The canal water
Black.
Black my mood
In this houseboat.
Through the bleary porthole
A cobbled street.
Sodden leaves turning black.
Shut-in people with bent heads -
Umbrellas.
A lid rattles on a pot of boiling stew.
Sodden socks hang on a string
Across my brain.
(from Ashes of Experience, Wurm Publishers, Pretoria, 1969)
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Sunday, August 2, 2015
An invitation, by Sinclair Beiles
When your voice
Sounds of dark avenues
And parks
Breathing with mysterious hoodlums
When the last rattling tram
Has frozen
And hangs in icicles from the eaves
When your heart no longer stands
On a street corner
With feverish eyes
Stamping its boots
When the traffic lights have stopped
And you are through with calculating
Forgetting your train journeys
And timetables
Come to me
With your switchblade knife.
We'll climb the spire of the town hall
Together
And carve our names on the moon!
(from Ashes of Experience, Wurm Publishers, Pretoria, 1969)
Sounds of dark avenues
And parks
Breathing with mysterious hoodlums
When the last rattling tram
Has frozen
And hangs in icicles from the eaves
When your heart no longer stands
On a street corner
With feverish eyes
Stamping its boots
When the traffic lights have stopped
And you are through with calculating
Forgetting your train journeys
And timetables
Come to me
With your switchblade knife.
We'll climb the spire of the town hall
Together
And carve our names on the moon!
(from Ashes of Experience, Wurm Publishers, Pretoria, 1969)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
