bargun momb



This is a concrete poem,

with grass poking through the cracks,

and a pin, down between the slabs

where it can't be reached,

an acid stain in front of the chemistry

building,

and not a few scratches from file cabinets

and the like.


This is a concrete poem,

paving over my whimsey,

and the all-too-common urge

towards obscurantism.


This is a concrete poem,

vulnerable to acid,

and the violence of a critical hammer.


This is a concrete poem,

It soars high like thought. A passive thing transforms swiftly in a current. Moving its ears as an elephant, it flutters in the heart of the void. It becomes unruly, flying beyond the eye-limits into ecstasy. First appeared in The Literary Hatchet(Pear Tree Press, US), issue #17.

Even not thinking about it we're still thinking about it, those old traumas, buried in the dark space inside our heads, exploding out like some Big Bang, to shape the universe, a background noise we've learned to ignore, there so long we think of it as silence.

Kom ons hou begravnis vir jou hart,
uiteindelik dood na jou lydinge en smart.
‘n Handvol grond, ‘n bos wit lelies,
bangheid, en die bloedsmaak in my mond.
Was dit siekte? Was dit moord?
Waarvandaan kom hierdie dood?
Was ekstase nie genoeg om die duister te vermy nie,
of die wandel in die Kaapse berg se eggokranse?
Daar’s ‘n kanker in jou kamers wat nou vrot,
en ‘n bitterheid, ‘n kwaad, die duiwel se genot.
Ek hou die baksteen in my keel terug
en probeer, vergeefs, vergeet.


Translation:

Come, let’s inter your heart,

A long time ago made believe,
brand new dreams were written down on torn up sheets,
and scattered as ashes somewhere on a vacant lot.

Now, cigarette smoke stays afloat,
deploying vivid images of faceless memories that whisper lies of hope and bliss from the withstanding cages,
within my worn out mind,
that won't give in.

Hopefully, one day I'll ride past this storm,
towards the end of the tunnel,
for only then will I ever be in peace.

Sometimes our love roams wild, above the law,
though we would never dare to say as much
lest righteous neighbours show their sharpened claws,
scratch out our good intentions over lunch.

To us it’s obvious who’ll do the deed
and who will fuss the measure of a hole,
where sparrows mass as if to intercede
for all nine lives that moved their stalker’s soul.

A sentimental note, the choice of gloves –
dark-blue, the ones for cutting roses back,
now to the practicalities, the shoves,
inelegant manoeuvers to the sack,

Soubrette

She was a  maid of five and twenty years
who tried at times to overcome her fear
of men.  Herself to take 'um unawares
she'd preen and flaunt her pretty face before
the mirror to plead in tears,  "Am I so vile?" !
Made study of the latest gowns and jewels,
smiled and laughed with the most fetching guile;
listened to the gentlemen's opinion
of comic operetta.  Attentive,
quaffed gin 'n vermouth, a cocktail onion,
(They think they'll take me unawares, these fools!).
Stage right: " Who will woo me now with racy

In Winter
The darkness takes over
Some mornings I wake up in the black
fetal under 3 layers, swaddled
until I uncover an arm or a leg
I’m hit with a stinging chill and remember that it is Winter

My dreams are different during shorter days
In them, my teeth fall out
or the house burns down
my plane leaves the airport because I went to the wrong gate
my party invitations get lost in the mail

My uncertainty is highlighted
these stories, little dramas 
magnified
so I will study them

Release all  the pressure
Release all the pain
Release all the anger

Imagine a world where you are free
Imagine nothing could hurt you or me
Imagine your heart and mind intertwined

Imagine pain turned into power
Imagine pressure turned into rain showers
Imagine anger turned into flowers

Release all the negativity that’s inside
Release all the rules you abide
Release all that's occupying your mind

Imagine a new world, leave the rest behind
- B.N.Grace