writing a poem
The man rants and raves.
What dare I do
but accommodate him
as the TV is doing
as the TV is designed to do?
Tweep! A message arrives
on my phone: it’s her
wishing to cheer me
but the words (as those so very different ones
spewed out on the TV)
have lost their lives, their power, their meaning
they float past me, before me,
devoid of anything that can help
anything to bring a positive change
O, my caregiver
what dream have we lost, seen collapse into
electronic whisper, media fantasy?
your beautiful face
floating before me
as I turn away finally
uncouple, unlink, detach
from your orbit
my paper though, no nearer to completion
writing on radio during apartheid
and the strangely challenging, alienating
of the science fiction programme
otherwise mirror on that
where racial logic collapses
in the face of strange conjunction, limitless possibility
I just walk through this mirror
(in which I so often
our worlds colluding, colliding, collapsing, combining
together, if not forever, then
but for a few
away from her, away
from the single-eyed, raving
racist Cyclops god, nay demigod,
of the television
into a parallel, if not indeed
universe, then at least
some stable, ungenocidal, alternate realm
where someone is writing,
is writing me (as I stand ghostlike,
peering over his shoulder
reading my story
being written, my tale
hoping against hope
he does it differently.
Sent from Samsung tablet
INSIDE THE ZEN DONUT
The Master held up an iced donut. He twirled it around in front of the class as if it were some kind of alien spacecraft.
He asked: if we were donuts, and yet still had souls, would the location of the soul be in the icing, the hole, the space (air) surrounding the donut or the donut itself. Knowing his penchant for arguing one’s way through theological and philosophical paradoxes and connundrums, we immediately set to work, thinking, writing and debating within ourselves. And still more writing.
The Master beamed like the Buddha himself as slowly his table got covered in, and then began to groan under the weight of our productive output (the class was just short of thirty in number). Soon he became hidden behind three huge paper skyscrapers (which occasioned at least one bad-taste quip about 9/11).
The day was reaching its close, and so, with a rather imperious grunt and gesture he curtailed proceedings.
As we were filing out if the room he bade us adieu, smiled devilishly, and in one titanic, tyrannosaurus-like gulp, basically swallowed the whole donut.