echoes of my other self

            contents

prying open the oyster of my soul
prayed to find
the moon-perfect pearl
of deep internal knowing
cultivated
from the grain of truth
god places
deliberately, delicately
in the heart
of every newborn child

visiting once more
for a flower-moment
the lambing days
of my field-green childhood
willed myself
to catch a glimpse
of a still-blossoming memory
trap the scent
of still-fragrant air
bring back that pulse

at my last spring cleaning
stumbled across
the dust covered painting
of a long forgotten vision
by a child artist
of a utopia to end all edens
but the flowers of idealism had shrunk
the hedges on which they had blossomed
remaining untouched, unclipped
and had died with too much life

 

      

 

the morning caught me
reaching
for the sky

in shafts of light
i said
i'd travel home

in fire
cleanse
my song

chastened
i'd etch my want
deep in the heart of god

oh what lack of love
has caught me
lingering here

in a land where night
must come
to wash me black again

 

                       

 

the rising and the falling
of the sea
is at the moon's command

you cannot turn the turning of the tide

the ripening and the bursting
of the grain
is at the sun's command

you cannot stop the spilling of the seed

the lightening and the darkening
of the day
is at the earth's command

you cannot will the whirling of the world

the moon, sun and earth
sea, grain and day
are at god's command

you cannot slip a star from out the sky

 

       

 

i have yet to learn

to be
green-glistening and golden
like a tree
deep-rooted in the comfort of accepting
the sun and the rain
days of fruit
of harvest and ingathering
and giving again and again

to be
bark-buoyant and beautiful
like the sea
frayed at the edges maybe
but whole and close and deep
at the centre
with no scar too great to last forever
no burden too brutal to break me

to accept
the paradox of life
that comes before and after
the paradox of death
to love
the rain-green days
and drought-black nights
before i gather the grain of god

 

       

 

the fruit of god
plucked too quickly
is green and bitter
like the sin of greed

the seed of god 
grows strongly 
in valleys 
marshes and swamps 
deserts 
rocks and clay

the flower of god 
is as bright
as the stars
that set the world
aflame
at night

the gift of god 
gathered in summer
is abundance of sun
the ripeness of rain

 

       

 

god is ecstatic heart
and i
his wild, wild pulse

 

       

 

by your own definition
i drink too deeply
the blood of roses

        lean on a leaf
        for comfort

        mistake mysteriously
        a thorn for a star

when the world curls itself
around my fingers
seas gather in my palms
trees sustain the sky

        my life lifts to loving
        love leaps to living

        and without words i strive to answer
        questions you have never asked

oh making you understand
is like trying to crush
the skull of a mountain

 

      

 

consider me
insignificant
like a
grain
of sand
on the sea shore

so is the sea
made of many
tiny
drops
of
water

so god in me
is countless
minute
acts
of
faith

 

      

 

stepped out yesterday
darkly weeping
the intense seed
of my soul
deep within
the womb of your love
so nourish it
carefully
carefully as god opens
the living roses of your eyes
gently
gently as you kiss
your first spring child
deeply
deeply as you gaze
at the sky beyond the skies
stepped out yesterday
darkly weeping
to be born tomorrow
return to
your love-bursting heart
your summer smile

 

      

 

losing you
i have lodged myself
deep within me
and you

in the quiet regions
of your being
i have found soil
to root on

only i know
how deep and where
i lie
inside you

should you wish
to uproot me
look deep
into my eyes

they will show you
the way to my heart
and yours
but then i will have found you

 

       

 

on the bed of hollow promises i lie
and listen to the rain whimpering at my window
asking again to come inside

you were like that too once
rain-scattered and small and lost
and i gathered you in my cup of dreams

how soon you grew into a stream
how proudly joined the river
then lost yourself in the sea

 

      

 

nearing earth time
i see eyes
like burnt out meteors
the marrow
has dried in the bone
was the mind ever green
does it matter
if truth
is as fragile
as the sky
or the shell of an egg
how often have i lipped
the cup of understanding
seen the stranger in myself
split like doubt
like the continents
i have come apart
drifted away

 

       

 

and no tree
shed its summer
when i died
and no man cried

 

      

 

to every rose-girl i meet
i hand a rose
the memory
of a prettier rose
which i do not have
only dream of
and so
all rose-girls fade
and a rose-hued memory
remains

 

      

 

in each you
you model before me
every day
i see
beyond the chameleon of your never self
now green against my growing happiness
now brown against the dull twig of my sorrow
the still you
longing
to lose yourself
in my whoever me

 

      

 

at my leisure
playing back
the film of memory
see for the first time
how hard the make-up artist worked
to daub the flowers
on your artificial cheeks
give the sun
to your darkling eyes
the rain to your withered smile
before the memory fades
the images blur
the screen of my mind blanks once more

 

      

 

country girl
the countryside in spring
is beginning to explode
in your eyes
i watch enthralled
as you carelessly gather
the robe of the morning
around yourself
and pray
that i may have the chance
to elicit
just one
petal of a smile

 

      

 

like love, god and light
    i shall never understand
        how you can be all at once
wild honey and stinging thorn!

how you can be altogether
    fertile field and flowing river
        restless sand and desert storm
wrinkled seed or ear of corn!

 

      

 

you smiled through your tears
the rainbow
took me by surprise

 

       

 

in my poemless year
you have, so quietly,
infused so much light
into my life
that were poems all that i possessed
i would burn them to keep you warm

 

     

 

for ruxanna

in so many quiet ways
you remind me how gentle
are those who know god
and how very beautiful too

i have often looked at flowers
and felt within my heart
a yearning for their serene beauty
their pure gentleness

you teach me every day
that beyond a poet's imagination
are realms of experience
only love reveals

i know now that your breathing
is more gentle than any flower's
more gentle even than the falling
of the smallest drop of rain

 

     

 

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    flowers still will open at your touch
    and stars still brighten your skies

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    sages still will sit at your feet
    the wise love the innocent and always will

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    tides ebb, tides flow
    shores change, tides still come and go

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    the leaves have fallen but the tree
    still is the tree alive within

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    water rushes down crevices
    to lie still in pools of light beneath

do not grieve love
for what might have been

    still has the word meaning
    the world is yours to discover still

do not grieve love
for what might have been

 

      

 

mother

your face is parched
creased
your eyes are tired
worn-out
your hair is losing its wealth
slowly
you look like a candle
that has lost its shape
with constant burning

but oh
your faith is brighter
than any furnace
your spirit
more delicate
than any candle's flame
more enduring
than any rock face

 

      

 

for my father

days
    when you roughshod your way
through town and village and countryside

when your father bought the radio
    he had promised so long ago
and the laughter of the child rippled in his eyes

when the boy cracked the whip of exuberance
    and the mother stayed quiet
for she knew he was young

when the man emerged
    from the hideout of the boy
and caught the blast of life on his face

when the man spat on his hands
    and ploughed the land
and watched the sky for rain

when wife and child 
    sat by his side
and lit the fire that was once his pride

nights
    when the light of a full, full moon
seemed dull against your bright, white face

when we still hoped
    held your hand
tried to breathe our strength into you

when you faltered at last
    slipped from our grasp
lost your will in the hills

 

      

 

the skeleton of my leaf-dry thoughts
faded memories of autumn's tree

the stagnant pool of the irregular moon
yellow and diseased-looking

the crumpled face of a summer flower
hiding dejectedly in the grass

things change - how things change
moments gather momentum - then disintegrate

 

      

 

in winter
the river
hobbles along
clutching at weeds
stumbling
on difficult stones
as it makes
its sad pilgrimage
to the sea

in summer
the river
bubbles along
crushing the weeds
humbling
the diffident stones
as it takes
its glad pilgrimage
to the sea

 

     

 

the roots of a green poem
are in rain

the sap of its thoughts
will not crust or curdle

the images not wither or fade
at winter's coming

for its roots
are deep in rain

 

       

 

i do some foolish things sometimes

like trying to trap
    with interwoven fingers
the beauty of the fleeting day

like trying to sow
    in my impure heart
the seeds of your purity

like trying to give
    the falling raindrops
long liquid kisses of goodbye

like trying to place
    a tumbled star
back in its place in the sky

yes i do some foolish things sometimes

 

       

 

a leaf fell
from the sky
it floated
it dropped
it twisted
it turned
it perched
on a tree
and birded

 

      

 

last poem for the year:

the early morning was lit with hope
the day raced across the skies
like a child with candy in the wind
running blindly to where the child-world ends
waits to die
waits to be reborn
to a new world
but not until god has spilt the night
over an incandescent day

if you are beautiful
like an evening
an evening that falls
gently as the dew
or if you throb
every word quivering
like the drums of the evening year
eager for the birth
of the morning one
then
last poem for the year
die quickly
beautifully throbbing
strongly quivering
so that
the first poem of the morning year
may be caught spellbound
mysteriously
like the rays of the sun
within the drops
of the evening dew

 

       

 

god, please ...

do not let them turn me into a shop
to be opened at six in the morning
and closed at six in the evening
regulated in the thoughts i may
and may not display
advised on who i may
and may not welcome
in the sovereign territory of my being

remember that i've tried
to keep my books of account
as you've asked me to 
crediting the right
and criticising the wrong
diligently, faithfully
honestly
because i know no other way

call back these self-appointed auditors
of my soul
who have declared me insolvent
and have condemned me
to a work-house
where i shall be fed
impoverished thoughts
for the best years of my life

god, please ...

 

      

 

weeds that grow in a garden
are a problem
aren't they

but they can be used
to enrich the soil
and give the garden life

and as long as the garden looks beautiful
who cares about
the mouldering weeds beneath

 

   

 

walked along the road one day
saw men toiling
list
    less
          ly
digging trenches
burying dead customs
un
    earth
            ing
new ones they do not understand
i do not understand

 

      

 

the border

is as far
as the black man
who walks alongside you

as secure
as your door
against the unwanted knock

 

      

 

kaiser's bus crawls into view
like a snail into sun after rain

for two girls on the roadside
school is no longer a daydream away

one roughly brushes curly hair
her mirror the look on her friend's face

kaiser's bus grunts to a stop
the girls board with muddy feet

kaiser's bus too old to care moves on
the girls wait for the red roof of school

today
the difficulty of the afrikaaans opstel

tomorrow
teacher tells the story of umabatha

 

       

 

the untouchables
are those who have been dressed in the robes of judas
forced to wear
the ides of march faces of cassius and brutus

in cells of loneliness
they lie
screaming the long screams of silence
only a corpse screams louder

when the froth of innocence
gathers unseen
around hidden eyes
they know the stench of despair

when the wind tears their skies to shreds
when the earth swallows their dreams
when the blood hisses and spurts
as songs not yet sung are ripped from their throats

some bury
their once-alive loves
in shadows of lives that may never be discovered again
others commit hara-kiri of the broken spirit

 

      

 

land of lion and springbok
your blood-leaping
lithe long-legged days
of prey-chasing
or plain-looping
have outrun themselves at last
fallen
you lie alone
swathed in pain
wounds burn
like veld-fires
in your eyes
encircled, you claw blindly
the proteas at your side
do not see
the sun
shining black in the sky

 

       

 

a little girl
with a ragged body
found her heaven
in a semi-circular
piece of concrete
in which she swayed
backward and forward
backward and forward
backward and ...
oblivious of all around her

her innocent friends
play in streets
as crooked as reason
while the spiritless houses
which shelter them
huddle together
afraid of the cold
but more afraid
of lifting their eyes
towards the darkening skies

 

     

 

he's a good boy, this one
i don't know what we'd do 
without him
he knows where everything is
all the prices
the regular customers' likes and dislikes
and he's only been here a year

yes, he is a good man
this boy
who's never heard
about being your brother's keeper
and turning the other cheek
but still manages to smile
as baas
leans on the crutch of his shoulder
as he stumbles to a chair
in the sun
then shrugs him off
as if he were swatting an irritating fly

 

     

 

for fatima
so much love

    they have taken you away
    and left you untouched
    they have locked you up
    and set you free
    they have silenced your voice
    and proclaimed your message

i raked rock with my fingers
battered my head to the bone
for a long time lay senseless
heart shocked to stone

then the words of the Quran
stirred within me
i breathed again
knowing you were safe

    'Had we caused this Quran to descend
    upon a mountain, verily, (O Muhammad)
    you would have seen it humbled,
    torn apart by the fear of Allah.'

you too accepted the weight of the Quran
of undefiled, unconquerable truth
of many-faceted, all-encompassing, overwhelming love
for the whole of mankind

you too assumed, undaunted, that awesome trust
fulfilled steadfastly that formidable task
of being the eyes of a nation
the heart, the blood, the pulse of your fellow man

those who are trying to subdue you
would achieve success a million times greater
if they concentrated all their effort
on moving mere mountains

 

       

 

it's only your imagination, only a dream
don't tremble so, my love
no, don't cry, don't think
just go back to sleep

i'll stay awake with you, i promise
keep awake the whole night long
only, don't tremble so, my love
don't cry, don't think
just go back to sleep

the house is safe, the children, i
the dog's not barking, it's your imagination
the cat is curled beside the fire
don't tremble so, my love
don't cry, don't think
just go back to sleep

you must believe me, it's only a dream
there's no danger, now or ever
the earth is not ablaze, how can it be
i have never known a quieter, more beautiful night
don't tremble so, my love
don't cry, don't think
just go back to sleep

when you wake up tomorrow you will find
the earth not scarred, the church still there
the shops open, friends everywhere
there has been no disturbance, not even a fire
it was all your imagination, all a dream
come, don't tremble so, my love
don't cry, don't think
just go back to sleep

 

      

 

Iqbal, it is winter here still
It's been like this ever since you went away
The season is slow in turning
We have lost all sense of time
We have barricaded our doors against the wind and cold
We have barricaded our hearts against loves high hopes
We are content to watch
The fire in the hearth falter
We know we are dying
But we do nothing
We say nothing
We are content to sit and watch

The world outside is in turmoil
Within the little worlds of our homes
We seek sanctuary from the storm
Unable to understand how others
Can sacrifice so much
For so much nothingness
We look at life from a distance, afraid
Sometimes our conscience stirs
Like a seedling pushing itself above the ground
And for a moment
We feel ashamed of our leaflessness
But it never lasts

Iqbal, we are dying
We have confined ourselves to ourselves
We have become all that is
And we have made all that is become us
We abuse the gift of life
Have lost the gift of love
We have abandoned our trust
And have begun to trust our abandonment
We feel secure in our selfishness
We believe in our helplessness
We accept cowardice with equanimity
We have rejected the possibilities of life

The tree of faith is bare
Drought is destroying its branches
Drought is destroying its roots
Drought is destroying the ground
Our hearts are being eroded
Our minds parched
We are as listless as fallen leaves
We are afraid of opening the doors
We are afraid of picking up the long unused shovels
We are afraid of cleaning the debris around us
Our houses are becoming our graves
Our fear of life, our pall

We have lost the straight path
Rather we chose not to follow it
We prefer the narrow circle
Of never-ending passiveness
We would rather crawl than walk
Rather let the fire burn out
Than rub together the flints of struggle and pain
To produce the life-giving spark
Rather fade like flowers in the heat
Than set fire to ourselves
And consume that which would consume us
We would rather be ash than fire

We love the easy life
Welcome the easy death
And know not the difference between the two
We live from day to day, aimlessly
Life is a series of deaths
And each death is a beginning of life
Life is made meaningful
Because death exists
To renew the meaning of life
But our death is an end in itself
Our birth is the beginning of death
Our death not the birth of life

We call fear, humility
We call passivity, prayer
We call superstition, faith
We call infatuation, love
We call condescension, charity
We call aloofness, nobility
We are as sure of our destination
As tracks in a desert
We are as sure of our individuality
As waves in an ocean
We are as sure of our humanity
As tomorrow's uncertain promise

Restlessness brings man face to face with strife
Strife brings man face to face with himself
When man faces himself he finds himself
When he finds himself he finds God
But we have lost the will for struggle
We turn our backs on strife
We were given boundless energy like the sea
But we have crawled into shells
We were given the command to read
But we will not read
We see nothing, we hear nothing, we feel nothing
We are nothing as we are

Our prayers are a mockery
We equate inaction with prayer
And we have begun to equate wrong action with prayer
The only azaan all of us have heard
Was the one at our birth
The only namaaz all of us attend
Is the one at our death
Between the beginning and the end is a vacuum
We call this vacuum living
Between ourselves and others is a vacuum
We call this vacuum brotherhood
We exist on such living and such brotherhood

That prayer is the seed of life we know not
That life is prayer transformed we care not
That every act of a Muslim should be an act of worship
That every act of a Muslim must be an act of worship
Are subjects we would rather not talk about
And a Muslim's very breathing an act of prayer
A thought we would rather not entertain
Sufficient for us the once a day, once a week, prayer
Sufficient for us the decoration of prayer
Sufficient for us the ritual without the spirit
Sufficient for us the prayer with one eye on the clock
And the other eye on God

Prayer is soil, seed, rain and sun
It is tillage and harvest all in one
It is fruit forever ripening
Prayer is unceasing growth
It is constant movement and development
It is perpetual search for perfection
Prayer is bridge between seen and unseen
It is the access route to the unknown
It is ship, sea and compass too
Prayer is active, selfless love
It is complete submission to the will of God
It is constant remembrance of man's duty to man

Our prayer is the planting of imaginary seed
It is the continual turning of barren land
It is cruel self-deception, the eating of imaginary fruit
It is neither journey nor destination
It is ritual utterance of magic words
It is hope of instant success
Our prayer is wall between seen and unseen
It creates barriers where none existed
It is a compassless raft in a stormy ocean
It is an act of adulation
Devoid of love of God
Uncaring for the needs of man

Iqbal, it is winter here still
It has been like this ever since you went away
The season is slow in turning
We need the rain, Iqbal
We need the soil, the seed and the sun
We need the will, Iqbal
We need the will to plant the seed
To cultivate the land
To harvest the crop
We need the crop, Iqbal
The drought has lasted too long
We need the sustenance

And then Iqbal, perhaps
We shall be strong once more
To face the storms
Steer an unwavering course
Turn the wide expanse of the sea
And the wider expanse of the sky
The earth, the stars and the deep beyond
To mosques, libraries, laboratories, courts of justice
Strong in knowledge
Stronger in love
Making our every thought, our every act
A searching, a sharing, a striving without end

 

      

 

echoes of my other self
forever keep haunting me

the mind always logical
the blood speaking differently