The Stone on the Stomach
Text of 30 poems
on CD drawn from: Stickman (1981), Bordering (1991) Aquifers and Dust
(1994) Tortoise Voices (2002) Drawing Water ( 2007) and unpublished poems.
Myth
1. The Stone on the Stomach
in the
Celtic twilight
Gaelic poets
incubated
the
silhouette of a poem.
the
master offered aspirants
the
subject for composition,
matched to
the movement
of
frequencies and fingerprints.
each bard
retired to a place
womb-dark,
moon-dark,
lay
awake alone, with a stone
pressed to
the stomach
to keep
watchful, balanced.
slowly they
divined shapes
beneath lids
and lips.
the
pattern, rhyme and rhythm
fell and
rose, riding their chests.
images
breathed inner into outer.
as the
sun touched huts and hearts
they rose
and stretched limbs
long as
lines, and delivered,
apprentice to
the words within.
in
Lord of the underworld,
weighed the hearts
of those who
crossed over
against the plume of
truth.
those light of heart,
lived in his chambers
endlessly. while the crocodile,
monster of the
devoured souls
heavy with matter.
weigh my quill of
words
on the scales of
space
so they measure
against
what the guinea fowl
has left on the
grass -
the lightness of a
feather.
Story all the way Down
3. The Storyteller’s Art
the Great Storyteller knows when
to tap his pipe on the boot of
creation,
to roll the drama down the
mountain,
flood the plain, trumpet down
walls,
arrest a man with a burning bush,
fly chariots across the sky.
bring in the who of story,
a snake, he , she , the apple
core.
fireword prophets, lusty Kings,
queens and pomegranate lovers,
brother-betrayers, fishermen
a whale who coughs up a man.
knows how to arrange the tale
choreograph the where,
three crosses on a hill
a leading star lighting a stable
a broken-open tomb
a ghostwalk with a stranger.
so the story mounts on eagle wings.
spits sight, eye to eye
in the lightening flash, the love look.
in the once upon a miracle play.
the divine teller entices us
to his art, to apprentice us.
4. The Story Priest
(for Bob)
when you,
the playful priest,
ring the
cathedral in tales
of
rabbits, giants and lions,
you
baptise us in a river of images.
stained-glass
saints tilt halos to listen,
pew
cushions leap off hooks,
the isle
carpet prickles, candles flicker,
lilies in
Our Lady’s Chapel bloom.
hymnals clap
hallelujah hands
the font
splashes, bells peel
the
rafters hum and buzz.
the
organ pipes the everafter.
the
divine story-teller sifts through you,
the hour
glass, our hunger for the Christ,
who
gathers narratives and children,
through your
outstretched arms.
Ancestors
5. If Ancestors were Apples
when one
apple ripens
in the
bowl
on the
kitchen table,
apple
ancestors,
granny,
star-king,
ripen in
reverse.
they
lose their bruising.
reseed
their rotten core
from
bitter black.
the
pink lady
unwrinkles her skin.
they
sweeten again
crisp, fibrewhite,
golden
delicious,
to
juice the
6.
Keeping Track
the old coke
cooler
with its flatpan tray,
stood outside the window
where Granny Harriet,
with thirty-three grandchildren,
slept her senile sleep.
raised on bricks like a tokolosh
bed,
it sagged, rusted in chicken wire
and trusses with trickle holes.
woodrot spat out screws and splinters.
this ruin, taller than
a ten year old,
was my robber bank, bars for badman,
shoot-out rock, crow's nest
for island sighting,
but most of all
my pitstop and grandstand
finish
for the tricycle track.
legs over handle bars
I pumped round trees
citrus, fig and vine
circled in a brick blur
past the corrugated fence
with a green-flake paint ad,
sandpit S-bend,
grape-shaped bridge
and down the straight
ringing the finger bell,
frantic at last lap,
flashing by the check flag
and crowd roar from the cooler,
spinning a Trinity of
wheels.
then, laurelled and champagne-sprayed
I fizzed into the breakfast room
where Granny woken from slumber
looked up at me and quizzed
ferreting the fridge of her memory,
'Now who are you again?'
7. Magnified Moment
one
morning I saw it,
watching my
father shave
in his
swivel mirror.
one
circle showed his human face,
aged,
grey, wrinkled, nicked skin.
then he
swung it on its axis.
in the
reverse moon
his
face magnified,
bristles
thrice their size,
pores a
diamond design.
a blood
river cut
through a
wild sea.
over his
shoulder
in a
ring of silver,
I saw a thousand fathers
rise,
large as
gods.
Observation in Nature
I rest an ice cube
on an expanse of
tray.
it stands solid,
frozen,
a flat-topped
pyramid.
first the edges melt
to a round shoulder
then the ark slides
on its own waters.
so it changes to
a silver oval drop
sucked in the cheek
of a sweet-toothed
sun.
what would the
mystics
have made of this
melting
which Aquinas saw as
the first effect of
love?
9. Parrot at Sea
I wonder at wave edge
how to portray
this scape, this twilight,
its colour swell and rise.
a woman walks out of the mist.
her parrot claws
and crabs her shoulder
in a treasure of images.
the great feathered body
of an African grey
puffs in the breeze sea.
cherry tail streaks the sky.
.
it echoes, mimics
the shuffle of waves,
the creak of a boat,
in pirate genes and gems.
the scuffed waves of its neck
leads to a beak where shells
embed in sandwash.
the sun sets in its iris eye.
this
hide, with its bench
and
window ledge
where you
kneel,
to rest
your elbows
and cup
your hands
to the
twilight,
serves as
communion rail
in this
cathedral of lagoon and sea.
the
setting sun is choir master
to the
fluttering of a thousand wings.
a
flamingo in priest’s robes
blesses the
wine-water
and the
bread mulch in the reeds.
I ingest in
silence
the
bird’s cry and the sea roar
and
taste the salt marsh on my tongue.
The Life of the Spirit
11. First Bite
did the
snake offer Eve
the
fruit from his mouth?
or did
she pick it,
as the
creature curled
around the
stem,
reaching a
hand heavenward
cradling it
in her palm,
then the
downward tug?
or did
the crop drop
to the
lightest touch?
was she
in love with colour,
edengreen, sungold, rose
as the
flush of her throat?
did Eve
ask its blessing,
before her
teeth pierced the skin
and the
crunch crisped the garden,
her
saliva rising like sap
to
mingle the pulp on her tongue?
did she
watch the pectin
browning the
core,
and as
she counted pips,
say A is for Apple,
in this alphabet of
tastes?
and did
blossoms ring her hair
the day
she tasted God
in the
first bite?
12. The Afterbirth Star
with the baby born
and the Christmas
star faded,
Joseph swaddled the afterbirth
and the umbilical
worm in a cloth.
he kicked aside the
straw
with his foot and
staff.
among the cow dung, the
slops
from the drinking
trough,
he dug a hole with
his sandal,
deepened it with a shepherd’s crook
and a piece of found flint,
inching into winter
ground.
he placed rednest and eggshell,
into that black hole,
patting the soil.
and when had they packed
and ambled the donkey off
this sac shone in the constellation
of rock, clay and
all things earth.
13. Men in Meditation
(Buddhist retreat, Ixopo July 1993)
the winter bells sounds
calling us from dreams
of couplings and celibacy
to a temple meditation.
our crafts drift though fog
to this walled port
where a turmeric light
spices a white wall.
the last stars are dying
as we lock our bones
in a lotus cross
or kneel as if in chapel prayer.
we rest like a menology of
saints
on an eastern calendar.
like ancient mariners
navigating ocean poles,
we have fathomed
the slime of the deep.
now mendicant all
we live these three days
off the alms of brotherhood.
on a black mat anchor
saffron sailed,
the mast of my body
rides amid a male fleet.
we rise as the sun gongs
across the ticking sea.
14.
Walking Meditation
the bird calls. we rise
from mat and pad
and follow its path.
robes swish and sway.
a light wind runs
along arms.
step in single file
circle the Buddha who
sits
unmoving in the middle,
bird perched in a
branch.
round the labyrinth
silent at centre.
we shape an outer
ring.
hoop the zen garden
where bird lights on a
rock.
wing and feather led, we
loop back to the hall
where we sink onto mats
still as the candle
wick.
and all the while,
between gongs,
we have sat here not
moving
under rain on the roof.
yet we find Buddha.
labyrinth, zen garden
all inside us now
after the imagined
ankle flex, arm swing
shuffle
follow of the bird.
Food Music
he travels by sea, by land,
with the taste of
this night conjurer
who comes to cook for me.
loose top, loose shoes.
recipes in cursive
scribble his pants.
skillet in hand,
wok on the flame,
he fills the kitchen
with seeds, greens, bulbs,
roots and oils.
he serves a dish
so rich in East
my mouth’s an aroma cave.
I lick fingers
and hug this giant
who feeds me such cuisine.
I rest my cheek
against his ribs, his heart.
my arms embrace
this dream god’s roundedness.
I hear food
music from within.
I slice a pear
into the bowl
with the
Buddha
sitting roundtum
at the
bottom of the well.
count twelve
raisins,
sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon
and ladle in
porridge
in a circle
of yellow sun.
I drip honey in a labyrinth
and ring the
sun
with the
milky way.
as I weigh
the spoon
in my hand
I hear the laughter
that runs
along the rim.
17.
wild
west land
holster in
the hip of
strung on
the studded belt of Capricorn.
the sun
lassoos the rain
tugged from
the bare backed land
the
rocks crack in pistol shots.
yet on
a sparse frontier
crossed
freely, are
the cattle
of the heart.
it is the time of
prophets now
with their rumbling
voices.
the land breeds them
thick
as camelthorns, these old ones.
their skin crusted
like dams,
they watch the first
jacaranda buds
purple the lip of the
tree.
weather legs chronicle
the cold
rising from September
ground.
they follow the
butterfly
flying on snow wings,
to light
their raindrop shapes
on petals.
they tap their sticks
in exclamation.
the butterflies did
so ten years ago,
remember that great
wetting,
when the heavens
rinsed the desert
and cars, camping in
river beds,
were flung into the upper
tree reaches
in the freak floods
that filled the papers.
they watch with
lightning eyes
as the dirt
whirlpool
flings its fine sand
into faces.
they point to the ant
colonies,
to the lone songololo scurrying.
in a rattle and
creak of bones
the sky diviners
clear their throats
and spit the first
drops into the dust.
in tongues sure as
thunder
they divine a season
of good storm.
19. Old Woman Brewing
in war
days she moved
as
heady matriarch
on
powder plains,
under an airforce sky.
she
mapped her way
among the
trees
her
grandson climbed for her
to
shake the seed
for her
windswept shebeen.
when war
evaporated like rain,
she
soaked the camouflage fruit
of the
makalani palm
and
funneled steam through stem,
decanting
from clay pots
into old
containers,
discarded by
the army.
still she
sits in roadside sun
fermenting in
sweat,
and
brews red-berried beer.
the
illegal glint in her eye
shines
like bottled fire.
This thing called Love
the kite
flies free
in the
heavens.
in
bucks, dives, bobs,
swallow
swoops, eagle soars,
rides
sideways on still wings.
the
kite’s sure flight depends
on the
tug of a string.
21.
Advent
(for Elma)
in early December,
Sunday
I climb inside a carol,
come
let us adore,
and find you there,
candlelit, aglow.
your lungs and limbs
trumpet and organ
holynight, starfollow
through ribcage rafters.
descant trills your
cells,
bass ascends belly
and spine.
the choir sings your
blood,
skin-tingles your breasts,
your heart tolls a
birth bell.
stablebare, Maryjoseph, shepherds,
Magi, heraldangels,
cattle lowing
and Christchild advent in you.
born once more, you
incarnate
a love larger than
a cathedral.
the divine arrives
in your eyes.
22.
Biting Bride
in a fifth century disc
ceramic, moon round
a goddess in red
iniates a man.
Thetis and Peleus
mother and father of Achilles
three serpents
draped round her
bite him between the eyes,
under the ear
and at the Achilles tendon.
so his third eye opens
his ear tunes to the spheres
his ego is brought to heal, dies
as he assumes the role of groom
Children
(for
Adam and Dominic)
off to find the
night's firewood,
I link fingers with two sons
weighing their different
gravities.
we track through
twilight.
scuffed soles and new
old shoes
run the forest floor
and spin its spaces.
the younger treads a
rhino path
his eye, a horn,
prizes pine cones
from a camouflage of
sticks and debris.
his brother follows
the rustle of light,
a long-lashed
giraffe, nibbling
where leaves are
sweetest.
one with an armful
of cone, stopped with earth,
the other with wind
laced through twigs,
one drops, one
plants the load for the fire pile.
to raise the flames
under first stars,
in the hands of my
fathering
I take their gifts of earth
and air.
(for Dominic)
you walk the long corridor,
you leg fresh baked
in a plaster crust.
the hospital drape
hangs blueloose
on your body.
you swing on crutches
to pace my step,
your teen legs
thin as the candle
I
lit when you lay
those incubator days
in your first home.
tonight, visiting time past,
death ambles with us,
past the other wards
a silent third who listens
to breathing and bleeping.
we hug and you rock back
down the number road
hung with signs
of living and dying.
and like a baker
watching bread rise,
I
fill with the leaven
of fatherhood.
25. To a Three Year old Son
your clown face.
ringed with tea
we find the sign of a stick man
stuck on the toilet door
top hat and cane
ringmaster in a private circus
stand in the public place
legs astride, companions
at this urinal
frown in unison
and listen to the
applause of aluminum.
ease features, shake
grin and zip,
then walk secret
with achievement
to the waiting women.
26.
Sunflower Syllogism
(for Martine)
If this is so
and that is so
then this is that.
so runs the syllogism
trailing its 3 line logic.
you whose wedding brimmed
with sun flowers,
open to the morning sun
rich in seed and golden oil,
florets widening in spirals,
like a Van Gogh still life,
increase in beauty.
across forehead and eyes
cheeks and mouth
many say you look like me.
therefore I following the sun
closer to set than rise
petals
strewn, seeds
drying,
solar power dipping to the horizon
am becoming more beautiful too.
or is this just another silly jism?
Poems Personal
I have laid the round table
and set the
seven-bit candle stick, centre-piece.
the hour is late. the chairs stand empty.
the invited guests
have not come
nor sent regrets.
I go into the streets of the
old town.
searching for discarded
selves,
calling them by name.
the one in the ivory
academy,
sawn-off from heart.
the one huddling in
the alley
where whores hang
their red lights.
the one whose face
shows sea calm
while the ocean churns
in his gut.
the one who sips
jokes from a tap
and does not divine
laughter from the well.
the one wandering
the dry river bed
his tears sucked by
the sun.
the boy who stood at
his father’s grave
and wrote his first
poem
and who in middle years
sat beside his
mother’s body.
I embrace them one by one,
breast bone to breast bone
and I say
The
table waits. the candles are lit.
drums
strike the coming of the groom.
the
festival begins
come
and dine.
grief tosses
me a hide,
stiff, raw off
the animal.
I work its leather-wet death smell
through salts
to tan, soften
and shape it.
I wear it supple
on my body.
it moves
now, as I move,
breathing with me,
this sunburnt
skin,
warming and adorning.
On Writing
the sage called Ganesha,
of the two tusks
and ink-pot belly,
to earth a poem
long as the
to capture its
currents,
the washing of
bodies
and the floating
candles
set alight in paper
boats.
they agreed to
unbroken motion,
matching the rhythms of
the lyrics
to the flowing
script.
the sage intoned and
Ganesha
stroked volume on volume
across cascading years.
then mid-stream his
pen split
in a river of
words.
without skipping a beat
Ganesha snapped his
right tusk.
friend of scribes and
writers,
he inscribed in
ivory
the immortal verse,
the sacred song of
30.
Ballad of Fathom Fifty
I dreamt I
lost a sailing ship
Deep in the psychic sea.
My ship went down
beyond the sound
In infant history.
It seemed I went adventuring
Beyond known latitudes.
Map-maker hands had faltered
there
All charts were rough and rude.
Before we sank we must have sped
In primary colours
bright.
Our sail unfurled in mighty wind
We tacked through waning light.
The waves that cracked her ribs
were made Of pirate: and of storm.
And then she struck a hidden reef
In tropic currents warm.
She lay so long that I forgot
She lined the ocean floor.
No diver ever saw this hulk
No shanty sang the lore.
And barnacles encrusted her
Fish monsters made her home
Beneath the jagged white shark tooth
Beneath the great whale foam.
I
Through waves that roll in from this wreck
I slowly know its awe.
Now I am bound to salvage work
Through rhyme and metaphor.
I dream I find ten thousand balls
So I can see her float.
Each one an image rich in air
Deeper than anecdote.
I dive deep down in fear of bends
Hair rises in my nape.
The cage of
story carries me
I feel its
treasure shape.
As I inject her hulk with breath
She rights and rises like a fin.
Our hull and mast ride now the wave …
The poet's galleon.