O, lyf

30 Jun

In die krom skelet
verslete aardse tent
verknotte olyfboomstam
sydelings afgewyk
weggekou en uitgelewer
op die kusvlakte van Saron
langs die kliphange van Samaria
in die vrugvalleie van Galilea
belug dat sy kan asemhaal
op die wortelstok van die begin en van die einde
wentel die onblusbare gees
van my ma


A silverfish swallowed my mother

15 Feb

I have lived in many houses. If you

divide the years of my life by the number

of spaces I have occupied, I have lived in

each house a number of apocalyptic

years. I have waited too long to write

down the thoughts of my mother, her

yarns on good housekeeping, her tips

on hauling furniture over the lengths and

breadths of our beloved continent.

My mother once whitewashed

the house on Julius Nyerere Avenue.

She was

in her white period.

White, like the fishermen’s cottages

in her favourite tapestry of the Sardinian Sea.

Blinded by the glare, my father drove by

twice. He found us accidentally, when my

brother lit a Lucky Strike and set the garden

shed on fire. We were reunited by a smoke

column hanging over Julius Nyerere Avenue.

These days, a faded blue tapestry reflects

my mother’s warped mumblings.

What were you thinking, Mother?

I have tried to trace your stiches,

analyse the thread leading

to a diminishing monologue.

The thoughts of my mother

were swallowed by a silverfish.




luna poet



31 Jan

A woman fell in love with me once.

She sat in her corner watching,

observing relentlessly.

Days vanished into hours of

incessant waiting, her thoughts

streaming ceaselessly towards me,

sitting motionlessly.

I spent time in a fish bowl, weakened

by the intrusion, observed to distinction.

She left me poems written in red lipstick

on bathroom walls.

I barricaded doors,

waited for panic to abate into silence.

She encroached on my dreams.


In an undefended instant she stole

an expensive suitcase,

filled it with marbles,

a ticket to a matinée

of Dracula.

She invited me in, sucked me clean.

Bled me dry.

The woman I fell in love with once.





On being invited to lunch

2 Feb

It’s been nearly two years since I’ve started the rewriting process. On 25/03/2015 it will indeed be two years. Many things have changed. Characters have come and gone, titles have changed, words in search of adventure have found some. Lives were re-invented. Threats howled to heaven. Body battered, self-confidence bruised. But what’s not to like when a publisher invites you to lunch?

On writing a book

25 Mar

So you wrote a book. Now try rewriting it 😉

Feminist shelters

28 Jul

Today I read about feminist shelters for abused women. I was intrigued by the concept. Were women abused because of their socio-political views? Did they indeed allow anyone to physically abuse them for those views? I thought of a friend who’s involved in the protection of abused children and how abused children end up being the abusers or the abused. I was also interested in the concept of feminist abuse. The research is attracting characters to stories. I also received a Fb message from a friend to give an informed opinion about her short story … all of these point to the realisation that time is on the wing. That combined with the story I read about you and your decision to write a book about your life. You would never say you intend writing a book and then not follow up.


27 Jul

shadows falling over painted windows

sanded images overplayed

lost in concentration

leftover days contained by fire

burning brighter

by the word

Accidental encounters

27 Jul

I met you by mistake today … google interferes with my research and I’m taken to the place where I started, at the door I never opened … hoping to insert a key I no longer have.