Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Genitive

Enlarge poem

Hah! In the countryside of my soul –
for I am English, cultivated and blush perennially,
an autumn leaf in a red square –
this quiet beck recalls glaciers
of puritan genesis. But now I am switched on
as a traffic light and my life
is an optimistic floorboard.

Hah! On the quayside of my dreams,
on the mathematical tangents of my desires,
I sleep. Consciousness is a trip-wire
and time the lever of my universe.
Tonight I sleep soundlessly
as the midnight movie. Like a spinning top,
I weep.

Hah! In the boardroom of my neuroses,
in the canteen of my decisions, I lie
awake. I am restless, a sleeping dog.
I am a slot-machine at the railway station
of disease, it laughs at me. Possession
is the DMZ of my sexuality and the comedy
of meaning is a black hole.

Hah! Gathered in the pen of my inspiration,
seeping from the glue of my apathy,
I am Torricellian, vacated.
I am a molecule of devotion, but the matrix
of my wardrobe is hypocrisy. The centre point
of my charity is calculation, and my generosity
is an advertisement.

Hah! Between the sheets of my manifestoes,
and the wisdom of my fingernails,
is the sole of a rubber stamp. My heart is a radio station.
My voice is a computer print-out. My hands
illustrate contours of ignorance. The wine cellar
of my hatred is security. I believe
in Nebuchadnezzar.

Hugh Hodge

Featured Poem:

Nightlife

Enlarge poem

She awaits the black,
crow-black, cold
night of secrets in her
little house. Alone
there she can dream and
does, in her suspicious
midnight.

Her dreams awakening
senses well-secured
and fancies fitted to her
age. Playing without
pity, she will solicit
games from helpless
memories. Fondly she
gathers from the cut-
glass cabinet of time,
those treasures of deceit
and dusted despair – such
clandestine wealth
as she must keep hidden beyond
the sunset.

Each horror, each
wonder, she will happily
toy. And the silhouettes
marionette before the blank
walls of fate. But
her audience – a million souls
old – does not laugh.
December 1973
Essex University

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (0)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

Your email address will not be published.

Biography

Hugh is a Baby Boomer Brat. He was born in 1946 on Nelson Mandela’s 28th birthday (Hugh’s closest brush with fame) at Tavistock in Devon, England. Rondebosch Boys’ High attempted to educate Hugh without much success. Later, Essex University endured similar disappointments, but got over them.

He has (had) three wives, and three children. Each marriage was happy in its own way and in its own time. The children are more beautiful than he expected. Hugh has had a job as a small, and sometimes negative, contributor to the technological revolution. He also produced bug-free code, but very rarely.

Despite being commonly left-brained, and occasionally no-brained, Hugh writes poetry that is sometimes published. He attends the Off-the-Wall poetry gig Mondays in Obz, and hosts monthly gigs in Kalk Bay and Kommetjie. He edits New Contrast. And, aside from a natural tribal arrogance, he is kind and tolerant, even of dogs.

Hugh Hodge

Biography

Hugh is a Baby Boomer Brat. He was born in 1946 on Nelson Mandela’s 28th birthday (Hugh’s closest brush with fame) at Tavistock in Devon, England. Rondebosch Boys’ High attempted to educate Hugh without much success. Later, Essex University endured similar disappointments, but got over them.

He has (had) three wives, and three children. Each marriage was happy in its own way and in its own time. The children are more beautiful than he expected. Hugh has had a job as a small, and sometimes negative, contributor to the technological revolution. He also produced bug-free code, but very rarely.

Despite being commonly left-brained, and occasionally no-brained, Hugh writes poetry that is sometimes published. He attends the Off-the-Wall poetry gig Mondays in Obz, and hosts monthly gigs in Kalk Bay and Kommetjie. He edits New Contrast. And, aside from a natural tribal arrogance, he is kind and tolerant, even of dogs.

Genitive

Enlarge poem

Hah! In the countryside of my soul –
for I am English, cultivated and blush perennially,
an autumn leaf in a red square –
this quiet beck recalls glaciers
of puritan genesis. But now I am switched on
as a traffic light and my life
is an optimistic floorboard.

Hah! On the quayside of my dreams,
on the mathematical tangents of my desires,
I sleep. Consciousness is a trip-wire
and time the lever of my universe.
Tonight I sleep soundlessly
as the midnight movie. Like a spinning top,
I weep.

Hah! In the boardroom of my neuroses,
in the canteen of my decisions, I lie
awake. I am restless, a sleeping dog.
I am a slot-machine at the railway station
of disease, it laughs at me. Possession
is the DMZ of my sexuality and the comedy
of meaning is a black hole.

Hah! Gathered in the pen of my inspiration,
seeping from the glue of my apathy,
I am Torricellian, vacated.
I am a molecule of devotion, but the matrix
of my wardrobe is hypocrisy. The centre point
of my charity is calculation, and my generosity
is an advertisement.

Hah! Between the sheets of my manifestoes,
and the wisdom of my fingernails,
is the sole of a rubber stamp. My heart is a radio station.
My voice is a computer print-out. My hands
illustrate contours of ignorance. The wine cellar
of my hatred is security. I believe
in Nebuchadnezzar.

Featured Poem:

Nightlife

Enlarge poem

She awaits the black,
crow-black, cold
night of secrets in her
little house. Alone
there she can dream and
does, in her suspicious
midnight.

Her dreams awakening
senses well-secured
and fancies fitted to her
age. Playing without
pity, she will solicit
games from helpless
memories. Fondly she
gathers from the cut-
glass cabinet of time,
those treasures of deceit
and dusted despair – such
clandestine wealth
as she must keep hidden beyond
the sunset.

Each horror, each
wonder, she will happily
toy. And the silhouettes
marionette before the blank
walls of fate. But
her audience – a million souls
old – does not laugh.
December 1973
Essex University

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (0)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Genitive

Enlarge poem

Hah! In the countryside of my soul –
for I am English, cultivated and blush perennially,
an autumn leaf in a red square –
this quiet beck recalls glaciers
of puritan genesis. But now I am switched on
as a traffic light and my life
is an optimistic floorboard.

Hah! On the quayside of my dreams,
on the mathematical tangents of my desires,
I sleep. Consciousness is a trip-wire
and time the lever of my universe.
Tonight I sleep soundlessly
as the midnight movie. Like a spinning top,
I weep.

Hah! In the boardroom of my neuroses,
in the canteen of my decisions, I lie
awake. I am restless, a sleeping dog.
I am a slot-machine at the railway station
of disease, it laughs at me. Possession
is the DMZ of my sexuality and the comedy
of meaning is a black hole.

Hah! Gathered in the pen of my inspiration,
seeping from the glue of my apathy,
I am Torricellian, vacated.
I am a molecule of devotion, but the matrix
of my wardrobe is hypocrisy. The centre point
of my charity is calculation, and my generosity
is an advertisement.

Hah! Between the sheets of my manifestoes,
and the wisdom of my fingernails,
is the sole of a rubber stamp. My heart is a radio station.
My voice is a computer print-out. My hands
illustrate contours of ignorance. The wine cellar
of my hatred is security. I believe
in Nebuchadnezzar.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.