Looking for a piece of quiet,
some cool down to rest this mind.
Looking for a gentle nothing,
some soft peace, the praying kind.
26 – for when I learn some strings
February 28th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
Trip-hopoetry
February 8th, 2009 § 0 comments § permalink
After my er… theatric rendering of Kroes, a poem by Parasputin, I challenged him to interpret one of my writings.
This is his reading of Meanwhile Juxtaposition Adorns Dreams.
Download the mp3 (4.692mb) here.
I’m winded.
Are those my words?
I’m really struck Parasputin, excellent, excellent work.
monkeys on typewriters 1
November 6th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
spoken word
October 25th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
The audio renderings of selected poems in mp3 format (a pocket voice recorder makes for low production value):
For those who just never got it
October 10th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
This will
pick at the knots
of your years
where stanzas and
rhyme schemas
were the ababa
of babies babble
and old men forgotten.
This will dissolve
the cement
of metaphors
such as like
beyond your mindscape
and things you give a damn about.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a smell.
It is your nostrils
flaring
at the fennel of
tea after the storm
in the mug.
It is you drawing
steel from the safe musk
of your fathers embrace.
It is hospital disinfectant
and the camphor
of bereavement.
It is the stinging talc
of gunpowder
and earth of the rocks thrown
by children who should not
be looking so intently towards death.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a taste.
It is strawberry softserve
more on your fingers than tongue.
It is the cardamom of sweetmeats and family
bursting through the roof of the house.
It is the spice of home.
It is the spearmint of that first kiss.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a touch.
It is the cotton of his shirt
before he slipped away from you.
It is the bubblewrap of distraction.
It is sandpaper smooth against wood and bruised on your skin.
It is your mothers arm against yours
when all was strange.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a sound.
It is the comfort of mantras.
It is the pull of prescribed prayer.
It is the ribbing of gutstrings.
It is the first heartbeat of that which grows inside you.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a picture.
Can you see it now?
verse to verse or catching zephyrs with a colander
August 12th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
there used to be
poems
for every
pavement crack
ballads
for every
boy with
stained sleeves
and a hole in his chest
couplets
for every
gambler with a broken dream
losing fast on a threadless seam
elegies
for every
father who lived
too short
and died too
long
epics
for every
Madiba-shuffling
Ghandi
with his face on a t-shirt
made in shanghai
ghazals
for every
lover so loving
love itself could not requite
odes
for every
sunset
burnt behind an
eyelid
but now
my verse
is
blank.