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2010-11

: Alta

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16

17
18

Kyoko Kishida

64

A.K.
Ramanujan -:

74

Shon Arieh-Lerer:

:
76

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Lionel Fogarty:
-: Jazra

86

Khaleed
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DANIEL FALB

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duty free .

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Pirow Bekker;
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LIONEL FOGARTY

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ALTA
(1969-1989)

-: KYOKO KISHIDA

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alta,

1968, Muriel Rukeyser (1913-1980) ! !. ,

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Alta Gerrey (1942- ) .
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50,
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(John Oliver Simon), AB Dick 360,

. Freedoms in Sight (1969). , ,
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Remember Our Fire. .
60,
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(. Peoples Park) ,
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1970 .
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(housewife) /// (hussy).
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, , (Shameless Hussy Press), -

8 ALTA

. Susan Griffin (1943- )

, Pat Parker (1944-1989) Judy
Grahn (1940- ) Remember Our Fire ,
1 ,
.
(1971 ).

Womens Press.

.
. . , .

, . (
Codys Bookstore), , . AB Dick

.
,
,
, .
, , .
,
. 1974 .
WC
. .

,
,
, Ntozake Shange (1948- ) Mitsuye Yamada (1923- ).
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf
(1975) -
, , , ,
- . Campnotes and Other
Poems (1976)



. .

.

Letters to Women
( , 1970) ,
.
,
. 1989
, Deluged with Dudes (/ ),
,
2.
,
,
I Am Not a Practicing Angel (Crossing
Press, 1975).
, .

ALTA 9

Playboy
!

. Marge Piercy (1936- ) : , , ,
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Diana Press .
FBI, .
2. ,
(Diana Press-Baltimore MD, Daughters Inc.-Plainfield VT, Womens Press Collective-Oakland CA), .
3. :
/
/ $150 /
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.
1.

,
Irene Reti: Alta and the History of Shameless Hussy Press, 1969-1989, Santa Cruz University Library, 2001.

10 ALTA

POEt
i remember the whisper from when i was a kid.
youre different & always i retorted
everyones the same! angry everytime a hippie
said plastic people angry everytime a white
said darkie sick of all the names bourgeois,
& commie, chick & the voice insisting look.
they know yr different & it was right but for
years I shuffled, trying to go their direction
at their speed but they always knew i was more different
than i knew they were more alike.

.

!


, .

,

.

HER StORY
the slaves were freed
to stand eating salt pork
to defend themselves, unarmed
against the armed kkk.
some whites expect blacks
to be grateful.
women were freed
to vote for nixon or mcgovern
to defend themselves, unarmed,
against armed rapists.
some men expect women
to be grateful.

,
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, ,
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i used to be a 145 pound weakling.

i was a pushover for any man.
then i took karate & now i
hit men with my purse!

65 .
.

!

ALTA 11

my heart is my womb.
i feel it beating there, thats where
it beats from.
the stupid men called her a whore.
i feel my heartbeat in my womb.

.
,
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.

i have learned
to use black ink
to use heavy cover paper:
to title the edge of the book.
i have learned to avoid handwriting, & even
typewriters (readers can tell you are poor) i have
learned that grants are for other people, if anybody,
& that bookstores do not want to take me seriously. i have learned
that only solitary women will distribute my books;
women as solitary as i was when i wrote them, printed them
with less than black ink. i have learned
many publishers suffer as i do: there is less money than we
would like to have; the artists are temperamental. and we do,
on occasion, get ripped off, which always hurts
(since we want to live as if the new world has been born)
i have learned the slicks will not buy my poems or my stories or
my articles; i am dependent on counterculture or no one would ever
read me; i have learned to ask never less than $150 or they think i am
small shit & dont pay at all;
i have learned poetry is an occupation like most any other,
& i am forgetting how to write.

:
.

( )
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$150

,
.

12 ALTA

StORY

she & i each got married.

it was the only job we could find.
but we talked our husbands into sharing
the same house. we were together
every day. you know, men think nothing
of it when they see women hugging.

.
.

.
. ,
.

we used to wonder if they got comfort

from each other; discussing their
frigid wives.
they decided theyd be artists, & spent
their time shut in a room, smearing colours,
while our heads would be flashing the reds
of love.

.
,
, ,

.

daily courage doesnt count

we dont get diplomas for it.
i worked hard for 5 years with one man,
then had 3 years graduate training with another.
but people called me a divorcee, & acted as if
i had done something wrong.
no one was happy for me,
no one gave me a coming out party.
but i tell you, i came out of those marriages
one smart bitch.

.
5 ,
3 .
,
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,
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that chick is SO REVOLUTIONARY

she dresses poor on purpose.
she eschews the boozhwa comforts like
washing machines, male lovers, &
flush toilets. i mean she is
EVERY KIND of revolutionary!
she d bum off her friends before she d work
in a counter-revolutionary goverment job!
(how come she can afford to be so revolutionary?)
i mean, this chick is SO REVOLUTIONARY,
she laughs at housewives, agrees that
were an inferior breed.
she would never have a kid if she could have
an abortion instead. get it? this chick is
SELF FULFILLED!
super chick ta daa!
even her period glows in the dark.

.

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!
( ;)
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ALTA 13

A PLAY

man & woman,

fully dressed,
rolling on floor.

,
,
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feminist jumps between them

STOP! dont sell yr sisters!

! !

husband jumps between them

STOP! arent i man enough for you?
kids jump between them
dont make another divorce!
woman writhes
on floor; man
bends into himself,
his hand on his crotch.
they arduously move away from the others,
reaching out to each other
a priest jumps between
STOP! fantasize like i do!
that way you ll stay faithful!
woman turns away, ARGHHH!
she & lover stand,
try to spot each other
over the others.
reach out &
touch
a telephone rings
a girl scout troop
begins nature study
at their feet.

! ;

!


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! !
!
, !
,

.

at church camp, for the wild west costume party,

i dressed as a whore.
i drew laces on me high yellow socks (for boots),
piled my silky brown hair hi on my head,
hiked up the front of my skirt so my soft white thighs
showed. i was a knockout, but they could hardly
give me first prize. church camp. so a girl
who had covered herself, veiled herself with white
head to toe, was given first prize. she was a bride.
& i, the whore got 2nd prize.
it was just like real life!

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!

14 ALTA

the cotton im wearing was picked by slave labor.

you think im lying. cotton in 1972 cant be slave,
there arent any slaves.
well, i got news
cotton is picked by prisoners.
people in prison pick cotton.
they get paid 2-1/2c an hour.
cops search their bodies before they march back
into their cells.
course, if you think only terrible people
go to prison, that solves the problem.
used to be only blacks were slaves.
everyone white knew they were bad.
theyre not bad anymore unless they do something bad.
all those black prisoners pickin cotton for our underwear
musta done somethin bad.
rockfellers committed a couple sins too, but hes too busy
to pick my cotton.
those black men in prison arent too busy, tho.
thats all they
have
to do.

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, 1972 ,
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building, yr too ugly

for anyone to live in.
but someone lives in you.
looks out dirty windows
to busses on the street.
listens to the sound of people walking.
the only way to hear a bird in this
ugly part of oakland wld be to
trap it in a cage & make it sing.
like what happens to poets.
& the fat boy tugs his sweater
on down past his belly
as if he were
ashamed of his own flesh.

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a roomful of guys just back from nam,

getting rehabilitated, learning to use plastic legs;
in 3 weeks theyll be able to walk all the way
to the corner to meet the pusher.
the other pusher, not the one who pushed them in front
of the bullets & flak, some other pusher who works
for some other pusher, who may know someone who knows the 1st
pusher, the one who makes money off that war.
theyre probably different pushers, wouldnt you suppose?
probly not the same pusher is cruel enuf to cripple these
fine young men & get them hooked besides, must be 2 pushers.
2 guys up there, pulling strings to the goosestepping puppets
w/burned out eyes. probly not 1 pusher. probly 2 pushers.
or maybe its a whole corporation?

,
,
3
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,
, 1,
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, ;

, 2.
2 , -
. 1 . 2.
;

the saleswoman arched her eyebrows at me,

casting one hostile glance at my tennis shoe
with the big toenail poking out. yes?
she waited. i uh i need a raincoat.
i see. we walk to the rack & im sweating
wishing nylons didnt always gather around my
ankles cause maybe shed like me more if i wore
nylons. 2 stores down i bought a big black
raincoat with a hood so I could hide like
a phantom of the opera & no one could recognize
me except by the big toenail poking out the
right tennis shoe.

,

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ALTA 15

16

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Sometimes Im thinking that I love you

but I know its only lust
gang of four, damaged goods (1979)

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02.10.10

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2008

17

18

L IONE L F OG A R T Y

-: JAZRA KHALEED

19

LioneL Fogarty

MUDROOROO1

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franz fanon2

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Lionel Fogarty

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Lionel
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Cherbourg4,
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Lionel
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20 LIONEL FOGARTY

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Lionel . ,
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Lionel , , .

, 19
.
, , . Lionel
. Lionel Fogarty Cherbourg

Queensland6, -
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. Cherbourg.
-
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Lionel - ,
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Jack Davis ,
Kath Walker. -
, - Gubba8, Murri9
Lionel
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,
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. , - .

Rasa7 1. O Mudrooro (1938- ), ( . 2),
- Lionel G. Fogarty, New and Selected Poems, Hyland House, 1995.
, Franz Fanon (1925-1961), ,
- 2.
.
.
.
. 3. Pidgin
,
. Kriol
Lionel, , .
-, .
4. To Cherbourg Queensland
.
- Cherbourg 80.
5. Mudrooroo 27 1967
. ,
-
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- 6. Queensland .
- 7. Rasa: ,
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8. Gubba: ()
. 9. Murri: , Queensland.

LIONEL FOGARTY 21

IMARBARA I AM GENERAtION OF EXIStENCE

I am a living entity, you belong to me. I AM.
I am of earth and space
I am a son of the world
I am the religious law
I am the kin to all creatures
I am kin to this creation
The world is my nation
The earth is my mother
The black man is of this earth
And the yellow man of this earth
But where is the white mad mans home
He has rape in mind to his own mother earth
I have to fight with the trees
I have to fight with the rivers and rocks
Dear mother earth have my love
Day by day
Withdraw the force a companion pain of you, to be part of me
Please mother Im sorry and lonely for your natural cause.

I am the birds dat die

I am the snakes dat die
I am the sea creatures to die
Sure man, we am but why must we bang and blast here on this
ground?
Im your native here in captive
Im your native ready in revolt
Im the native to bring all
white human being to a new world
where you mother earth rule.
I know you can just take so much.
So Im the lands sources of identity.
You mother earth provides for my physical needs
and my spiritual needs.
You are the holy and sacred and Im the regeneration
of history and the continuation of your life
Im the begin and dat where we all returns.

IMARBARA1

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1. Imarbara:

2. Fogarty

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22 LIONEL FOGARTY

JUSt WOKE UP
I am waiting for friends to come and the Bus came.
I have immense silence here in my land
I watch SBS and ABC if theres anything on blacks.
I go walking up the gulleys of white properties
When we find a spot to sit and fish, white man says
move on.
I have ten acres of just dirt no flower, plants, trees,
a cow donkey and one migglou horses koalas roos
passing by.
Five dogs one duck and Im gonna get more with my
next cheque
I put our blackfella flag up high in a tree out front,
but migglou came and took it down
I am alone but surrounded with peoples in the
skies clouded.
Happiness rest in the fires I make out back.
I worry dat yesterday I didnt write a poem for them
Murris. And I hear today a Uncle is coming to teach
the jarjums more corroboree, but this uncle is a
believer of jesus bible thing from jews
So I dont know how to sing dance dat old black
magic cultures.
I just have a drink and smoke and if clean up not
done the swearing wife come out yelling or throwing
hints. I was born in another tribal country but
Im living here with the love spirits of this disappeared
tribe.
Here I am immense in silence yet Im still wilder in
mind I am your writer FRIEND.

1. migglou:

2.
jarjums/
3. corroboree:

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SBS ABC .

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migglou1
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,
migglou

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Murris.
2 corroboree3,


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LIONEL FOGARTY 23

tHE MUNUNJALI EXEMPtION MAN

MUNUNJALI1

To my Great Grandfather Fred Fogarty

Fred Fogarty

The Department of Family Services and Abos lied

to me. My grandfather came to Purga at bout 19 or
18 hundreds and married a Murri woman who gave
him sons. In 1922 he was given exemption certificate from the acts. He came from Mununjali people
who lives in Beaudesert. My grandfather was gammin and told he was free, but when his son hit the
manager his son was sended to Barambah.
Now my two grandfathers are dead and my
parents cant remember any things they said or
done cause in those days it was hard to tell.
So all I want to know is who was my great-greatgreat-grandfathers parents? Now some of these
good christians must have paper records.
You see brothers and sisters I dont need whiteman papers to prove, but I want it to fight for legal
our land and cultural heritage rights.
Purga my grandparents help built, now is not
ours. Well look at the mixed up mess.
Oh great grandfather I cant hear you yarning
bout our relations Oh great grandfather I have
your grandchildren ready to take up the fight for
our land and losted you were taken and Im lacking, so why dont we all come together as a family
and re-issue free knowledge. Now my great grandfather was an aboriginal man dat is divide from
me cos the history has changed camps. But I have
moved too, yet I have a marriage certificate to you
great-great-grandfather, and I will find you waiting
in Mununjali Dreaming realities.

. Purga2
Murri
. 1922 3. Mununjali
Beaudesert.
,
Barambah4.


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Purga ,
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--, Dreaming5 Mununjali.
1. Mununjali: Beaudesert Queensland.
2. Purga: Ipswich Queensland 1914
.
3. Protection acts: (1890-1970)
, , , .
4. Barambah: Cherbourg ( ). /
,
, / .
5. Dreaming/Dreamtime:
.
,
, Dreamtime
( . 2).

24 LIONEL FOGARTY

COME OVER MURRI

I just remember Murris not only you die
in prisons or from poor conditions
Over other countries theyre dying too and prisoned for surviving
like Latin America, where white man still tried to cause divisions with murder, rape and oppressions for exploitation.
We are not the only sufferers.
We are not just the ones fighting for land cultural rights.
Overseas in other lands they are fighting against the same enemy
which is capitalist or simply wrong commos.
We are in one world, but we here are forgetting about other native peoples struggles.
We as Murri must look here and support the necessary struggles of other countries, for their fights affect our fights.
Take the black out of South Africa and put them here we will find the same racist things.
Take red people up in Canada, theyre still fighting for rights.
Take the Pacific natives they are still struggling for what they need.
And take whites overseas, they are fighting too, oh, like the Irish people who want Britain out.
So Murris we have to have feeling, thinking and action for all low, small native peoples overseas.
And then we will get world understanding and unity, even love for one anothers cultures.
Just remember they die, fight too Murri.
The other countries are waiting now for your support and fight.

MURRI

Murris


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LIONEL FOGARTY 25

FOR I COME
DEAtH IN CUStODY

in a jail.
Even a Murri wouldnt know
if him free.
The land is not free.
Dreamtime is not free.
No money needed.
See that scarred hand at work
thats cutting away
to freedom
Freedom.
Jail not for me
but a lot of my people in jail
White jail are cruel
Set up the family, stay away
come to see your Murri
look big and grown
in learning, of our gods teaching.
What they give you in here?
Away from the corroboree
In the fuckin jails
Murri get out, so we can fight
like the red man has done
Lord them a come.
My brother die there
in white custody
And I hate the way the screws patch up
and cover up.
He died at the white hands
it was there, in the stinkin jails
up you might blacks
Him not free
For when white man came
its been like a jail
with a wife and a family
black man can stay in jail
like its home.
Fuck, they hung us all.

.
Murri
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Dreamtime .
.


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Murri

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corroboree

Murri ,

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26 LIONEL FOGARTY

A LIE

CAPItALISM tHE MURDERER IN DISGUISE

Way out in the valleys and

mountain ranges of light

You know Id like to tell you a story

But Im afraid.
I wont use names.
I thought
now what if I get out of this chair
and walk to the cupboard
get the gun
load it up
and shoot
any white person
that walk
pass this chair
and any black
that cry for them.
I thought
When theyre shot
I get out my best knife
cut the heart out
then stuff it in their mouth
until it went down to the gut.
I thought
I must slice off the balls
and shove
in the eyeballs
with blood
spitting out of the nose.
I thought
Ill put it in the moiu
to smell the filth
of the white mans brain.
I screwed the neck around
until purple, green and white
lit the face.
I tightly moved my legs
onto his screaming belly.
A silence came
But my pain
was still the same.
My legs shook
Out of my reality
a pig killed my arms
He laughed and said
You black bastard
what did he do to you?
I said
You make my fathers afraid
then give them a carved body
ready to shatter
a mind
held in drunkenness
fooled
and worn out.
You make my mothers afraid
so when she sleeps
an axe appears
covered in blood.

You came quiet in roaring tide

in the sunset lagoon
How softly whispers the river
and streams in endless waters
THOSE
cant tell a Lie.

Look pig
what you do to our people.
Who cares
Im locked up here
with no arms
no legs
but a body
and mind
really
my spirit.
But Im not going to be afraid.
You dont make me afraid.
Beware, well be out of your prisons
I was afraid to write this one
real thing
but remember
Your Enemy
Hes
Ours TOO.

LIONEL FOGARTY 27

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1. : moiu/

28 LIONEL FOGARTY

tIRED OF WRItING

A long time since I picked up a pen

Again.
And I had to pick ability in writing
Some call it poetry
I see it as putting something
from nothing, thats my practice.
Carrying targets of beauty and living
first tongue, painless are my words.
We foresee sterile crippled shadows
healing are answers.
Midnight whitened muscles that
frosted a countrys autumn.
My mind in time
is what rhymes.
Now Im of sometime
Long tomorrows will make summer sooner.
Sometimes me write bad
just to be glad.
Little we read
dead seeds may be reeds of lifefullness.
So I wrote.
But you will remote, note
Space took a pace
Rat race
whata play, ace
Just in fine line
Our true times
Are never true.
Sometimes I dont think.
To write I have to use
a medium
that is not mine.
If I dont succeed, bear with me.
I see words beyond any acceptable meaning
And this is how I express my dreaming

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jAzRA khALEEd
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[the new beat]

30

SL A M
;

TOY GUTTED

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marc smith

(slam) performance .
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32 SLAM

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34 SLAM

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.

1. Susan B.A. Somers-Willet, The Cultural Politics of Slam Poetry: Race, Identity and the Performance of Popular Verse in
America, University of Michigan Press, 2009.
2, 3. ..
4. Marc Kelly Smith with Joe Kraynak, What You Think You Know May Not Be Slam Take the Mic: The Art of Performance
Poetry, Slam and the Spoken Word, Sourcebooks, 2009.
5, 6. ..
7. http://www.e-poets.net/library/slam/xindex.
html
8. http://www.e-poets.net/library/slam/converge.html
9. http://www.e-poets.net/library/slam/diaspora.html
10. ..
:

Susan B.A. Somers-Willet, The Cultural Politics of Slam Poetry: Race, Identity and the Performance of Popular Verse in
America, The University of Michigan Press, 2009.
Marc Kelly Smith with Joe Kraynak, Take the Mic: The Art of Performance Poetry, Slam and the Spoken Word, Sourcebooks,
2009.
Cristin OKeefe Aptowicz, Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour Through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam, Soft
Skull Press, 2008.
Gary Mex Glazner, Poetry Slam: The Competitive Art of Performance Poetry, Manic D Press, 1995.
,

...

36

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15 2009, TGV Lyria, Voiture 6,

33-34, Lausanne-Paris, 21:30

ouvert dimanche

.

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timing.
, sex appeal,
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magasin marriage

spontaneous .



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26 2004

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50 AFRIKAANS

BAREND J. TOERIEN

Hy was van hul Vrystaat-plaas, was kindermeid,

kok, tuinjong, binnemeid, alles tesaam.
Sy uniform: n halfmas kortbroek, wyd;
n hemp en voorskoot. Bicycle was sy naam.
Ten minste so noem die professor hom,
en die hele huisgesin; dan lag hy wit.
Sy vrou en kinders, verbode hier, onwelkom,
woon op die veraf plaas. (Dankie vir dit!
s Mevrou Professor op pop-Afrikaans.
Somervakansies sien hy tog vir hul.
Ma skryf sy vrou neuk nou met ander mans.
Wat sal ons maak sonder Bicycle?)
Die professor, diep in sy geliefde stoel
sit verse skryf. Hy roep vir tee, vir Bicycle.

, ,
, , , , .
: , ,
. .
,
. .
, ,
. ,
:
.

.
,
. , .

DIE VELES

S.V. PETERSEN

Hulle leef op skuld

tot Vrydagaand,
en tot die einde van die maand;
Gaan goed gekleed, soos wie weet wie
trakteer mekaar op simpatie;
Ontspan by voorkeur
in die fliek,
dans dol op radiomusiek;

,
.
,
.

Sing luidkeels Sondae in die kerk,

vloek roekeloos Maandae by die werk;

,
.

Doen siektes op,

en word gesons
gaan tog maar mre weer te grond;

Teel kleingoed by die tros, en stort

gn traan oor wat van hulle word!

,

.

Die jare gaan,

die jare kom;
hulle mors die Tien Gebooie om
Trek kort op sestig pensioen,
en raak met God en mens versoen.

,
!
,
.

,
.

AFRIKAANS 51

ONtVLUGtING

INGRID JONKER

Uit hierdie Valkenburg het ek ontvlug

en dink my nou in Gordonsbaai terug:
Ek speel met paddavisse in n stroom
en kerf swastikas in n rooikransboom
Ek is die hond wat op die strande draf
en dom-allernig teen die aandwind blaf
Ek is die seevol wat verhongerd daal
en dooi nagte opdis as n maal
Die god wat jou geskep het uit die wind
sodat my smart in jou volmaaktheid vind:
My lyk l uitgespoel in wier en gras
op al die plekke waar ons eenmaal was.

2
3:
M






:
4
.
1. .
,
.
2. :
Jonker.
3. ( ): Jonker .
4. Jonker, 32 ,
.

DIE tOWENARES
(Lied van die verbanne jong meid)

( )

EUGNE N. MARAIS

Wat word van die meisie wat altyd alleen bly?

Sy wag nie meer vir die kom van die jagters nie;
sy maak nie meer die vuur van swart-doringhout nie.
Die wind waai verby haar ore;
sy hoor nie meer die danslied nie;
die stem van die storie-verteller is dood.
Gneen roep haar van ver nie
om mooi woorde te praat.
Sy hoor net die stem van die wind alleen,
en die wind treur altyd
om hy alleen is.

;
.
.
.
.
.

.
,

.

52 AFRIKAANS

KAFFERLIED

TOTIUS

Die kaffer eerste kom, die witmens hij

kom later.
Die kaffer vat die land, die witmens hij
vat later.
Die kaffer hij woon eers, die witmens hij
woon later.
Die kaffer hij gooi eers, die witmens hij
gooi later.
Die kaffer eerste l, die witmens hij
l later.
Want assegai van kaffer hij
loop later.
Nou baje kaffer kom, die witmens hij
trap later.
Nou baje witmens kom, die kaffer hij
trap later.
Maar witmens blits te kwaai en kaffer hij
dood later.
Die kaffer het gedood, maar witmens hij
dood later.
Die witmens hij nou leef, die kaffer hij
leef later.
Die witmens hij nou lag, die kaffer hij
lag later.

1. O Totius
,
gubu ( ).

2 ,
.
,
.
,
.
,
.
,
.

.
,
.
,
.

.
,
.
,
.
,
.
2. Kaffer :
.

.

BOERNEEF

Magoed issit waar wat oompie Dourie s

hy s die Oubaas was haastag oppie Sadragaand
hy wou die wreld klaarkly darie einste aand
en daarom is Swartrugseberg so skurf
so klowerag so klipsteenrotserag
magoed issit waar wat oompie Dourie s
jou oom is oneerbierag en n heiding
hyt geen respekte vir n Christenmens
luister na hierie liedjie wat ek sing
soos ouni my geleer het om te sing
Swartrugseberg is Bitterberg
vergeet die dag en datum nooit
hy moor die dier verniel die mens
vergeet die dag en datum nooit
daarom die baie rotsaltare
daarom die baie klippilare
gedinkstene van baie jare
van mens en dier se swaarkryjare
op hierie baie bitter Bitterberg

, ;




, ;












,

EK MOEt N NAAM VIR MY LAND BEDINK

PIROW BEKKER

Dit maak nie saak dat tafel gedek oor jou nie,
dit maak nie saak dat jy tandeknersend reeds gedoop is nie
tot knersvlakte, moordenaarskaroo,
vryheid, armoedsvlakte,
boesmanland, noorsveld van jansewiel
ek moet vir jou n nuwe naam bedink.
Hulle het baie name vir jou:
stinkmuishond, wervoerpeling,
mastitia in die speen van afrika,
apartheidshel, azania
maar ek moet my eie naam vir jou bedink.
Daar is een naam wat my nie wil verlaat:
dis die naam van n skeerder wat buite seisoen
aan t dwaal wat met n skaapskr en n sandsteen
in sy sak van muskeljaatkatvel
dis anderland, in elke land
n anderland, altyd n anderland.
En moet ek jou verlaat,
sal ek anderland en anderland jy bly.
Daar is geen ander land, my anderse anderland.

,

, 1 ,
, ,
,
.
:
, ,
,
, 2
.
:



,
, .
,
, .
.
1. (karoo): .
,
.
2. Azania: .

AFRIKAANS 53

54 AFRIKAANS

EK SKRYF N GEDIG

KONStItUSIE

PETER SNYDERS

ADAM SMALL

Ek skryf n gedig
n gedig wat almal kop laat staan,
ek wys dit vir my vriende wat s:
Di poem kan jou famous maak.

Dokumentr
in ons met
menslikheid ver

Ek tik dit netjes,

onderteken my naam, en,
kopiereg-verskrik
stuur dit toe na elke redakteur
wat waag om goeie vers te druk;
drie jaar later hoor ek di wysie:
Nog nie famous nie?
My verwysingsveld
dt is wat daai sogenaamde redakteurs ontwrig;
ek sal hulle wys,
ek sal my eie uitgewery stig.
So, hier sit ek met gevoude arms,
n baie belangrijke mens, s die bord,
my vriende wat verbygaan s:
N gaan hy famous word.
My naam versky in druk, o ja,
op rekenings vir dit of dat,
maar as ek bankrotstraat afstap
gaan my ondersteuners voort:
n Mens raak famous n jou dood.

maar die klier

is nders
as papier
en so het ons lief
maar ons liefde
vir mekaar
bly apokrief.

,
:
.
,
, ,


.
:
;

.
,
.
, ,
, ,
:
, .
, ,
,

:
.

1995
ANTJIE KROG

ek s dit vooruit
hard
ek staan vir niks
ek skaar my by nrens
niemand kom my naby
almal lyk dieselfde
almal is mans almal
is nekke almal
peule van mag
die generale en brigadiere en ministere
en hoofdmangenerale sit en piele vleg
en bebliksem n hele land met die omruilbare gesigte
van politiek en geweld
almal is slu
almal voel fokol
Here waar kom ons hulp vandaan?
in die wandelgange l geld en glas
stopstrate van vleis
taxis word bloedgargoyles
en almal wil h
en almal wil hou

1995

,





;

AFRIKAANS 55

56 AFRIKAANS

VLEKBRAND
BREYTEN BREYTENBACH

wanneer jy dink aan jou land

sien jy
vlegsels en n bril; n ou hond vol bloed;
en n perd versuip in die rivier; n berg met vuur;
n ruimte met twee mense sonder tande in die bed;
donker vyge teen die sand; n pad, populiere,
huis, blou, wolkskrepe;
riete; n telefoon;
sien jy
wanneer jy dink aan jou land
sien jy
ons moet sterk wees; binnegoed vol kraters en vlie;
die berg is n slaghuis sonder mure;
oor die duisend heuwels van Natal
die vuiste van die krygers soos vaandels;
gevangenes l in die modder: sien jy
myne waaruite slawe peul; die ren
is knetterend hoog soos vonke bo teen die aand;
tussen die riete vrot die skelet van die dwerg

. .
. .
.
. ,
, , .
. .

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.
1
.
.
.
.

1. (Natal): .

AFRIKAANS 57

CURRICULUM VItAE
(vir nog n nuwe werkgever)

CURRICULUM VItAE ( )

ANDR LETOIT

My nooi is in n naartjie
My ouma in die tronk
My oupa is n try-for-white
My pa is altyd dronk
My oom is in die Broederbond
My boetie saag net meter maids
My neef studier nog vrugteloos
En my beste vriend het AIDS
Die freaks dink ek is plastic
Die fuzz meen: skisofreen
My predikant voel ek s bietjie regs
Maar in my hart n goeie seun
My nooi is in n naartje
My ma vrees elke kommunis
My oom het n jacuzzi
En ek weet nie wie de fok ek is

1


AIDS









1. (Broederbond):
, Afrikaners.

MY POP VAL StUKKEND

INGRID JONKER

Die skaduwee waarsku die straat

geslinger uit n ho balkon
deur die skaars jakarandas van die lug
die skaduwee waarsku die son
deur die lied van die penniefluitjies
geval op die dreunende straat
my pop met n naam soos n liggaam
wat net soos n mens kon praat
My pop soos n mossie geskiet
korrel-kaal van die vensterbank
of was dit die wind uit die verte
of was dit my eie hand
My pop het geval toe die son
sy brons klok lui uit die lug
toe die wolke die mure wit kalk
val die skaduwee daarin terug
Die skaduwee waarsku die son
porselein met die ver lug bo
als ek sou val uit n ho balkon
as ek sou breek lyk ek ook s?

58 AFRIKAANS

BOM
GERT VLOK NEL

daar was i bom in die winkel, iemand het gebel.

die bestuurder (Kleinkoos van Zyl): in die karoo? vertel
dit vir jou omma. ek sal, 5 minute. bzzzzz
OK. dner. aankondiging. konsternasie. bellie poelisie! bzzzzz
fokken lyn is dood. konsternasie. almal uit... kind missing
floute, gille, (o here.) polisie arriveer. soek. polisie vind. o sing!
en toe is die polisie weer die winkel in met i ding & i hond.
en later weer uit met daai stront, daai fkken stuk stront
stoorman J.S. Buys, mank, wat bitter uit die stoor gebel het
omdat sy ma hom van jesus & feetjies & prinsesse vertel het.

, .
( ): ;
. , 5 .
. . . . !
. .
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.
,
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, .

WEERVOORSPELLING

JEANNE GOOSEN

Die son het geen doel voor o Die

huisies draai hulle gesigte
noulettend na die see Die
dag blink soos blaarslaai.
Op die strand sit n man
en kyk na die kopskuddende branders
Moeni na hom toe gaan nie
al dra hy n brerandhoed
Moenie met hom praat nie Sy
borskas is opgestop
met n honderd jaar se ou kourante
Moenie met hom praat nie Hoor
jy dan nie Hy hoes
dro oesters.
Hy is ons nuwe eerste minister.

.


,






.
.

AFRIKAANS 59

IN MEMORIAM

IN MEMORIAM

UYS KRIGE

n Goeie, baie goeie baas was Baas Servaas,

goed in sy doen en late en al sy wandel.
Ek t dertig jaar vir hom gewerk. Ja-nee, my baas,
die Oubaas het my rrig goed mishandel.

,
, .
. , ,
, .

( )

Pirow Bekker (1935- ): , .

.
Boerneef (1897-1967):
I.W.
van der Merwe 1958.

,
.
Breyten Breytenbach (1939- ):
. , 60,


. 1978,
,
.
.
Jeanne Goosen (1938- ): ,
.
Ingrid Jonker (1933-1965): (
Breytenbach) ,
.
,
.
.
, 32 .
Uys Krige (1910-1987):
.
.
Antjie Krog (1952- ): .
Country of y Skull,


.
,
Samuel L. Jackson.

Andr Letoit (1954- ): Koos Kombuis.

, , .
Eugne N. Marais (1871-1936):
, . ,
, ,
.
Maeterlinck
,
,
.
Gert Vlok Nel (1963- ):
, Ingrid
Jonker , .
,
.
Komrij
,
CD Nel
.
S.V. Petersen (1913-1987):

.
Adam Small (1936- ): .
.
Peter Snyders (1939- ): (Kaaps), .
.
Barend J. Toerien (1921- ):
.
Totius (1877-1953): J.D. du Toit.
.

60

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1970 1985
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66 A. K. RAMANUJAN

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:
Dipesh Chackrabarty, Provincializing Europe, Princeton University Press, 2000.
Dipesh Chakrabarty, Habitations of Modernity, The University of Chicago Press, 2002.
Robert J.C. Young, , , 2007.
, ;, , 2007.
, ;,
, 2005.
, 20 H , ,
1998.
Eric Hobsbawm, , , 1998.
, ,
, 2006.
Edward W. Said, , , 1996.
, , , 1997.
Wolfgang J. Mommsen, , , 2007.
A. K. Ramanujan, Is There an Indian Way of Thinking?, Sage Publications 1990.
Jawaharlal Nehru, An Autobiography, John Lane, 1936.
J.M. Coetzee, , 1990.
. :
Provincializing Europe
Dipesh Chakrabarty,

- 2008,
.

CONVENtIONS OF DESPAIR

Yes, I know all that. I should be modern.

Marry again. See strippers at the Tease.
Touch Africa. Go to the movies.

, . .
. .
. .

Impale a six-inch spider

under a lens. Join the Testban, or become The Outsider.
Or pay to shake my fist
(or whatever-you-call-it) at a psychoanalyst.
And when I burn
I should smile, dry eyed,
and nurse martinis like the marginal Man.
But sorry, I cannot unlearn
conventions of despair.
They have their pride.
I must seek and will find
my particular hell only in my Hindu mind:
must translate and turn
till I blister and roast.

.
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68 A. K. RAMANUJAN

tHE HINDOO: HE DOESNt

HURt A FLY OR A SPIDER
EItHER
Its time I told you why
Im so gentle, do not hurt a fly.
Why, I cannot hurt a spider
either, not even a black widow,
for who can tell Whos Who?
Can you? Maybe its once again my
great swinging grandmother,
and that other (playing at
patience centred in his web)
my one true ancestor,
the fisherman lover who waylaid her
on the ropes in Madras harbour,
took her often from behind
imprinting on her face and body
(not to speak of family tree
or gossip column)
lasting impressions of his net:
till, one day, spider
fashion, she clamped down and bit
him while still inside her,
as if shed teeth down there
theyd a Latin name for it,
which didnt help the poor man one bit.
And who can say I do not bear,
as I do his name, the spirit
of Great Grandfather, that still man,
untimely witness, timeless eye,
perpetual outsider,
watching as only husbands will
a suspense of nets vibrate
under wife and enemy
with every move of hand or thigh:
watching, watching, like some
spider lover a pair
of his Borneo specimens mate
in murder, make love with hate,
or simply stalk a local fly.

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A. K. RAMANUJAN 69

tHE LASt OF tHE PRINCES

They took their time to die, this dynasty
falling in slow motion from Aurangzebs time:
some of bone TB,
others of a London fog that went to their heads,

conversation. He lives on, heir to long

fingers, faces in paintings, and a belief
in auspicious
snakes in the skylight; he lives on, to cough,

some of current trends, imported wine and women,

one or two heroic in war or poverty,
with ballads
to their name. Father, uncles, seven

remember and sneeze, a balance of phlegm

and bile, alternating loose bowels and hard
sheeps pellets.
Two girls, Honey and Bunny, go to school

folklore brothers, sister so young so lovely

that snakes loved her and hung dead,
ancestral
lovers, from her ceiling; brothers many

on half fees. Wife, heirloom pearl in her nose-ring;

pregnant again. His first son, trainee
in telegraphy,
has telegraphed thrice already for money.

wives, their unborn stillborn babies, numberless

cousins, royal mynahs and parrots
in the harem;
everyone died, to pass into his slow

,
Aurangzeb:
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70 A. K. RAMANUJAN

SMALL-SCALE REFLECtIONS
ON A GREAt HOUSE

Sometimes I think that nothing

that ever comes into this house
goes out. Things come in every day

to lose themselves among other things

lost long ago among
other things lost long ago;
lame wandering cows from nowhere
have been known to be tethered,
given a name, encouraged
to get pregnant in the broad daylight
of the street under the elders
supervision, the girls hiding
behind windows with holes in them.
Unread library books
usually mature in two weeks
and begin to lay a row
of little eggs in the ledgers
for fines, as silverfish
in the old mans office room
breed dynasties among long legal words
in the succulence
of Victorian parchment.
Neighbours dishes brought up
with the greasy sweets they made
all night the day before yesterday
for the wedding anniversary of a god,
never leave the house they enter,
like the servants, the phonographs,
the epilepsies in the blood,
sons-in-law who quite forget
their mothers, but stay to check
accounts or teach arithmetic to nieces,
or the women who come as wives
from houses open on one side
to rising suns, on another
to the setting, accustomed
to wait and to yield to monsoons
in the mountains calendar
beating through the hanging banana leaves.
And also, anything that goes out
will come back, processed and often
with long bills attached,
like the hooped bales of cotton
shipped off to invisible Manchesters
and brought back milled and folded

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A. K. RAMANUJAN 71

for a price, cloth for our days

middle-class loins, and muslin
for our richer nights. Letters mailed
have a way of finding their way back
with many re-directions to wrong
addresses and red ink marks
earned in Tiruvella and Sialkot.
And ideas behave like rumours,
once casually mentioned somewhere
they come back to the door as prodigies
born to prodigal fathers, with eyes
that vaguely look like our own,
like that Uncle said the other day:
that every Plotinus we read
is what some Alexander looted
between the malarial rivers.
A beggar once came with a violin
to croak out a prostitute song
that our voiceless cook sang
all time in our backyard.
Nothing stays out: daughters
get married to short-lived idiots;
sons who run away come back
in grandchildren who recite Sanskrit
to approving old men, or bring
betelnuts for visiting uncles
who keep them gaping with
anecdotes of unseen fathers,
or to bring Ganges water
in a copper pot
for the last of the dying
ancestors rattle in throat.
And though many times from everywhere,
recently only twice:
once in nineteen forty-three
from as far away as the Sahara,
half-gnawed by desert foxes,
and lately from somewhere
in the north, a nephew with stripes
on his shoulder was called
an incident on the border
and was brought back in plane
and train and military truck
even before the telegrams reached,
on a perfectly good
chatty afternoon.

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72 A. K. RAMANUJAN

SOME INDIAN USES OF HIStORY

ON A RAINY DAY
1.
Madras,
1965, and rain.
Head clerks from city banks
curse, batter, elbow
in vain the patchwork gangs
of coolies in their scramble
for the single seat
in the seventh bus:
they all tell each other how
Old King Harshas men
beat soft gongs
to stand a crowd of ten
thousand monks
in a queue, to give them
and the single visiting Chinaman
a hundred pieces of gold,
a pearl, and a length of cloth;

2.
Fulbright Indians, tiepins of ivory,
colour cameras for eyes, stand every July
in Egypt among camels,
faces pressed against the past
as against museum glass,
tongue tasting dust,
amazed at piramidfuls
of mummies swathed in millennia
of Calicut muslin.

so, miss another bus, the eight,

and begin to walk, for King Harshas
monks had nothing but their own two feet.

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3.
1935. Professor of Sanskrit
on cultural exchange;
passing through; lost
in Berlin rain; reduced
to a literal, turbanned child,
spelling German signs on door, bus, and shop,
trying to guess go from stop;
desperate
for a way of telling apart
a familiar street from a strange,
or east
from west at night,
the brown dog that barks
from the brown dog that doesnt,
memorising a foreign paradigm
of lanterns, landmarks,
a gothic lotus on the iron gate;
suddenly comes home
in English, gesture, and Sanskrit,
assimilating
the swastika
on the neighbours arm
in that roaring bus from a grey
nowhere to a green.

3.
1935.
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A. K. RAMANUJAN 73

76

DA NIE L FA L B

:
:

77

Daniel Falb
, Magna Carta,

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78 DANIEL FALB

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die rumung dieser parks(Kookbooks, 2003)
BANCOR (Kookbooks, 2009).

die auswahl der karten war nicht leicht. die hhenlinien

und rumung dieser parks. war das ein mischwald.
trampelpfade unterhhlten, was kste hie, und abends
leuchtete die ganze region in so einem tollen,
metallischen licht, ihr ionischer gebrauch:
den eurotunnel richtig errtern.
weit unterhalb der bewusstseinsschwelle
blieben die aktionspotenziale selbst raumfremd.
wenn die schilder verwackeln, lsst sich
der ankunftsbahnhof nur schwer aussprechen, mickey
oder so. das hie not in my backyard,
doch die gebude waren nicht eingezeichnet,
und schlafend atmet der gterverkehr,
was noch kein traum wusste,
transmit, transit, transit.

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transmit, transit, transit.

umgeworfene BMWs, genaue beschreibung der sachschden

im tageslicht und so viel tourismus. ich sah berall muskeln
und durch die gesten hindurch auf das meer. ein paar tage lang
hie die animateurin beate, dann blieb sie pltzlich weg und alle
ahnten etwas. im hotelzimmer gab es kabelfernsehen, wir
sahen die tagesschau, die terroristen waren wirklich gut gemacht.

BMW,
.
.
,
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, .

DANIEL FALB 79

80 DANIEL FALB

null tote, diese anweisung hattest du schon befolgt. vom fenster aus
ist ein ziviler flughafen zu sehen, die logistik, offenbar nur anknfte. du
liegst ungleichzeitig da, im koma, wir massieren deine oberschenkel,
als personal dieses hotels. nur anknfte, das staute sich, im krper.
die nicht enden wollende besetzung der passagen. noch mal:
es war zwar niemand gestorben, aber auch niemand geflogen,
die cockpits blieben unberhrt. wir lassen uns zulaufen,
die schrzchen verrutschen, unsere daumen ficken dich.

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gewicht und krpergre eines durchschnittlichen

erwachsenen. du warst wieder jenseits deiner hute,
am abend der kirmes im dorf, an der bundesstrae,
alles war regenglatt. die ganze innenwelt,
die modern tombola, der scooter
machten einen effekt vergleichbar dem luftdruck.
spter wurdest du gefickt, aber
es fhrte kein schwanz in dich hinein,
es fhrte blo ein schwanz aus dir heraus,
im halbdunkel konntest du ihn kaum erkennen.

. ,
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DANIEL FALB 81

da gab es, jenseits dieser lebensgefahr

und jenseits
der biografischen mutter, a girl asking
a boy to love her, dass sich seine zunge
zwischen ihren beinen befindet,
wie berall gezeigt,
und die herumliegenden frchte,
von gliedmaen ununterscheidbar.
da gab es seine performance,
in der manche mit nahrungsmitteln
beworfen wurden,
und in einer wie vergessenen kruselung
ein nationalsozialistisches, hoch
erflltes familienleben.
diese kinderzeichnungen sind ja so
aufrichtig. die sonne rechts oben, richtig,
ein schwarzer strahler.
wir lieben uns. unsere gesinnung ist liberal.

,

, a girl asking
a boy to love her,
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nchtelang zeigte die webcam

nur diesen aufenthaltsraum, die eingebauten
materialien waren sympathisch
und die pussi, die hier nicht vorkam.
goretex, gelesen
bis zur ersten klimax nach ca. 72 stunden,
die ganz groen themen fhlten sich gut an.
ich habe diese verblendungen einfach
abgerissen, ich wollte die wand sehen,
so bin ich dann zum strippen gekommen.
das hier knnte auch
eine hochwertige kche sein,
aber die sind alle noch oben,
im dachgarten, mit ihren neuen jacken.

webcam
,

.
goretex,
72 ,
.

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82 DANIEL FALB

auf dem werksgelnde leben. die in sich zurck laufende quelle das herz zahlt
die leber.
says the infant, ich werde sehr bald sterben bringe die stets wieder aufstehenden
clowns in den boden ein.
dieses individuum sei eine herde, die, indem sie weiterzog, auf anderen krpern
zu grasen begann. die nach dem schneeballsystem arbeitenden gesellschafter.
wie viele mahlzeiten kannst du heute abend einnehmen ohne von den eigenen
fortschritten erdrckt zu werden. die hochbegabten unter den opfern.
landschaften aus erwartung einsehbar wie ein vorgarten. wir erkennen darin
den waldbrand, darunter das grundwasser.
ihr leuchten ist ihre didaktik das nhere regelt ein bundesgesetz. wie hufig
kannst du heute abend schlafen gehen. a thousand years.

. ........
.
says the infant, ..............
.
.......... , ,
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...................
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........................... .
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. a thousand years.

die menge der schaulustigen beobachtete sich wartend selbst,

zu der wir vorliefen.
vielleicht liee sich das risiko auf eine region konzentrieren.
darauf der landregen.
meine bernchste hausrztin wurde gerade geboren. ich kontrollierte meinen lippenstift.
in der knautschzone umherschweifen. das war morgen. unsere
sachbearbeiter existierten bereits irgendwo.
flieend der bergang zwischen erster hilfe und zweiter natur.
nur krankenwagen verunglcken.
vielleicht muss das ticken ununterbrochen wahrgenommen
werden, damit die detonation ausbleibt, ein singspiel.
was mir zustie, war, mit der wucht eines aufpralls, eine police.
die zukunft unserer mbel.
exit erster hilfe. der wind dreht nur als ganzer. die maschinen
landeten regelmig ber dem stadtgebiet.

,
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DANIEL FALB 83

84 DANIEL FALB

teste deine fertigkeiten an schimpansen. man wird bereits diese porentief reine materie
fr plastisch gehalten haben. eine bschung aus muskeln hngt fhllos an uns und lebt da.
schutzwrdig ist, was keine diskriminierung erlaubt, was ohne rasse und farbe lebt. .............
wei ist die vornehmste aller farben. menschheiten versammeln sich unter den hnden
in den markt geduldeter services. an der bschung reihen sich pure menschlichkeiten auf
wie kiesel. der westwind distribuierte ihren geruch, alas, sie haben keinen. ...................
was fr ein schner geburtstag. geburtstag, das ist ein loch in der erde, aus dem die hummeln zur nahrungssuche hervorstrmen. du vermisst die bestnde, indem du sie abfischst.
die menschlichkeiten feiern geburtstage mit den vorsten gegen sie, every day all day.
die allgemeinheit berlegt noch, wer fr sie siegen darf. ......................................................

.
. .
, , , . .................................
.
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, every day all day.
. .....

DANIEL FALB 85

keine bestimmung des anbrechenden tages, der vorliegenden sonne in der rotverschiebung
dieses morgens soll jemals den raum verlassen, in dem wir uns jetzt befinden. ein dollar,
seine erklrung liegt zwar noch von voluten beschattet. aber keine calorie und keine einzige
falle darf jemals so ausgelegt werden, dass sich daraus eine neue folge der zeitalter ergibt.
der body-mass-index bleibt fr euch brig. die beiden groen akanthusbltter, sie werden
zunchst beiseitegeschoben. anschlieend wird nach dem nest aus kupferdrhten getastet
und nach dem kilopreis von aluminium. keinen staat, keine gruppe oder keine person wird
man ausschlieen von der recycling-anlage, von irgendeinem recht auf ein allgemeines,
damit bereinstimmendes leben. aber ihr seid ja im durchschnitt auch nicht mehr lebendig!
fr uns ergibt sich daher die verpflichtung wie die chance, mit der bloen vorstellungskraft
eine ttigkeit auszuben oder mit dem ausgesprochenen wort eine handlung vorzunehmen.
dabei werden gerne fehler gemacht. der mund muss die nase fest umschlieen, andernfalls
entweicht die luft in die umgebung. aus dem eigenen zimmer kommen, glas wasser trinken,
welches brtchen frhstcken, zeitung lessen, auf die toilette gehen -- vernichtung. der arzt
gehen und in dieser erklrung eine unterschrift machen, zur schule gehen -- vernichtung.
die von einem weikopfadler angefhrten nationen. das sind alles in allem die rechte
und freiheiten, die auf das ficken der polizei abzielen. .......................................................................

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86

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87

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[derniere VOLOnte]
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88

LOOKED AFTER
Listen to him
thats the wren.
Saving the city.
The people trudge by with full scaffolds.
All birds keep on about Plato.
You had me
daffodil buds. I suspect
that what you say
Ill have thought

SARAH
McC A NN
E

years ago
I want to hear.
You and I celebrate the Vancouver
towing granted a walk together.
The candle melts to the end of a wick while we near-sleep.
We breathe loud all midnight, paying for something.

: KYOKO KISHIDA

.
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89

THE SANITARIUM OF CHUNCHON

I am sick so much, people call me hospital.

In the lightless mine, surrounded by jade,

.
, ,

I stretch my tongue until it uproots,

catch mineral sweat, taste fossils,
certain my circulation blushes.

,
, ,

Flaps of capillaries finally regular.

I rest from travel. I

am kicked in the head

by a woman with a liver

.
.

ballooned, diluted, fluid tomb.

Outside her body it
is seen dissolving.
Her husband plies her buttons
unpeels the blouse, and places jade
shards in orbits on the skin
of her belly and breasts. When she breathes
the pieces tremble
then remeet her,
edging between bones,

, , .

.

,

all pointing towards the center.

In my plane I cleave clouds:
A shoulder from the arm.
I hate that I have come here.
My blood at least
is moving. I gather stones for the man
and hand them to his hand. We dress her chest
with unstrung, evenly-spaced jewels.
A fit of coughs. She wakes the lid of her
own esophagus.
The man is her hanging cloud.
She is the acid soil of a temporary forest.

.

,
,
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:
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90 SARAH McCANN

MASTERS OF DECIMALS

We are two beans

sprouting at the neck
when the world arrives.

Its the anemones hour

of every stretch and we knock
heads by mistake: awake
with cheek full
of saliva, xylophone
of brine in stomach.
Having mastered decimals
watching Adult Math on television,
we bumped into sleep itself.
Had our detaching dreams
and you were living things
I wouldnt dream.
Has it been this way for long?
We tug and roll toward
each only other. Our bed envelope.
We have our terms,
we have our calculus,
and we have our calculus
in terms of shells. Not hardened
nor coated, but cloaked without in
the oceans sine.
The moon rolls us into one
conch room. Mollusk long gone.
We curl around the helix.
One long lick
what we are.
I give you one long lick.
Our feelers emerge
from our collar
which is also our socks.
Still in bed, set in our places,
we are right (as the phone roars in our ears)
against each other, tenths, hundredths

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SARAH McCANN 91

PERIPATETICA

The sun, slug-gummed,

slid down our careful pre-evening
irises which clutched at everything.

, ,

.

The glints of its

slick trail oil slip
and combine, mercury, into stars.
Rat eyes white-violet from a thicket.
They let off more light the farther
we move into night.
We grind our calluses
until they join, knit an over-skin.
The time we have after work
we put to use
for work. We weed
the wild from their hiding
places, set them off
while holding onto their tails
the skunk runs and skins herself
and we congratulate ourselves
that just by looking
we took. We pry and pluck
garnets and rhinestones and hail
from the skys tiles
and plunk them in our sloshy bucket.
We go fishing every night
attaching to our hooks
the scaly crickets we find
loose in our ears when dusk
sits down and we first hear their quick
legs. It is not all wrong
to believe the Milky Way to be
expended breaths,
words frozen. The world
in constant creation what is
made is made by us and
makes us. And we are always
working. Day done
the sun inhales and collects
its light into a slow ball,
a glow of quiet
gel, ever-traveling.
One whole nude wound.

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92 SARAH McCANN

THE WORKS

TA

We harvest the salt

off the rocks where the sun
left scars.

The rats have eaten all the peahens eggs.

Not one turkey egg hatched.

The pig is a bachelor.

The sheep find it safer near the village.

Rabbits in holes too
many to count. Their shadows
become more rabbits.
Thirteen of the olive trees over fifty years thick.
We put out the fires when we can.
The rain from our roof tiles is red mud.
Libyan winds last week.
The raki from September sizzles
our throats and we catch breath between
tracheal plumes. A gnat.
Between our leaving cheeks.
Making the world before it makes us.
Our bed swims with grit.

.
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SKYLINE

The steeples blame

The sky.

What we hope
For from god
We want not
To be what we see
Already.
We are disappointed
By our feet
Every day.
We have seen better weeds
Than the crops we grow.
As we and are like
Stars are getting
Closer.

.

.


.

SARAH McCANN 93

ASCIAN
I, present
When did you first know you were to die?

I woke up to a plane crash

my cheeks were rotted down fine,
end-of-summer silt,
rich with needling, fraying bones,
tied through with glacial mica,
water veins remembered
next to the dragged-leg beetle trails.
My skin was new and not my own anymore
A body is just shelter, and hardly.
Id been crying for a while, I guess.

I, present
Knowing something else can die is not the same.
If you could even begin.
Or looking deeply into the bathos of shipwreck oil?
What sets you on your knees?
Do you save the soil clumped to the gnarled roots of a dead geranium?
It hangs there like a child.
Yes, I add it to the cactus.
How often do you note that the bird acting like a circus
on the evergreen outside your window is more black than white
and think that this is meaningful?
Stop.

He, now
They painted and tied your body in a tux,
propped your ankles so your foot turned
on the end of your leg like a rail to a tie,
creased your arms like wrapping paper, folded your eyes
like radish petals into a salad, red satisfied.
They made you out to say,
You were saying,
I am full.

It, ever
The sun is so toothy
these days.
Showing its sugar grin
even through the drool of rain.
Even above the mountain named eyebrows fell.

He, was
His hands after-tremor
as a deep-rooted earthquake
a historical jarring
when one city transforms into another.
They struggle to grip the tin
full of lettered, numbered
pasta, shaken brilliance-violence
he holds the tin
and the can openers brainy magnet laughs,
glancing the papered sides of the tin,
flirting with the thick blue lip,
like a dog out sniffing
wholl do anything but come when called.
The top finally cuts off,
and the finger, always handled so carefully,
is cut, of course.
But he loves the plain-temperatured pasta,
endlessly spelling and adding
at the length of his spoon.
Sometimes it mocks his ardor,
saying things like:
annsarms
hear (almost)
1947
blu
thot
verse
ee
Out with the pasta, bowl and all.

When the wax sprays onto your hummingbird eyelid

burning the virgin skirts of your cornea while you are playing around,
do you first think I deserved that
I touch my thumbs together.
I touch them to my lips.

It, always, always

People.
We miss each other so much sometimes.
And it is nice to complicate each other.

I, again
What is there without you?
Everything but you, like a joke.

She, keeping busy, mind

She mows all day over the clover
the lawn has gone to pot
as thin and haphazard
as the dogs peach-dirty coat, which she also cut.
She keeps scissors by the bathroom mirror,
takes a little of her own off each day.
Bangs, to layers, to it all worrying shorter.
She trims the celery to furred water,
carrots to bits of lights,
potatoes flesh through her tense fist
all into a soup-mosaic as thin as the last grocery list,
still on the fridge, from which these vegetables grew.
The last shopping trip. Etceteras.

94 SARAH McCANN

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:

SARAH McCANN 95

()
1947

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98

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102

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: http://psychanaptyxis. blogspot. com/2010/02/t.html

106

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110

111

KYOKO KISHIDA

1 (1878-1942)
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(Genji Monogatari, 1021 ..),
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120

Jazra Khaleed
Kyoko Kishida

:

Kyoko Kishida
:

& :

xouat
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Mirrormachine: . 2, 48, 118, 119

Mady Sklar: . 6 ( Alta Letters to Women)
Hope Epoh: . 18, 98
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67

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eMAIL

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. 102: 97 ( ) .

ALTA SHON ARIEH-LERER PIROW BEKKER BOERNEEF BREYTEN BREYTENBACH

.E.
DANIEL FALB LIONEL FOGARTY JEANNE GOOSEN GUTTED
HOPE EPOH INGRID JONKER
JAZRA KHALEED KYOKO KISHIDA
UYS KRIGE ANTJIE KROG
ANDRE LTOIT EUGNE N. MARAIS SARAH McCANN
MIRRORMACHINE JEAN-LUC MOUSSEUX MUDROOROO
GERT VLOK NEL
S.V. PETERSEN -
A.K. RAMANUJAN
ADAM SMALL PETER SNYDERS

BAREND J. TOERIEN TOTIUS