REVERSE GEAR TO THINK

REVERSE GEAR TO THINK

road is tar
and economy

hole and
ideology

Someones everywhere
trying to follow
their roads
to their very end

and everything might be
cul-de-sac ultimately
(straat
    loop dood in a
slightly more germanic taal)

hopefully you have the grace
not to mind my language

even as rubber
and aphsalt
chew
    up each other

pedal to the metal and
concrete to the petal

me stuck in traffic can
safely presume I am
measurably not alone
in not
   loving it

not noticing that the lights
had changed

anxious, Slavoj,
for the lights to change
someone
    sitting with a sitar
at the back
of my head

reverse gear to think
this is a raga that will
colour the clouds
thus
colour
     the
       rain

ASHTON

ASHTON

the track
curves like a scimitar

I remember
being in a park in
Ashton on the red
steel roundabout

overreacher
    and fell

that roundabout went
on revolvng, spinning forever

that red roundabout
or maybe it was green

and talking of green
I waa distracted thereafter
by what
had happened to
the countryside

wondering where
it had gotten to
and so
forgot my poem
on the train

that train winding its way
forwards to the millennium
ot
  backwards in time

through toytown stations
where they loaded
real soldiers

some soon
       stacked to be buried
piled up in ossuaries

others, as is the nature
of war, simply evaporated,
officially disappeared

and my poem out there
with other poems lost
or forgotten
     poems out there too,
be it
recalled recounting
the horrors of war

but train
is at the terminus, no
more huff-puffing, or
smooth
      electric or
even diesel

the countryside chaning,
the poems
    No longer speaking the truth
they could not escape doing

this picture fading
all
   those lines
yet unwritten, all those tracks
going somewhere
          having nowhere left to br
   





TED

TED

…as if the stone’s mind came feeling
A fantasy of directions
                  
                            “Pibroch”)
       
                   
it is a Winter truth:
every
    library is
a mausoleum

every poem
a tomb

I think it must have been,
if memory serves, in
an old revamped cotton
trade building
that I sat amidst a throng
of hopelessly
eager Mancunians

devouring your every
brooding, grizzled,
Yorkshire syllable

seemingly homespun, yet
distinctly Oxbridge academic,
web of
   sturdy twine

each thick, visceral, seed-
spilling phrase
     falling like iron
parables
on every kind of ground

Mozart, shark,
  hawk from a handsaw,
you were
obviously speaking
of yourself

as we all do
                 (be do)

metal scraping white ceramic

outside
   I am released into the gravel air

pause
  for a moment to think of Sylvia

****

old stone
older even than
the cathedrals of conquest
my ancestors
                  built everywhere

petrified
    as to what I might find

I too fish for archetypes
rustic rivers, industrial canals

stuff down there for sure
with more
    skewed history than
sets of pram wheels

dull green-gray these waters
of artifice
        nothing gurgling yet
we
    were no doubt told
means to
our emancipation

***

my grandfather buried here
think he
      might have cultivated
a bit of interest
in the craft you
were here espousing

my boys
were the poets of his war

the ones
who died writing, or
returned
     to ditch their medals
at the river bottom

common trade
common seam

                  painful
                  perpetual

clear as the first sharp
thought in the mind of a stone.

DEMOLITION JOB REVISITED

DEMOLITION JOB REVISITED (plus AI analyses)

DEMOLITION JOB REVISITED

breaking rocks off-shore
out on a flat precipice
in the Atlantic

have
   written that poem
wrote it
years sgo

am coming to grips
with what it is like
to feel
alnost broken

but now
roll the film back
yet further

recorded history
years of
home video

the Sun this day
brilliant beyond brilliant
as horrible
   an irony
   as it is to say

my Mother’s voice
am overhearing

telling someone eager
to listen
    they knew what
this place was like
they knew what they
were coming to
            did they not know
what to expect

front page
      back page

centrefold spread

Greek chorus
            gossip horror
the shock
the shame
              character assassination

and they
       or rather he the husband
having Army training
explosives, sabotage
blowing up
                things behind Nazi lines

now
out there consorting
with the men of shadow, figures
in the night
feared
    shape – shifters

blowing up pylons
disrupted the sacred electricity supply

and me
    that night all night
hearing the Indian Ocean waves roaring in to
crash on the shores of False Bay

so much Sun here, Sun
Sun

Sun for everybody

this man and his
accomplices
    attempting to take
this Sun
away

this
   brilliant Sun
of white and golden beach sand
horrible to say

****

sixty years
and we have crossed them
in a heartbeat

so much of that time
faintly remembered
not even
taught in schools
(sad that
somehow we
have so relegated history)

but now
a different narrative,
               a whole different narrative
a whole different way

of thinking of ourselves, this place

and how
we came here
      stifled, imprisoned,
imposed our colonial mindsets

stuck our future in tiny cells
on an island in Table Bay

for long
bitter decades fearing
no hope of solution, no path
to a liberation
that migh
   
allow redemption

a moment of memory
viewed
            with
a self-
forgiveness 

graced by the acceptance
of the perspective of great change

****

and here we are
my dear, absurdly conversing
in the light of all those years

democracy waiting
     in the wings, or rather
on an inhospitable island

time
   become its true essence
as pure
duration

imprisoned consciouness

until
   it was not

you born
in the year of its ending
of the release
salvation

far
  from its memory, vague
on its history

of the swirling eddies and currents that
despite every counter-
possibility produced

a dawn, a new
day

and now
        history has done
a demolition, removed
those back-then voices
that spoke with such
blind conviction,
presumed authority

as
   it slowly, inexorably
whittled me away

ground me
pulverized me
all
   that could not be ship-shaped
grist to that mill

cut
down to size

****

But hey, not so fast!, hold
those horses
hang on
     if not a New York minute
then a
Cape Town moment

but across
       land and ocean

the old monster
has
    found lease of life, more
hideous incarnation

the drive to inflict the worst
of which we are possible
on fellows
of our species

as they, we
did back then

    would have done to you

(and now this voice
those voices

        who do
they belong to, what
                  are they saying?)

someday
truth and beauty, long
liberated

           going to here abide

AI ANALYSES

This poem is a powerful and introspective work that explores themes of history, identity, colonialism, and personal growth. Here’s a breakdown:

– The poem begins with a reflection on a past poem, “Demolition Job,” and the speaker’s journey towards self-awareness and healing.

– The speaker describes their childhood experience of living in a place with a complex history, where their mother’s voice and the sound of the Indian Ocean waves are juxtaposed with the harsh reality of colonialism and sabotage.

– The poem critiques the erasure of history and the imposition of colonial mindsets, which stifled the future and redemption.

– The speaker expresses a desire for self-forgiveness and acceptance, acknowledging the perspective of great change and the importance of embracing the past.

– The poem shifts to the present, where democracy and liberation have brought new possibilities, but also new challenges and old monsters in new incarnations.

– The speaker urges patience and reflection, seeking a moment to understand the voices of the past and their impact on the present.

– The poem concludes with a hope for truth and beauty to abide, liberated from the shackles of history.

Some key elements include:

– Intergenerational trauma and memory
– Colonialism and its legacy
– Personal growth and self-awareness
– The power of history and narrative
– The importance of embracing complexity and change

The poem’s structure and language are highly expressive, with vivid imagery, metaphorical language, and a non-linear narrative that mirrors the speaker’s journey towards understanding and healing.

This poem explores several themes and issues in South African poetry, literature, and history, including:

1. *Colonialism and its legacy*: The poem critiques the imposition of colonial mindsets and the erasure of history, highlighting the ongoing impact on the present.

2. *Intergenerational trauma*: The speaker grapples with the inherited trauma of their family’s past, reflecting on the lasting effects of historical events.

3. *Memory and remembrance*: The poem emphasizes the importance of remembering and learning from the past, lamenting the lack of historical education.

4. *Liberation and democracy*: The speaker celebrates the arrival of democracy, but also acknowledges the ongoing struggles and the resurgence of old monsters in new forms.

5. *Identity and self-discovery*: The poem is a personal journey of self-awareness, forgiveness, and growth, exploring the speaker’s relationship with their past and heritage.

6. *Historical narrative and perspective*: The poem challenges the dominant narratives of the past, seeking a more nuanced understanding of history and its ongoing impact.

7. *Family and personal history*: The speaker’s family history and their mother’s voice are woven throughout the poem, highlighting the personal cost of historical events.

8. *Violence and sabotage*: The poem references the violent acts of the past, including sabotage and terrorism, and their ongoing impact on the present.

9. *Redemption and hope*: Ultimately, the poem seeks a path to redemption and a future where truth and beauty can abide.

The poem explores these themes through a non-linear narrative, using vivid imagery, metaphor, and introspection to create a powerful and personal exploration of South African history and identity.

This poem echoes various poets, poems, and schools of poetry, including:

1. _T.S. Eliot’s modernist style_: The poem’s non-linear structure, fragmented images, and introspective tone resemble Eliot’s work, such as “The Waste Land”.

2. _William Carlos Williams’ imagism_: The vivid, concise language and focus on concrete images, like “breaking rocks off-shore” and “Indian Ocean waves”, reflect Williams’ influence.

3. _Allen Ginsberg’s confessional poetry_: The speaker’s personal and introspective tone, exploring themes of identity, family, and historical trauma, echoes Ginsberg’s style in poems like “Howl”.

4. _Derek Walcott’s Caribbean poetry_: The poem’s exploration of colonialism, identity, and the tension between history and personal experience resonates with Walcott’s work, such as “Omeros”.

5. _South African poetry’s themes and influences_: The poem engages with themes common in South African poetry, like colonialism, liberation, and memory, influenced by poets like Mongane Wally Serote, Ingrid de Kok, and Antjie Krog.

6. _Postcolonial and decolonial thought_: The poem’s critique of colonialism and its legacy reflects the influence of postcolonial and decolonial theories, similar to the work of scholars like Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and Homi K. Bhabha.

7. _Greek tragedy and chorus_: The reference to a “Greek chorus” and the use of dramatic, rhetorical language evoke the influence of Greek tragedy and its themes of fate, shame, and redemption.

These echoes and influences blend together to create a unique poem that explores the complexities of history, identity, and personal experience.

DEMOLITION JOB

DEMOLITION JOB

My Mother’s voice
am overhearing

telling someone eager
to listen
    they knew what
this place was like
they knew what they
were coming to
            did they not know
what to expect

front page
      back page

centrefold spread

Greek chorus
            gossip horror
the shock
the shame
              character assassination

and they
       or rather he the husband
having Army training
explosives, sabotage
blowing up
                things behind Nazi lines

now
out there consorting
with the men of shadow, figures
in the night
feared
    shape – shifters

blowing up pylons
disrupted the sacred electricity supply

and me
    that night all night
hearing the Indian Ocean waves roaring in to
crash on the shores of False Bay

so much Sun here, Sun
Sun

Sun for everybody

this man and his
accomplices
    attempting to take
this Sun
away

****

sixty years
and we have crossed them
in a heartbeat

so much of that time
faintly remembered
not even
taught in schools
(sad that
somehow we
have so relegated history)

but now
a different narrative,
               a whole different narrative
a whole different way

of thinking of ourselves, this place

and how
we came here
      stifled, imprisoned,
imposed our colonial mindsets

stuck our future in tiny cells
on an island in Table Bay

for long
bitter decades fearing
no hope of solution, no path
to a liberation
that migh
   
allow redemption

a moment of memory
viewed
            with
a self-
forgiveness 

graced by the acceptance
of the perspective of great change

****

and here we are
my dear, absurdly conversing
in the light of all those years

democracy waiting
     in the wings, or rather
on an inhospitable island

time
   become its true essence
as pure
duration

imprisoned consciouness

until
   it was not

you born
in the year of its ending
of the release
salvation

far
  from its memory, vague
on its history

of the swirling eddies and currents that
despite every counter-
possibility produced

a dawn, a new
day

and now
        history has done
a demolition, removed
those back-then voices
that spoke with such
blind conviction,
presumed authority

as
   it slowly, inexorably
whittled me away

but across
       land and ocean

the old monster
has
    found lease of life, more
hideous incarnation

the drive to inflict the worst
of which we are possible
on fellows
of our species

as they, we
did back then

    would have done to you

(and now this voice
those voices

        who do
they belong to, what
                  are they saying?)

SUSQUEHANNA 2

SUSQUEHANNA 2

there are ghosts
in your country
I saw them dancing
in the mist all
along the Susquehanna
one cold January morning
just after 9/11
a couple of miles upstream
from Three Mile Island

and we were talking Civil War mlilitary,
myself and this kindly
African American
Professor of Sociology from
Harrisburg Penn State

him detailing how the Federals and Confederates
were criss-
crossing this territory
playing this cat and
mouse game
only to crash headlong into
each other at a
place called Gettysburg

of course neither of us
back in 2002 could have imagined
twenty so years on this
land would
find itself of the brink of
such a division
where the spectre of such
horror looming again

and those precious
twenty or so days
my sole experience
of America

of breathing the air of
its liberty, if
such is your belief

something the ghosts
trying to tell me, their
cold touch
    alerting  me

a new world and
forever graveyard

tension
in the spirit world
it seems far-fetched to bridge

the river
      with its
       Native American name

flowing with the forever
waters of such secrets

leaving
    the old lies, the old lies
to spread, make
good trade,
do good business

what ripples outward here I fear
ultimately chain
       in its reaction

SUGAR MINERS

SUGAR MINERS

sugar miners

not for
      minors

candy
  finders

old joke going back
to the goldrush of 1849

the sweetness they
find down there
      a seam so treaty

litigation and issues
of property rights
   following
               everywhere

but
    I bought this face
from a robber baron
could not be
happier
at the game
history played

the dice loaded, the hired help
packing

alternate narrative notwithstanding

this is the way
it has always been
              
  
   

RELEASE

RELEASE

here I am
at Woodstock 69

my head exploding in the moment
     did not think things
could change out
of all proportion

Carlos Santana standing there
wrestling with the demons
in his guitar
      ripping out my heart
serving it back to me shredded,
dripping with
     Lysergic acid

did not figure he could
mellow so
       smooth

and the end of Vietnam
lead to everything headed
in the wrong
direction

and here we are now
         having lomg said our
goodbyes to
a raw music of ecstasy
of transformative connection

music now
         filtered and distilled

served
in a box

box we would ask you politely
not to think outside of

ever dream
         that soul, spirit, body
whatsoever
     altogether

we can agree to release

HOW

HOW

how shall
all this remembered

find its way
into the the books

be retold
by the old folks

taught
in the clsssroom?

will this desperate spin
you are Hell-bent
on manifacturing

find its way from
your dizzy life-ignoring,
image-igonoring
brains onto
revered pages?

or will history be
your bitch
    as truth is now?