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Remember when you were a tree?
I do…arms, heaviness, blear peace. Jack Kerouac
B e a u t i f u l
the concept of a house. h about
Apollo’s sons a
in the breeze
their owl heads spin
from dawn to dust.
Serene is the Virgin
her splendid robe
rivers of emotion
fair hills in a distance
steeples and bells.
Dull noon washes
Rain in a sink of sunflowers.
¿ No in
estoy yo aqui, the Fluttering wings
que soy tu Madre? middle take the evening down
of lampara de estrellas
the a new universe.
The Average Skilled Worker
My hands are never still.
They shape, design, build, touch.
Put yourself in my hands,
you’ll be surprised. Only three
MPs didn’t think they were worth
more than me. My hands rise
in the dark, form a cradle
to grip my aching head.
All night long, I hear them:
voices that sneer into phones,
talk down hospitals and schools,
libraries and lives. Hands
that open only to take.
I grasp the darkness and wait
to begin work. They’ll be surprised.
Three knives slice air
in a bubble of spotlight,
the audience moored in
a window of anticipation.
Female assistant justifies
a gesture of skimpy outfit
with overflowing curves
feed accustomed patterns.
Increase to four, then five,
his concentration proportional.
She cuts silence with a sixth,
bends a little too far,
reveals a little too much.
The audience applauds
six dropped knives.
Last night my mother cycled through my dream
she wore a ponytail and her blue striped skirt,
the wind in her back, on her way to the sea.
Up and down the dunes ran the winding path
the silence was broken by the whirr of the wheels
as she cycled last night through my dream.
And the scream of the vixen, the cry of the owl
and the shiver of the wind in the pines
as it nudged her on her way to the sea.
And the air was so heavy with her scent
and the path shone like a mirror, the path
on which she cycled through my dream.
I tried to call her but I had no voice
I tried to touch her but I had no hands
as she travelled with the wind to the sea.
I woke in a room full of moonlight
and the salty smell of the sea, after
my mother cycled through my dream last night
in her blue striped skirt, with the wind in her back.
Karin van Heerden
The Night of a Rising Sun
The sun is wheeling up slowly,
as the weather sharpness
and contrast fine-tunes
to the colour of all things.
A hawk streams the air road,
paraphrases ghost on lily
with the ill notion to frighten prey
that moves in company.
Nimble talons stalls
to act the part of Atropos
as fowls sift the soil for food
in a harvest of leg dance.
At mid air a dimpled
spider seizes a fly
caught in web designed
deep in secrecy.
There is always a cyclic turn;
the eternal design of things go on.
Every one repeats the things they love.
Oritsegbemi E. Jakpa