Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Keep Up!

It is the moment the atmosphere of a place changes; suddenly all is different, our ways of thinking, acting, even believing are transformed; and this is obvious to everyone except the most obtuse. It is a change of air. Then there is an interlude. Then one a day, almost as an afterthought, for already we are accustomed to this new state of affairs, new citizens of a new independent country, we feel these changes intensely; we think about them and are surprised at their speed, the ease with which they have conquered us. The old soul of this place has vanished, almost overnight, like ghosts brushed out with the cobwebs; that new cleaner brisk and efficient she leaves no corner untouched, her dust will have no history, and we smile to ourselves; irony, the past’s relic and quiet revenge. A new spirit has arrived and taken over. We are feeling it for the first time. Where has it come from? Who brought it? You must identify the plane, train, car that carried… These questions have no answers. But like an incompetent detective crudely interrogating his sophisticated suspects we stumble insensitively on, dodging their scorn, deflecting their derision, accepting our predetermined defeat.

Saturday, 18 November 2017

Waiting for Your Ship to Come

To watch from afar 
The tower falling;
Suddenly she vanishes
Into surging sands

White silk ruffles 
Fan out across the shore.

Too many times
I have climbed that tower
Waiting, watching 
Expecting you to come

The water dancing
To its own majestic music

So quietly sliding away,
A grand old gown 
Who sweeps the floor
She leaves and polishes.

Red bricks drown
Amidst a squall of dunes.


Saturday, 11 November 2017

Come Back Sweet Time

To lace a man up in the armour of youth. The fleshy body held taut, is forced upright, is pulled thin by a corset tight and hard; hardly any breath to breathe.

We watch as the corset is removed, the flesh tumbling down the man’s sickly frame; his body falling, collapsing, melting…

Saturday, 21 October 2017

Leaving

Head on my shoulder 
Arms behind my back
She is holding me:
A one long last goodbye.

She hugs me close,
A straight jacket
To stay the future.

These few moments 
She hugs me tight
And time must wait

In this reservoir of minutes
Whose fragile wall
Her thumbs and fingers

My breath is breaking,
A wattle fence
Blown down by words.

Head on my shoulder
Arms fall down my back
She is losing me.
Go. Yes, I must go now.

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Art is a Privilege

The wound keep it open. All the hurt keep it close. Work on it over and over. Give nothing, nothing, away. Like a house with dirty windows let out nothing, not even light.

Let it out! 
The young woman cries.
Let it go
But I…I…I… 
Open that window! 
And spring into the morning air.

Letting it out, Louise releases herself into a head tattooed quickly with tapestry; where she works on it, over and over, giving nothing, nothing, away. 

Sunday, 10 September 2017

Antike Vollbart

Each day he visits the gallery
Comparing his beard
To the masters on the wall,

A young artist’s rite of pleasure.
At home he works,
Watching his inspiration grow.

Sunday, 30 July 2017

Portrait of Andi at 16 - St George's Uniform

A flag fluttering in a soft breeze; fluttering, hesitating; hesitating, fluttering again.

The wind is a machine, we will insist upon this fact. For we are free to imagine the hands of a clock; two sun soaked legs making this easy for us. Tick. It is twenty five past six. Tick. Tock. Tick. The skirt flutters, the arms move infinitesimally, time spreading like clouds… We are a sheet, made of cotton, and washed only yesterday, we are not… A white sky? I really do not know what you are talking about. The white sheet, obstinately insisting upon its rights, will be heard. Here is a literalist, an egoist and a bore. We send her to the back of the class. Unease following her through the room, whispers susurrate across the desks, until, with a hard look and a ferociously loud silence, we restore the old order. A window quietly rattles. And we return to the blackboard, with its half-finished drawing: a forlorn Father Time trampled into oblivion under the feet of a triumphant dragon…

A page turns over.

The book is comfortable on this girl’s lap. Here is God at the centre of his creation. A motor inside the mechanism. It is God’s word that moves this machine, the machine controlling the rhythm of his speech.