearsome battleship of an insect
That is stocky like a staffie
But shares the fragility
Of its behemoth ally
My Wild Africa
The bushveld celebrates the close of another day With colour and voices and scents. Somehow everything here is vaster: The sky seems more endless, The sun a richer shade of orange, The Mashatu trees towering pillars. It is a place of no small measures. I try to name what I hear As the earth moves from red to grey to black. Giant Eagle-Owls, Fiery-Necked Nightjars, Jacobins Cuckoos and Grey Hornbills. We come across a carved bend in the dry river There, Bee-Eaters are frantic in their flight, Kites of wings and equilateral tail feathers Beat their iridescent bodies to catch unseen insects Their shining plumage becoming dark silhouettes. Swifts dash along the dizzy sandbank Tumbling and soaring and breakneck speed As if caught in a blurry whirlpool, Eating on the wing. The sinews of bark and leaves Become less definitive in the dwindling light As Venus appears to keep me company. The sky becomes the colour of ink. My mind connects with the ecology around me: There is an ordered chaos in the wilderness With each element nestling into its place A firmament of life In my wild Africa. |
Eagle's Rock
Through a puzzle of crevices I crest the koppie's summit. The sun is seeping through the clouds Her hands making a cup of dawn And slivers of orange and yellow light Slipping through the gaps in her fingers. Mistakingly, I disturb the resident black eagles That effortlessly find the first thermals As they leap from their nest, White V-necks glinting through the morning. An ecology of smooth sandstone Knead the top of Eagle Rock And beneath them the Mohloutse River: A dry snake of sand pockmarked with footprints. Mashatu, Leadwood and Mopane trees Dominate its banks And I see a pair of giraffe plod their path From one side of the river to the next. Their loping gates make me understand Why they are names kameelperd. The dotted guineafowl Bicker on the ground below And hornbills choreograph their calls With the approaching day. I hear some disciplinary barks from The baboons as they mentor their troop And the crack of a branch Makes me turn to watch a proud Male kudu weave past a wild fig A regal ghost in the undergrowth. The long flute of a bush shrike And the whistle of an owlet Reverberate the branches Somewhere below. I look in their direction And catch some movement in the thicket. A bull elephant emerges A silent behemoth whose Wizened steps take him Slurping from a muddly pool. I close my eyes And breath in the warm smell From the elephant Ascended by a gentle breeze And feel I am At Home. |
Mud Luscious
They arrive with eager, confident plods
Long strides towards a cool splash of mud.
Their knuckled toes kick at stubborn patches
Quenching a luxurious spa-mud-mix
Their dextrous trunks:
Long railway tracks of muscles
Fist the mixture and hurl it upwards.
Mud arches change grey backs to brown
A deep, rich, bushveld brown.
Sucking sound steps further into the water
A rumble of contentment
Reverberates through the group.
Some collapse onto their haunches
And then lie into a torrent of moisture.
There is mud everywhere.
Their amber eyes seem to smile
As youngsters delight in the mess.
A bushveld spa treatment
Pachyderm style
They arrive with eager, confident plods
Long strides towards a cool splash of mud.
Their knuckled toes kick at stubborn patches
Quenching a luxurious spa-mud-mix
Their dextrous trunks:
Long railway tracks of muscles
Fist the mixture and hurl it upwards.
Mud arches change grey backs to brown
A deep, rich, bushveld brown.
Sucking sound steps further into the water
A rumble of contentment
Reverberates through the group.
Some collapse onto their haunches
And then lie into a torrent of moisture.
There is mud everywhere.
Their amber eyes seem to smile
As youngsters delight in the mess.
A bushveld spa treatment
Pachyderm style
Silent Giants
A shadow of grey breaks the line of dappled leaves. It moves through the wilted orange leaves Of Mopane Trees gently, quietly. An outline emerges And I can make out an eye, a trunk, a tusk Between the branches. What was one elephant becomes two And then three and then more. A vast herd plods into the open Their fingerprint feet making circles in the sand. Mothers coax belly-high babies between them. A churning rumble from the matriarch Signals a stop. And they begin to feed. The elephants stretch and break branches Of trees that arch their way across the dry river. They search for green and strip bark into long sinews, Feeding slowly and certainly. They have been here before and know the best places. I sit with my back against an anthill And watch two youngsters with toothpick tusks come closer. The s of their trunks catch my smell As they move up the bank, and still closer. As they move to within reach of my hands, they stop. I watch amber eyes looking back at me. Both elephants stop and smell some more, Watching. I hold my breath, but feel no harm There is a calmness that relaxes the elephants That sniff the air once more And then move back to the herd. My smile left behind. |
Lion
They emerge from a sandy drainage line
Young green eyes betraying their nerves.
They still need to control their fear,
Which will fade with the blotches
Of cub underbellies.
Self assurance comes with their mother:
A wizened lioness.
As a puddle of yellow-grass-fur
They pad back to the kill,
A young impala
That will not feed them for long.
A cocky male cub
Collared by a tassel of mane-stubble
Claims a half-chewed leg.
He swings it from his mouth
Playing with his food
Until mum squeezes a low growl
From between her teeth.
His pride yellowed,
He moves to the other cubs.
An obedient teenager now,
But one day his mane will grow black
And his chest will swell big enough
To command his own pride.
One day.
They emerge from a sandy drainage line
Young green eyes betraying their nerves.
They still need to control their fear,
Which will fade with the blotches
Of cub underbellies.
Self assurance comes with their mother:
A wizened lioness.
As a puddle of yellow-grass-fur
They pad back to the kill,
A young impala
That will not feed them for long.
A cocky male cub
Collared by a tassel of mane-stubble
Claims a half-chewed leg.
He swings it from his mouth
Playing with his food
Until mum squeezes a low growl
From between her teeth.
His pride yellowed,
He moves to the other cubs.
An obedient teenager now,
But one day his mane will grow black
And his chest will swell big enough
To command his own pride.
One day.
A Debate Ensues
I poke the Mopane flames with a stick Sending firefly sparks into the air. We chat quietly through by its warmth. "What is the sound of the bush?" And a debate ensues. The boundaries of nocturnal or diurnal Established, we begin a list by name. The fish eagle is a unanimous favorite And someone whistles its cry, Imitating a neck thrown back And the warbling tune. But what about hornbills? Whose collective duets Ebb like violent waves in the trees. Perhaps the franklin in twilight mornings That rattle in the undergrowth? Then there is night, With a scops owl twirr A simple whistle answered by another. Or a fiery-necked nightjar Whose melodious tune reminds me Of its flaming namesake. And what of the animals? A soulful roar from the belly Of a lion, breathless and quaking? Perhaps a hyena's long loping whoop? Maybe it is the witchcraft of a jackal Or the cheer from dazzling zebras? We mimic their voices and listen For other possibilities in the night, While I send more winking sparks From the fire up to the moon. |
Ramsgate and Rockpools
Amidst the innocence of seashells
And the intimacy of rock pools,
Splashing laughter mingles with beach sand.
Buckets and spades,
Ice-creams and sun cream
Strewn with earnest abandon
In a heated dash to the sea
Where waves roll over themselves
In the shape of spun candyfloss
And splashing feet scatter the retreating tide
Before plunging into their new depths
Surrendering to their ebb and flow.
Salt and water form pressed crusts
On chubby toddler legs
And dry sand patterns roll off their elbows.
Collections of hermit crabs line buckets
Next to towering sand castles
Of imaginary princesses and dragons.
The joy of childhood inhabits these spaces.
Amidst the innocence of seashells
And the intimacy of rock pools,
Splashing laughter mingles with beach sand.
Buckets and spades,
Ice-creams and sun cream
Strewn with earnest abandon
In a heated dash to the sea
Where waves roll over themselves
In the shape of spun candyfloss
And splashing feet scatter the retreating tide
Before plunging into their new depths
Surrendering to their ebb and flow.
Salt and water form pressed crusts
On chubby toddler legs
And dry sand patterns roll off their elbows.
Collections of hermit crabs line buckets
Next to towering sand castles
Of imaginary princesses and dragons.
The joy of childhood inhabits these spaces.
Tidal Lives
Every day there is something new. Twitching pincers and goggling eyes from a crab Or the nervous dart of a dogfish And why do conical seashells always spiral left? If you listen carefully you can hear the rice crispy crackle Of invertebrates feeding. How about the laboured shuffling of a hermit crab With bright blue eyes And the red silk fringes of a sea slug. Snails glue themselves to the rocks I have found And sea urchin prickles move with ominous intent. The tiny hairs underneath a starfish Move in ordered sequence And I’m amazed how a live cowry shell Envelops itself. Anemone tentacles delicately test the water And Bella’s face with her shining eyes Peeks through Perspex At her new set of wonders. |
Happy Places
The wilderness haunts my dreams And berates my city dwelling For all its selfish trappings And narrow perspectives. The call of cicadas beckon me And fish eagles sound like home As the eloquent bushveld Quenches my imagination. The smell of rain Like dark chocolate turning sweet Melts into peaceful simplicity And pitter-pats dusty trails. There is a butterfly balance Of ecological threads And every life plays their part Selflessly and courageously. Every niche is accounted for With balanced intimacy Precise in their construction Without winners and losers. Time has no meaning Except for the stretching sun That rules over life With crimson beginnings and ends. Nature’s voices Breathes God’s breathe With artistry and poetry, Wonder and enchantment. And here I find my purpose. |
Desert Dreams
The copper sand undulates in endless dunes. Patterns blown through eternity By fingers of God's. These desolately gentle mountains Migrate To an Eden of rock and plant As my quiet ascent Moves with the wind. Giraffe shapes in morning light Radiate shadows drawn by a child With elogent elongated legs. A paternity of Oryx March for water like the mirage they defy. And all there is is silence The distance between the earth and me grows But somehow I feel a fusion betwixt My heart and the landscape below. My new found perspective Offers my soul breath And it is almost as if I am caught In the current of a river Above a dry Namib Desert. |
A Romantic Hike
A stuttering of fireflies follows the river downstream,
Their breathless green glows like the constellations overhead.
We watch the celestial surprize while lying on our backs
Heads nestles in necks and a wrapping of arms.
Through a canopy of winnowing trees overhead
Stars blink through leafy shadows.
In the grassland of our riverine refuge
Termite mounds erupt flying ants.
Their lace of translucent wings shimmering
As each one is spat from the ground
Searching for new colonies, new possibilities.
And we can hear the paper-rustle of their movements.
The sound of cacophonous frogs
Pirouettes in trebles from the water
Matching and competing, their sounds annotate the night
Rising and falling like the ebb of our breathing
Halted by the whip-snap of thunder
And the plush splatter of raindrops.
We retreat to our tent, watching water dribble
On the outside of canvass.
Lightning illuminates our faces
And the dull thud of thunder
Brings with it wind and storm.
And silence.
I smile at a good day that has come from the ache of walking
The warm throb of my shoulders;
Laughter on a meandering mountain trail
Shared with bushbuck and zebras.
I think about plunging deep into the river
And splashing like children in heart-quenching water.
Of intimate conversations
About life and possibilities and dreams.
Narrated by voices from the wilderness:
Red-winged louries or the bark of baboons.
Sharing joys and inhibitions.
Of simple treasures
And a knowing smile of a marriage re-found.
A stuttering of fireflies follows the river downstream,
Their breathless green glows like the constellations overhead.
We watch the celestial surprize while lying on our backs
Heads nestles in necks and a wrapping of arms.
Through a canopy of winnowing trees overhead
Stars blink through leafy shadows.
In the grassland of our riverine refuge
Termite mounds erupt flying ants.
Their lace of translucent wings shimmering
As each one is spat from the ground
Searching for new colonies, new possibilities.
And we can hear the paper-rustle of their movements.
The sound of cacophonous frogs
Pirouettes in trebles from the water
Matching and competing, their sounds annotate the night
Rising and falling like the ebb of our breathing
Halted by the whip-snap of thunder
And the plush splatter of raindrops.
We retreat to our tent, watching water dribble
On the outside of canvass.
Lightning illuminates our faces
And the dull thud of thunder
Brings with it wind and storm.
And silence.
I smile at a good day that has come from the ache of walking
The warm throb of my shoulders;
Laughter on a meandering mountain trail
Shared with bushbuck and zebras.
I think about plunging deep into the river
And splashing like children in heart-quenching water.
Of intimate conversations
About life and possibilities and dreams.
Narrated by voices from the wilderness:
Red-winged louries or the bark of baboons.
Sharing joys and inhibitions.
Of simple treasures
And a knowing smile of a marriage re-found.
Siyawela
Contours flow like fingerprints Of spent lead meandering across a page: Named by those who found them. They migrate to passes in the kloofs, Follow the hoof and paw prints of animals, Over a tumbling Crocodile River Or buzzcut open plains. Sometimes they are hidden by arms of acacias, Where the ghosts of trogans and louries Bark between mottled leaves: In a spark of daisy-red wings. They weave between solemn stone kraals Forgotten to the trees of time. Picking their way over rocky descents Or the saddle where a mountain meets. Their namesakes are a memory of fineprint Gears and Wyldes and Pimple. Marked with a yellow emblem: A beacon if boyhood adventure. Three thousand footprints, Give or take Have shouldered their dreams Their laughter and reflection Along the Schoemanskloof trails. Because there is truth in the way But also experience when it’s lost. |
Small Indulgences
Tiny whispers of wind are suddenly filled
With the snowflake butterflies and
Figure-eight flaps of tissue paper wings
Steering through the rapids and eddies of air
Somehow always moving northeast.
Your distraction arrives in time
To remind me of perspective
Small things that appreciate small things.
Brown-veined white wings
Like the spin-drift of cotton
Bumping together
As a patterned migration.
Your journey is a silent whisper flow like
Muted music
Your visual notes not stopping for breath.
Like unseasonal blossoms you
Float as daytime stars.
What drives your urge to move on
So far across rivers and mountains and oceans?
Monumental distances.
Powdered white swooning and swaying.
Mesmerizing.
Your butterfly effect makes me pause in wonder
Adding grace to the world.
Tiny whispers of wind are suddenly filled
With the snowflake butterflies and
Figure-eight flaps of tissue paper wings
Steering through the rapids and eddies of air
Somehow always moving northeast.
Your distraction arrives in time
To remind me of perspective
Small things that appreciate small things.
Brown-veined white wings
Like the spin-drift of cotton
Bumping together
As a patterned migration.
Your journey is a silent whisper flow like
Muted music
Your visual notes not stopping for breath.
Like unseasonal blossoms you
Float as daytime stars.
What drives your urge to move on
So far across rivers and mountains and oceans?
Monumental distances.
Powdered white swooning and swaying.
Mesmerizing.
Your butterfly effect makes me pause in wonder
Adding grace to the world.
MEANINGFUL MOMENTS
An Ode to a Vintage Past
Infused in the air
Is locomotive cologne;
Water soot steam sweat and oil.
Intoxicating
In its simplicity.
It engulfs everything
In deep breaths
As an eruption of smoke
Forcing a bass beat
Along steel railways.
The sound elicits crinkled
Smile creases
Like lines of crumpled paper
On the edges
Of coal-darkened engineer eyes
Flames lick
The edges of a riveted boiler
And brass-rimmed gauges
Keep a pressured watch
Like horn-rimmed goggles.
A patchwork of iron
Clack under laden wheels
And a churlish whistle
Echoes in meandering hills.
Overhead
An elongated note that
Is Gypsy in origin
Winds canvas wings
Whipping a yellow-blue biplane.
Leather-jacketed pilots
Flock to the steam,
Their silk-white scarves
Undulating from the cockpit
And they peer earthwards.
Returning their open-mouthed smiles
Is eloquent coachwork
And wooden spoked-wheels
Varnished to a sheen
Of bright coloured cars.
Shining brass and nickel and silver
Headlights chase the Tiger and the train
With the cacophony
Of combustion
Resonating steam and fuel.
The past and present combine
And in some way a penny drops
From the pleasure of reconnecting
With romance
And reminiscence.
Of paintings and stories
Charcoal-sketching
Glorious days of
Hard men,
Beautiful women.
When travel was not
An irritant but an exploration
And flight was not a passing drone
But a source of upward awe.
Of excitement.
The senses remind us
That our past is not too far away
And while we might be lost
In being frantic
We can still take time to appreciate.
Infused in the air
Is locomotive cologne;
Water soot steam sweat and oil.
Intoxicating
In its simplicity.
It engulfs everything
In deep breaths
As an eruption of smoke
Forcing a bass beat
Along steel railways.
The sound elicits crinkled
Smile creases
Like lines of crumpled paper
On the edges
Of coal-darkened engineer eyes
Flames lick
The edges of a riveted boiler
And brass-rimmed gauges
Keep a pressured watch
Like horn-rimmed goggles.
A patchwork of iron
Clack under laden wheels
And a churlish whistle
Echoes in meandering hills.
Overhead
An elongated note that
Is Gypsy in origin
Winds canvas wings
Whipping a yellow-blue biplane.
Leather-jacketed pilots
Flock to the steam,
Their silk-white scarves
Undulating from the cockpit
And they peer earthwards.
Returning their open-mouthed smiles
Is eloquent coachwork
And wooden spoked-wheels
Varnished to a sheen
Of bright coloured cars.
Shining brass and nickel and silver
Headlights chase the Tiger and the train
With the cacophony
Of combustion
Resonating steam and fuel.
The past and present combine
And in some way a penny drops
From the pleasure of reconnecting
With romance
And reminiscence.
Of paintings and stories
Charcoal-sketching
Glorious days of
Hard men,
Beautiful women.
When travel was not
An irritant but an exploration
And flight was not a passing drone
But a source of upward awe.
Of excitement.
The senses remind us
That our past is not too far away
And while we might be lost
In being frantic
We can still take time to appreciate.
Little Appreciations
Inspiration is from the little things: A stolen look from a loved one, An unconscious giggle, A wind-wrapped ride In an open car. It comes from diferent perspectives: On the top of mountains, Under the shade of a tree, Or smiling out of the window From am aeroplane. It moves with the sun: In the shadows of elephants, The glow of dusk, And the enchantment Of a night sky. It comes with breath: And tired running muscles, Contented sweating smiles Or the halting skip Of a heartbeat summited. It comes with passion: Free-spirited in authentic moments, Uninhibited Resonating with every single moment. |
The Corona Prism
Tomorrow has taken on new significance:
Tonight not just another sunset
Today not just another day.
Tomorrow has filtered the spectrum of our lives
Colours for what is important
And what
Is not.
We lived today for itself
Realizing the little things that matter
And forgetting the big things that don’t.
We walked together in parks
(At a distance)
Wrapping ourselves in nature
Some for the first time
In a long time.
We noticed pinkwhite cosmos
That were rooted there for months
And bee eaters of telephone lines
That have been here since October.
We reveled in the simplicity of a walk
And dusted off a bicycle.
We listened to the wind in the leaves
And children laughing.
The world seemed different today.
Maybe a difference that should be
A just is.
And tomorrow things will change.
But maybe we will look through our prisms
And nurture the nucleus of our families.
We will find joy in books again,
Have real conversations
And learn about each other.
We will empathize,
Reassess
And love.
Maybe the day after tomorrow
Will reveal a world
Of better people
All because of today.
Tomorrow has taken on new significance:
Tonight not just another sunset
Today not just another day.
Tomorrow has filtered the spectrum of our lives
Colours for what is important
And what
Is not.
We lived today for itself
Realizing the little things that matter
And forgetting the big things that don’t.
We walked together in parks
(At a distance)
Wrapping ourselves in nature
Some for the first time
In a long time.
We noticed pinkwhite cosmos
That were rooted there for months
And bee eaters of telephone lines
That have been here since October.
We reveled in the simplicity of a walk
And dusted off a bicycle.
We listened to the wind in the leaves
And children laughing.
The world seemed different today.
Maybe a difference that should be
A just is.
And tomorrow things will change.
But maybe we will look through our prisms
And nurture the nucleus of our families.
We will find joy in books again,
Have real conversations
And learn about each other.
We will empathize,
Reassess
And love.
Maybe the day after tomorrow
Will reveal a world
Of better people
All because of today.
Sparrowhawks
In the beginning,
A genesis of gum trees
From a three springed farm
Held a family of sparrowhawks
In its fingers.
Their wings beat the skies
As a foundation stone was laid:
Happy fulfillment.
Then a chapel:
Windows of mottled stained light.
Dust tumbled over dirt roads
As brick and mortar gave rise
To the foundation of a school.
As a rugged knot of students arrived
The sparrowhawks shared their trees
With schoolboy foughts
Catching snakes to be
Hidden in desks
Amidst English lessons
And Boarding Room Preps.
Deep dark woods slowly gave way
To umbrella thorns and Oak Trees:
An eclectic blend of hemispheres.
Fields were landscaped into the earth
And dams sculptured into the dust.
Then the birds began to descend,
In company with the hawks.
Bishops, herons,
Guineafowl and kingfishers.
And slowly the school grew.
The five dams became two
A shimmering of glass
That reflected the city.
The sparrowhawks marshaled
From branches as runners
Rugby players and swimmers
Tested themselves.
The sparrowhawks called to each other
As wisdom was collected
In choirs, classrooms and stages.
They watched friendships
And identities grew.
As students found themselves.
From the wing, the birds
Saw more classrooms
Rise from between the trees:
Girls began to join the boys.
Younger joined older.
Smiling experiences began as a thread
Of memories between students
And the generations of sparrowhawks
Were there to witness them all.
The hawks still turn on the wing
Their own history played out
In their 70 year birds eye view.
Always nesting: hidden by the trees.
In the beginning,
A genesis of gum trees
From a three springed farm
Held a family of sparrowhawks
In its fingers.
Their wings beat the skies
As a foundation stone was laid:
Happy fulfillment.
Then a chapel:
Windows of mottled stained light.
Dust tumbled over dirt roads
As brick and mortar gave rise
To the foundation of a school.
As a rugged knot of students arrived
The sparrowhawks shared their trees
With schoolboy foughts
Catching snakes to be
Hidden in desks
Amidst English lessons
And Boarding Room Preps.
Deep dark woods slowly gave way
To umbrella thorns and Oak Trees:
An eclectic blend of hemispheres.
Fields were landscaped into the earth
And dams sculptured into the dust.
Then the birds began to descend,
In company with the hawks.
Bishops, herons,
Guineafowl and kingfishers.
And slowly the school grew.
The five dams became two
A shimmering of glass
That reflected the city.
The sparrowhawks marshaled
From branches as runners
Rugby players and swimmers
Tested themselves.
The sparrowhawks called to each other
As wisdom was collected
In choirs, classrooms and stages.
They watched friendships
And identities grew.
As students found themselves.
From the wing, the birds
Saw more classrooms
Rise from between the trees:
Girls began to join the boys.
Younger joined older.
Smiling experiences began as a thread
Of memories between students
And the generations of sparrowhawks
Were there to witness them all.
The hawks still turn on the wing
Their own history played out
In their 70 year birds eye view.
Always nesting: hidden by the trees.
Snow has a Sound in Jo’burg
In fairytale wonderlands
Of childrens’ stories
Snow falls softly in the forest.
It silently patters between the trees
A whisper of winter.
Hushed.
Gentle.
Not the snow in Jo’burg
This snow is not quiet.
Especially at a school.
It starts in an excitement
That churns in chests,
As students erupt from
Their classrooms
For a skyward hope that
Sleet might turn to snow.
Slowly
The quad begins
To churn in white whirlwinds
And the excitement
Bubbles to burst
In shrieks and laughter.
The sound of snow
Giggles among
School corridors
As children dance among
Snowflakes with
Joy frozen on their faces.
Young men
Become little kids
Rediscovering
Wonder
Among the happiness
Of the white specks
Falling from the clouds.
In fairytale wonderlands
Of childrens’ stories
Snow falls softly in the forest.
It silently patters between the trees
A whisper of winter.
Hushed.
Gentle.
Not the snow in Jo’burg
This snow is not quiet.
Especially at a school.
It starts in an excitement
That churns in chests,
As students erupt from
Their classrooms
For a skyward hope that
Sleet might turn to snow.
Slowly
The quad begins
To churn in white whirlwinds
And the excitement
Bubbles to burst
In shrieks and laughter.
The sound of snow
Giggles among
School corridors
As children dance among
Snowflakes with
Joy frozen on their faces.
Young men
Become little kids
Rediscovering
Wonder
Among the happiness
Of the white specks
Falling from the clouds.
Ana Tree By Courtney Watson The patience of a tree Growing in seasons With each twist of bark And stretching limb Like a living map: A history of a world That is wrapped up By her own leaves. The curl of an elephant trunk That bendbreaks a branch Into the artistry Of a new path, Making her a river That is channeled By the animals She feeds. She bears the crusts Of muddy wallows Rubbed like paint Under her fingernails of bark Coloured like the Limpopo: Holding with them The smiling scratch Of warthog generations. Her fingerprint patterns Of aged wrinkles Tell the history Of drought and flood, When she drops Pods and leaves To sustain Impala and baboon. Fish Eagles throw their Calls up, up to the sun From the arms of her canopy While Fishing Owls Hide their golden feathers Like a secret In the dark shadows Of her fingers. The claw marks Of dappled leopards Are scratched into her trunk As the memories of meals That are dragged Into the cover Of her strongest branches: Food for a feline legacy. The colours of birds Find nests and refuge And family Among the nests That she cups in her hands Or are holed up In the softer places Of her skin. She is a mother To wild sons and daughters With feathers and fur and claws. That suckle from her branches. She speaks wisdom Into the wind With a patience That grows in seasons. |
Beckoning
By Courtney Watson
The world is charged with small miracles
That are whispered on the dusty breeze
Between brittle butterfly leaves of mopane trees.
How did we stop listening
To the beckoning of wild spaces?
The soft voice that knows
Our reflection has been trapped
In the black mirrors held in our hands.
The meaning we so desperately
Search
Is choked by a dawn chorus of memes
As we fumble to find ourselves
When the wild world
Knows our masks
And the answers to our toils.
Will we listen?
By Courtney Watson
The world is charged with small miracles
That are whispered on the dusty breeze
Between brittle butterfly leaves of mopane trees.
How did we stop listening
To the beckoning of wild spaces?
The soft voice that knows
Our reflection has been trapped
In the black mirrors held in our hands.
The meaning we so desperately
Search
Is choked by a dawn chorus of memes
As we fumble to find ourselves
When the wild world
Knows our masks
And the answers to our toils.
Will we listen?
The Legends are True
By Courtney Watson There are myths about candles Whose flames flicker forever: An eternal prayer of light. Like a pilgrim I visit one of these miracles That has anchored its roots In a koppie at the place That my spirit calls home. Its molten wax Is the colour of whispered sunshine And it has dripped over the rock For what must be centuries. The candle’s trunk is a fig tree That twists large elliptical leaves to the sky And it’s body feels snug Under my palm Like the warmth from a flame Of burnt sunlight That smoulders in the tree’s heart, Spiralling beneath ringlets of bark. It started as a grain-of-sand-seed Accidentally dropped by a bird On an unknown trajectory overhead. The seed was forgotten In a tiny fissure That gathered water (Rain between the darkness) Whose hands, like a miracle, Coaxed from it a shoot, A stem, a life. The flame was lit and the tree began to grow Splitting rock with the power Of its molten roots And burning an eternal candle flame In the birth of its canopy Under which I now sit Feeling it’s warmth on my shoulders. |