Wednesday 28 December 2011

A City Butterfly’s Sunny Break

Leaving
 the Receiver’s office
down on Pietermaritz Street
there’s a brightening chance
of ultra violet vigour
tingling on my skin
after a long La Niňa sodden week
 but mind you there’s a
a spiking wind.
Snow in late November!
Yes, far west, high and deep
Beyond the dripping blanket
greys on Inhlazane’s
peak

Between a pavement and a drain
the warming spot of solitude opens flat on ember bricks
unflustered in loud acid puffs of morning traffic.
Little opals glint on velvet, fanning to a standstill
as though puzzling where the city flowers fly
to fill their solar tanks.  

Her formal black and lace of eggshell
halts me like an intersection red.

I almost drop my SARS receipt to see her wink
as if she wants me close enough to hear her say
I know just how much  
the Tax man’s
going to pay.

La Niňa is the Atlantic counterpart to the Pacific El Niňo
SARS  is the South African Receiver of Revenue


Allen Goddard


Monday 5 December 2011

Make Way

Dry leaves scratch in spirals blown
The hot dust desiccating eyes to leather
Whispering wind she raises caution
Calling out the warning – Make Way, Make Way.

Drumbeats faint the pending timbre
The dogs of earth go running scared
Heavy soon the feet of thunder
Bellows out – Make Way, Make Way. 

Cables spark whilst loosely swinging
Attaching all things earth to heaven
The sky lit graphs of God aren’t hidden
Candescent tell – Make Way, Make Way.

Heaven sinks earth’s veins disgorging
Spewing pungent effluent streams.
Apocryphal Refiners River
Hailing down – Make Way, Make Way.

Spectrum fan the clouds are mending
Fresh baked roads rise up in steam.
Jasmine breath the wind now calling
Renew the earth – Make Way, Make Way. 


Dave Barbour

Wednesday 30 November 2011

When did you last



trace those branches twined on sky, touch the light bright leaves
with your soft fingertips,
feel
that
bark-
skin
like
an
elephant's
hide,
stand
underneath long enough to breathe today's fresh oxygen-gift,
and sense
the living roots that even now are wrestling
in harmony with the soil?


John Roff

Wednesday 16 November 2011

Record of decision

            Since Queen Victoria,
polo fields turfed the Dorpspruit floodplain  
like an ample cricket ground
from Saddlery to Brickyard and Bird Sanctuary,
but city planners’
paths of development
rezoned this irenic plover park as “prime”
The polo people charged a run of discontent,
interested and affected parties
bated city sentiment
without
the second sight of Noah
yet still the outcome read that
players, horses, heritage
and the leafy common
would be here to stay!
Until one morning SUV or tractor tracks
cut deep
one hundred urban years
in polo sediment
The polo folk just moved away
to a higher private space
in walled and gated
ivory
and weekly markets, meets and nearly all the birds but egrets,
umbrellas, horses, bales and hot-ice boxes
left the fields, replaced
by mounds of blackjacks, khakhibos and rotting refuse,


 but garnishing
the new and Northbound boulevard
steel and glass and gleaming sales floors 
concrete grass
Amafa referenced redbrick,
a lanky littoral zone
topped and tinned
with cyber cipher neon
flashing growth
and with no limits,
mantras promising
the Sleepy Hollow
Vibrant Valley
Makeover
Upgrade shouts a speedy sale of one day’s headlines

but be that as it may
these yeomen of the now
just plough and scatter once a life-time floodplains,
sprawl out pensions,
futures,
venture finance
hastily
but so much less
withstandably
than what remains
and weeds remember
of
the fields


Allen Goddard

Monday 14 November 2011

Dangerous magic

From fitful sleep in a cave on the mountain,
we woke up and there it was,
falling from open hands,
tissue scraps of light sailing to earth
against dark cliffs and a dark sky,
a rain of snow.

I could have danced into the waking dream of it,
or laid my head on the fresh, white pillows,
but it was so, so cold.

Eighteen hours later,
safe in bed at home,
I watched my retina replay those white and silver stars
drifting down through blackness,
etching their way into memory.


John Roff