Tag Archives: drama

IF I WERE TO DISAPPEAR

IF I WERE TO DISAPPEAR

if I were to disappear
on the night of the performance
don’t tell anyone, say
nothing
    a big quiet nothing
like Hamlet might say stretching
the bounds of
our understanding, sheer
human appreciation
though so soft
      no one on stage with him
in that room of Elsinore,
can (we must
believe) hear a single word
he has been scrtpted to say

No, my dear Thato, just
blow a kiss, all three
of you
    blow a kiss
and walk away

knowing I glided through
that fourth wall
like it
   was made of silk, cobweb fine
or most diaphanous

and now
I am with King Harry
asking to lead the voward
and so
   will get butchered by the French in the
course of the battle

if you have to get butchered
who better than the French
to do it with style
with every cut
every thrust
   reciting every great poet
of theirs from Ronsard
to Rimbaud
and me
      held in suspense
awaiting the beauty of
their perfect coup-de-gras

or
   there you are my Queen
peeling grapes, chewing dates
awaiting your Apollo
your
     Roman lion, your Anthony

and we too wedded to ourselves
to smell the ships leaving port
sailing south fat
with legionaries

our deaths
the first act of Empire, suddenly
out of nowhere this
worst of all
glorious phases
in the history
of oppressed humanity

but then
as Puck himself
I return to the stage
at the waking
moment of your Midsummer
dream

craving understanding,
friendship
   and forgiveness

see the lights go on
and you
     my dear three
and all
around you
       simply disappear

JOY

JOY

a god walks the stage
the world in
a state of wonder,
state of fright

loses; forgets
its words

as above
     so below

jets and drones
contest the sky

we are below, suffering watching
unless the god
rescinds his
refusal to elevate us

teaches us that which we need
to scoff at this war
thess wars
   elevated to the stars

the words that turn
a world streaming out
from under that mask

direct from Olympus, words
to drive insane, turn
upside down

flood with intense
laughter and pain

dark understanding
filled with divine joy

so far beneath him
this thing they
will eventually call
history
terrible in its
            truth

  a god walks the stage

PRODUCTION

PRODUCTION

on the farm,
perforce, we
put our heads together

everything under the Sun
puts is head together

wheels
    set in
              motion

as
word        speads

and Heraclitus of Miletus
stops by

a number of things
brings to mind

solid argument inclusive: that
all is
     twice, thrice,
there is nothing that
is not in process

meanwhile (forgive the inadvertent South African
colloquialism) not
back
    at the ranch
but in the heart of Johannesburg

they are staging a production
of Euripides’ The Bacchae
have
already
     launched into
the opening scene

which very instant, being
in the audience my
mind
     thirsting for
ecstasy
    veers towards chaos, entropy,
fractal mathematics

as we suddenly welded into one
sift and exchange
that whole Pandora’s box
of memories and
recollections

whispers and ghosts
the very
        incantations that
pull aside the veil, strip
off the veneer

speaking for myself
               but
perhaps all

hardly able to wait, kill
that terminal longing,
                               set eyes
upon the mask
that is
        dark Dionysus’ face

WITH EURIPIDES

WITH EURIPIDES it’s a strange theatre we are watching one where the actors leap off the stage slaughter the audience kill every single one of us I am sure neither the Elizabethans nor the Greek tragedians foresaw this development this total identification of player with character in this strange new brand of history play

OLD JOHANNESBURG

OLD JOHANNESBURG

waiting by the roadside
in old
       Johannesburg

maybe
     resurrection
will
     befall me

maybe redemption
will come my way

failing which
              perhaps

a circus or carnival will
come
     round the corner

sweep
    stubborn old ideologies
off the street

as serious joke or
perhaps just giggles

a parade of Zizeks
tumbling past me as if
Red Square
           comedy

where figures from the
Commedia del Arte
are here
       to replace tanks

look
   seriously at the world and
it suddenly goes
Toy Town

confirmation bias
on open display for
everyone to see

      fat
conspiracy here:
buses passing every few minutes
not stopping for everything
the drivers
             believe

waiting for the curtains to open

waiting for the means
transport a boardgame
           on my back

set
of lewd Cluedo
              for whomsoever might
wish
to join me

help me
to survive
life on a billiard sphere

hustling to get by
wanting to be Master
always
      a slave

waiting for the lights
to darken

have
lost the book
in which
I was made
        

****

after a
while

everything
slithers

snakes and
ladders

perhaps better to
devote time
to generating boardgames
rather than
squandering my existence
writing
    poetry or composing fiction

****

bumper to bumper stacked together
owe it to them

    to not close my eyes,
keep looking

or everything before me
will disappear

and this funeral procession
miss its target

some poor
exclusive dignitary

about to skip his rendezvous
with captivating tombstone
of proportions extreme

so much here
so mechanical

yet so many
vital nuts and bolts

****

bureaucracy
is horror

      bureaucracy
              is death

I sat with
Slavoj Zizek

through yet another sunset
telling jokes

about philosophers
telling jokes and
    the end of the Universe

(not that this necessarily
implies a causal connection)

today the lawyers
of old and new Johannesburg
are
   heading North
with a holy bone to pick.

I sat by the roadside
     play after play

oodles of
         words, scenes,
dialogue
                                even

             still in my head

ghosts of tales
still
     to be told

            (media marvels yet
to unfold)

old Johannesburg