CAVE

CAVE

by the time
news of the election
happened to reach me

it had aged, ten
twenty years

and I had
aged a thousand
so sarcastic thanks
due to Albert
  opening this can of worms

despite the shock of relativity
the news
      was soggy with conjecture
about coalition
of the centre
   vaunted talk too of
government
of national unity        and
me so far
    out the frame, swinging
pitching
in left field

not boding well
my initial gut reaction, by
the time
I’d sussed the story
seemed
    all talk of rebirth, revision,
repentance and renewal
at every
   little individual, and
of course, the national level,
was perhaps
a tad
    too hopful, insanely premature

but this analysis killed
left me crippled, ancient

as old
as Plato

him stuck way back when
still dreaming of his
Republic of philosophy, hierarchy,
meritocracy

and me
totally
      abstractrd
out of the picture

still hanging around,
       for better or forcworse
                
               somewhere
near the backwall of
his absurdly
over-estimated cave

***

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.

GENERAL DIRECTION

GENERAL DIRECTION

my nose, proverbially,
close to the ground
keeping me grounded

blown by
the wind
chasing the Sun
I wandered around the farm

remembering my Hobbes’
theme of the brutish and short
life without sovereign authority
implicit social contract

recalling my Plato notion
of the ethical and philosophical
supremacy of
his ruling class

somehow I
slunk back into my idealism
thought
    should stick
with democracy on
(on this hallowed day
                    of election)

choose
    Dionysus above Apollo this
and every day

not to speak of those first
communities of the faith
before
   religion got Roman

this issue
of the State
      will twist you every
which way

from
   state of being, to
highest states imaginable

to Empires of suffering
that we all know too well

from YouTube and TikTok
and old apartheid memories

so much in
this mindset still
       needs exorcism I guess

but the green of the farm
so gleeful, intense
    after this sudden splurge
of rainfall

everything gaining height
growing (forgive my
ethnocentrism) out
of its socks

gaining height, accumulating mass
     giving my theme here
weight
sudden addition of
gravity

as is the general direction
(for this stage
       at least
whilst
time decrees it last)

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?)

FREEZE-DRIED

fudge soft
     was my brain at my
first philosophy class

Plato’s dialectic wholesome,
why should not the State be
good and strong
and solid and true?
why should I not be
thinking axiomatically
working my
way slowly
     towards great gnosis
at the cave’s entrance

why should this not all be,
even in a philosophy class,
some desert of
the real shadow show
programmed to
amuse
   this unspecified
superior intelligence?

But these are questions for
later
     not for poor white boy
at mountainside university
refugee from
all that Christian National
Education might teach
true
   to apartheid

and so, face-beaming, I
did drink it, savour
swallow
   every joyous scrap of
the fat one via
Professor Obi Wan’s
interpretation

the Jewish boy in the corner
(so slightly older
reading his way into
territory
     full-on genealogical, beyond
good and evii

scowling at my
naivete,

     having not
become my friend

Nietzsche not yet
my philosopher of choice

outside, of course, outside
the theatre down
the slopes
beyond the steps

something stirring
something
        at a different pace,
with a different
dialectic

about to explode
about
   to rock to the core

but this
down the line

from up in this high place
easy to calculate
work with
   established truths,
historical certainties, clear
percentages

down there
as bra Chris wrote

its all
in graffiti, still
yet in code

soon
   world going to
go full on punk, class-war
deconstructive

defeat in Vietnam

meaning
power
      of powers

determined to determine
we think how they say,
are
   so subtly, subtly
forced
to do as we are told

mind put on hold
fast-food fried down
to the last algorithm

brain
    freeze-dried, feel
free to liquify

fudge soft
back then

     but maybe
Plato was right

STALEY BRIDGE  STALYBRIDGE

STALEY BRIDGE  STALYBRIDGE

this is Staley bridge
my father’s birthplace

here is a picture
of me in a pram
my sister
in a pram

on a big bridge
crossing the Tame river

this is not
that Staley bridge where
the Saxons crushed the
Vikings
      rushing back to

meet my
Norman ancestors at Hastings

and we
know what happened there

****

Yes, here we are
up front Mossley
in that picture, my
                       Mother

daughter of a war hero
pushing our pram

and there, no doubt,
the great cotton mills
still
     doing their job though
not now in
their hey day

          postmodernity,
postcoloniality

what landscape altering modes
of production ushered
in in
     their wake

      and here is Engels incliding
text on this place in his seminal
work on
the working class
in England

and here I am
years later, studying satire living
in his monument house
in Oxford Street Manchester

water
under this bridge, water
connecting
us all
    Tipperary, Stalybridge,
Mahikeng South Africa

figures
      in a Lowry paintimg
                                  they come
and they go

water
    under this bridge then
so much water we
tend to
   forget about
                        water headed
to the port of slavery

same water in the skiffle
psychedelia of those

Sergeant Pepper people
magicians of the airwaves
conjurors of
                        a whole new
line
    in identity
fruit of the clash of
working class proclivities
with
    transcendental
mind

clash, I say,
but what a melding, beloved
blending

without which
no way this space, or place,
or room
       to talk

gone these guys
         or finally fading

gone
those mills of my childhood
Spitfire stories
      of how
                we stood alone

everything reconfigured,
outright repurposed

voices (and their words)
I fail to recognise, alien
strange

elevated above whilst
so out of frame

somehow talking all
necessities of suppression
       commandeering everything

stretching

    the distance below
to above

       to breaking point

viewed from
the Southern tip of Africa, product
victim of
all that this is metonym of
all this place
             this life
of which
           I speak

ths
shock
     could not be more
                               extreme

(so dark
               these river with
their druid name

                 we cross
all our lives

each
    every day

        so quietly  all
determining)

SOLDIERS

SOLDIERS

had a box
of toy
soldiers

all red

took them
into and lost
them in
the South African
bush

all (presumed) dead

they fought across
India, America, China,
the whole
of Africa
     in Europe too

but my little men
got lost
in this bush

and their flag,
it disappeared too

MAGWINA

MAGWINYA

do i want
to eat
your magwinya?

well, sugar,
pop the lot
in my mouth

hot
from the oil

and to keep
the Celcius and
Fahrenheit
seriously up there
soaring
      everywhere

let’s go to town
with seconds and chilli

crazy red pods and
green eyed demigods

seem to have come
          from the heart of
Sirius
    core of Betelgeuse

magwinya: South African fast food: deep fried dumplings eaten with a hot vegetable relish and polony 

PLAAS ROMAN (farm poem)

PLAAS ROMAN (farm poem)

crossing the farmyard
to my domicile

trod on something in the long grass
   perfectly camouflaged

looking
    for all the world

like a stick

     which
            of course it was

my penchant for attracting
disaster wrong this instance

not the ambush predator
viper with potent haemotoxic
venom we
both assumed it to be

nor
    Cape Cobra (here in
South Africa we have
              the prettiest cobra)
nor Boomslang, nor Rinkhals

nor that speed freak elapid of
supreme flowimg motion

olive-gray in colour
hero of
    Tarantino’s Kill Bill
but with
silky pitch-black mouth

and me
   child of 53, making me
in Chinese
terms
    a fellow of that brethren

slow and quiet until called upon
then red-hot writhing, razor
sharp wire

sign of the
            creature closest to the
Earth (as I am now) and
thus
    with such gravitas

noodle with
           nuclear chemistry, one
drop

    never instil

thought here on the farm
might
     get away from him

hide from the god of life-
energy where

  there is
      no much

                 life energy

everywhere I look

plants sacred
to you

and the way you crushed me,
destroyed me
        injected me with tragic

beginning to fear
     I might be sacred to you too

never to evade you
ever
     escape your clutches

as my last days run out
and I can
       no longer walk your wild

or love
     your women, the ones
you singled out

chose for me perfectly

dreaming of our resurrection
wondering what
you
      will tell me, what

you will ask me
man to god
       (schemed as a
dithyramb)

         about the shared pain and ecstasy torture and beauty

of this life

      (forever fall
                forever rise)