Featured Poem:
Christmas in Bulawayo & A SUBURBAN NIGHT IN AUGUST
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Featured Poem:
Christmas in Bulawayo & A SUBURBAN NIGHT IN AUGUST
A SUBURBAN NIGHT IN AUGUST
The distant all-night drum, a dripping tap,
a scops owl mimicking the creak of sap
rising. Dombeyas cream the bushy verge,
a tilted Southern Cross returns the surge
of hope in every second Hillside house.
The world is waiting, trembling like a mouse
as you, unconscious of the cricket’s rasp,
in warm socks and striped pyjamas, unclasp
your hair, give it a tousle, set it free,
smiling at him the way you smiled at me.
CHRISTMAS IN BULAWAYO
A hallelujah of Heuglin’s robins
wakes me from a troubled sleep, troubled not
by regrets or misgivings but by hymns,
hymns of mosquitoes, high-pitched, pin-thin; prick
of crickets, strident cicadas, squirrels
bickering; and the blessing of soft rain
on a tin roof. Smell the frangipanis –
their blossoms, the milk of their bark, rotting
leaves, rotting into humus, life-giving
soil – earthworms, chongololos, flying ants;
and smell that neighbourly ham: pineapple,
cloves; basted with beer and honey: baking.
Expectant pets get meaty bones, rubber
toys, kapenta soaked in leftover soup.
Here comes the postman for his Christmas box,
here the garbage men, ZESA, WATER; queues
and queues of the homeless, the unemployed,
the downtrodden, the hungry and thirsty,
the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek,
the merciful, the peacemakers, the pure
in heart, the righteous; for theirs is the love
of a Jewish man who was sacrificed
so we may celebrate his birth, and so
we may learn that death makes life beautiful.
A SUBURBAN NIGHT IN AUGUST
The distant all-night drum, a dripping tap,
a scops owl mimicking the creak of sap
rising. Dombeyas cream the bushy verge,
a tilted Southern Cross returns the surge
of hope in every second Hillside house.
The world is waiting, trembling like a mouse
as you, unconscious of the cricket’s rasp,
in warm socks and striped pyjamas, unclasp
your hair, give it a tousle, set it free,
smiling at him the way you smiled at me.
CHRISTMAS IN BULAWAYO
A hallelujah of Heuglin’s robins
wakes me from a troubled sleep, troubled not
by regrets or misgivings but by hymns,
hymns of mosquitoes, high-pitched, pin-thin; prick
of crickets, strident cicadas, squirrels
bickering; and the blessing of soft rain
on a tin roof. Smell the frangipanis –
their blossoms, the milk of their bark, rotting
leaves, rotting into humus, life-giving
soil – earthworms, chongololos, flying ants;
and smell that neighbourly ham: pineapple,
cloves; basted with beer and honey: baking.
Expectant pets get meaty bones, rubber
toys, kapenta soaked in leftover soup.
Here comes the postman for his Christmas box,
here the garbage men, ZESA, WATER; queues
and queues of the homeless, the unemployed,
the downtrodden, the hungry and thirsty,
the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek,
the merciful, the peacemakers, the pure
in heart, the righteous; for theirs is the love
of a Jewish man who was sacrificed
so we may celebrate his birth, and so
we may learn that death makes life beautiful.
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