bears a picture of
my shining face
and from my northwest
London base
I can ride a bus
to any place
wearing my crown
of silver hair
and having to pay
no fucking fare
Sorry Stuff
sad is the toilet on the train
with newspapers all clogged up
sad the forgotten weetabix
when all its milk is sogged up
but sadder still the daffodil
which William Wordworth squashes
wandering lonely as a clown
in his size twelve galoshes
O sorry is as sorry does
and I am super-sorry-full
the tears of years of foolish fears
O I have wept a lorryful
Student
sometimes my dog is lionlike
facing me one ear a little bit upraised,
licking her black lips and studying me
as I unscrew a bottletop, take a white pill
and slew it down with water
as if she’s studying how to be a human being
she drinks in everything she’s seeing
Wishing
Wish I had the head of a golden retriever
With floppy ears and a black, wet nose
Everyone on earth would have to believe a
Poet creature with features like those.
The Poet Inside
It was a loving and a gentle dog
Padded over the floor to me
She waved her tail a dozen times
And placed her chin upon my knee
A captive poet seemed to stare out
Of the deep brownness of her eyes
Longing to sing her golden songs
But all that she could speak were sighs.
Not Much of a Muchness
I think I’ll go flying this afternoon
I didn’t know you flew
O I can fly any time I like
But not in front of you
Lighting Candles for Boty
because I believe in light
not for god’s eyes
but for the eyes of people
because I believe in
candles against the darkness
because candlelight recalls her beauty
February 12th, 1996
(for Boty’s 30th birthday)
stone breaks
and the bone breaks
but the heart embraces the pain it is bearing
if only the heart could break
instead of tearing
The Unbroken Heart
the heart may alter
the heart will falter
little by little
the heart may be worn
or battered and torn
but it is not brittle
with its nine lives
the heart survives
though it is torn apart
it’s last to die
with our last sigh
forgive me, says the heart
Advertising Will Eat the World
Death in his infinite mercilessness
Takes the girl in the orange dress
And sends the drug to cure the pain in the head
Two years after the patient’s dead.
Grief is such a physical thing
the law of gravity is doubled
whatever is almost touched falls to the floor
everything is heavier
especially the head
the kneecaps and the eyeballs melt
if anyone should sing
grief is such a physical thing
On the Deadophone
my job as a poet
part of my job
is talking to the dead
part of my job
is listening to the dead
they tell me all sorts of stuff
on the deadophone
some of it I’m not allowed to tell you
some of it I’m ordered to tell you
but not allowed to say where it comes from
sometimes they keep waking me up
with that verr verr verr verr deadophone
sometimes I ask a really important question
and they hang up on me clunk
sometimes I get a lot of conversations at once
like gnats swarming round my head
sometimes all I get is engaged
or the sound of a snake hissing
Apart from My Day Job
In the train back from Cardigan passing
the cow sheds
the bull sheds
a big red shed that must have been the Dragon Shed
It was also my job
to look out of train windows
to record the fields unfolding
field after field
and the bright blue ditch
striking straight towards the hills
and the proud house carved out of white money
and a flock of grazing caravans
and a single inexplicable ten foot penguin
standing in the shadow of an old Welsh hedge
It was also my job
to record the poison yellow boiled-sweet neon streetlamps
and the grey wrinkled flanks of enormous sheds
in which giants or dragons might be secretly breeding
and the anti-matter spaces of gravel and old green tins
and the contemptuous advertisements outshining the moon
Or Something
Sometimes I think the world’s my cheeseburger
Sometimes I think it’s iceberg time
Sometimes I feel like a Victorian tricycle
Sometimes I feel like a robot pantomime
Sometimes I’m awash with anger or something
I wish I could change my flesh into a landscape
A useful old park where my friends could stroll
I wish I could turn my words into musicians
Playing dark blue jazz red rock n roll
So we could dance The Love or something
I’m the People’s Hippo, the Geezer from the Freezer
Dumping nightmare rubbish in the Werewolf Wood.
What did you say, Miss Earthquake?
Has the Killer Caterpillar gone for good?
It’s a rainy day and the forecast is rain and it’s raining hate or love or something
Selfepitaphs
I Was Lucky
That’s all. It was good.
Love was a planet
full of amazing creatures.
This Death is only a dark little town,
in a country, in a continent,
on a planet full of amazing creatures,
a planet called love.
Alternative Selfepitaph
I stopped living
but kept on loving
FOR THE AFRICAN CENTURY
‘Being certain that not always were we the children of the abyss, we will do what we have to do to achieve our own renaissance. We trust that what we will do will better not only our own condition as a people, but will make a contribution also, however small, to the success of Africa’s renaissance, towards the identification of the century ahead of us as the African Century.’
President Thabo Mbeki at his Inauguration on 12 June 1999
Here in My Skin of Many Colours
here in my skin
my redwhite skin
will, in a thousand ways,
guard me, advance me,
promote me and reward me
reassuring to some
a warning to others
till I am dead
and colour-free
I never chose it
from the flesh boutique
it looks too much like
butcher’s meat
now I inspect my hands for colours
a purple-pink knuckle
viol
et fingernails with creamy cuticles
golden hair sprouting
from the back of the first joint of each finger
rivery blue veins
running downhill from my thumbs
light pink merging into dark pink dips
dark pink merging into light brown furrows
light brown merging into medium brown
all the tints altering
in warmth and cold
all the tints altering
with the altering light
these are my colours
till the day I die
these are my colours
till I whiten into ghostliness
Malawi Poems
The Radio Thief
They caught a man in our village
The other night
He broke a window and stole a radio
They caught him and poured petrol on him
And took out their matches –
You’re going to die!
I couldn’t watch
I ran away
That’s what we do with thieves
We burn them
Or chop off their hands like this
Or take pins
And go pee! pee!
In both their eyes –
Now you can’t see to steal!
Nowadays we all take care to keep
A litre can of petrol in our homes.
You have many thieves in England?
African Elephants
at the first sight of elephants
our boat fell silent
close to each other, touching each other,
taking note of us, warning their children
standing so calmly
dark as charcoal
it was a deep and holy silence
inhabiting all five humans
only the almost submerged hippo flotilla
hooted its derision
The Beautiful Ghosts
The fortresses of Rosebank
Shine in the sunlight
The fortresses of Rosebank
Shine in the moonlight
And there’s a smell of money in the air
And there’s a smell of tear-gas in the air
And there’s a smell of panic in the air
And here come the ghosts
Through the high white walls
And the spiky railings
Here come the ghosts
Through the curling razor wire
And the signs saying Armed Response
Yes, here come the ghosts
Zooming on transparent motorbikes
Swooping in transparent feathered wings
Here come the ghosts
Weeping with joy
Laughing with sorrow
Here come the ghosts
Like an amazing rainfall
Upon the sunlit, moonlit
Fortresses of Rosebank
Here come the beautiful ghosts of Afrika
Scattering from their delicate hands
Ghostly black roses,
Black roses everywhere
[Rosebank, Johannesburg, February 1997]
A Song for Thabo Mbeki
Out of the enormous shadow
of the beloved tree
he walks into the ferocious light
vultures clack their cynical beaks
hyenas tingle with greed for his flesh
but the elephants raise their trunks in hope
the eyes of the mountains slowly open wide
he walks into the light
into the fierce light of work
to grow whatever can be grown
to save whatever can be saved
to heal whatever can be healed
to free whatever can be freed
he has walked by moonlight
he has walked through the mists of morning
he has walked through dirty warm rain in the cities
and icy clean rain upon the mountains
now
out of the enormous shadow
of the beloved tree
he walks into the ferocious light
[Pretoria, 16 June 1999]
A Poem for Nomtha
My name is Nomtha.
Will you write a poem about my name?
Nomtha means sunrise.
Nomtha is the rays of the sun.
Nomtha stands for hope.
The eyes of Nomtha,
So wide and dark,
Shine their light upon me
Like beautiful twin planets.
The golden fingers of the sun
Close around my heart.
Nomtha tells me a poem.
Her poem is for peace.
She longs for the wounds of Africa
To be washed and healed.
Next day I shut my eyes
And, in a Nomtha vision of hope,
I see Nomtha walking
Down the pathway
Leading to peace and justice.
I see her smiling as she bandages
The broken arm of an old woman by the path.
I see her stoop to a motherless baby
And lift it up and comfort it with songs.
I hear her telling stories to a little boy
To give his tired legs courage on the long long journey.
I see Nomtha and her friends stand on that pathway
Protecting the weak from men with whips and guns.
I see Nomtha walking down that pathway
And I see the sun of peace and justice
Blessing her with its rays
As it rises over her beloved Africa.
[Guguletu, Cape Town, 1998]
SHOWSONGS
Shake My Soul
O shake my soul with sweetness
Good guitar
Yes shake my soul with sweetness
Good guitar
I know what life is
I have held a guitar
And played it till it rang
I know what life is
I know what life is
I have held a baby
And rocked it till it sang
I know what life is
A dance and a song
Doesn’t last very long –
O shake my soul with sweetness
Good guitar
Yes shake my soul with sweetness
Good guitar…
Four Windows
Living in a house with four windows
Eating in a house with four windows
Loving in a house with four windows
Sleeping in a house with four windows
Eastern window and I slide back the screen
Springtime landscape of brilliant green
Cherry blossoms a pink and white dream
Willows tickling a swivelling stream
My window in springtime
Southern window – the pond has displayed
Water-lilies of every shade
Frogs are croaking around the blue rim
Blazing waterbirds skitter and skim
My window in summer
North window
East South and West
Which window
Do I love best?
Western window – each autumn the same,
Forests wearing kimomos of flame,
Scarlet maples and swallows must fly
And chrysthemums perfume the sky
My window in autumn
Northern window – a shivering sight
All the countryside covered in white
Snow keeps falling and waterways freeze
And deer are eating the bark from the trees
My window in winter
North window
East South and West
Which window
Do I love best?
Living in a house with four windows
Four beautiful windows…
Orpheus Sings
(based on a painting by Roelant Savery
in t
he Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge).
Guitar in his hands
Leaning on an Elephant
Orpheus sings
A Wolfhound and St Bernard
At his knees
A grey Ox
Cocks his ear
Two Swans
Lift their snaking heads
Towards the music
The Geese are paddling in the shallows
Gathering peppery green weeds
A flowering Ostrich on a rock
Throws back her wings
In ecstasy
The Waterfall bounces
Silver notes
A Leopard reclining
Like a streamlined blonde
A Lion and Lioness
Roll their golden eyes
A Heron taking off
On a journey to the hidden stars
The Peacock flaunts
His starry blue
Waterfall of a tail
A million Birds
In proud mid-flight
Scattering their colours
All over the sky
A lurking Buffalo
With guilty eyes
Come on Everybody Page 28