17 August 2018

The mesh, by Kwesi Brew

We have come to the cross-roads
And I must either leave or come with you.
I lingered over the choice
But in the darkness of my doubts
You lifted the lamp of love
And I saw in your face
The road that I should take.



Kwesi Brew

Dennis Scott's "Epitaph"

They hanged him on a clement morning, swung
between the falling sunlight and the women's
breathing like a black apostrophe to pain.
All morning while the children hushed
their hopscotch joy and the cane kept growing
he hung there sweet and low.
At least that's how
they tell it. It was long ago...
[continue...]

Appreciate the poem further here.

Dennis Scott

The chorale, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

I have to tell you, the voice of God, if you really want to know, is Aretha Franklin.
—Marianne Faithfull

The power that lives in her voice has driven her from day one
and is made up of sounds, or of a resonance, getting closer
but never overwhelming completely, apart from the awareness
of how it is able to, like the deep-throated purr of a veldt cat
pawing at something near the centre; the way the pour of raindrops
on tin roofs of houses, near the bitter end of town, grows
as it approaches, held at bay by the invisible baton of physics.
A choir, though robed in the colours of loss, lifts everybody
and with lilting tone keeps them there. Aretha sang to the world
like a chorale throughout, from season to season, from childhood
to the edges of reason, till abruptly from that source one day
came no more warmth, of the kind a soothing sound copies
from nature; what a baby hears for nine months until in birth
it has to come and face the world, black-clad notes that danced
out of its mother’s mouth now dead like her. Today the world
is born. I've come to a park near my home to let the birds know,
the same way a parent might hesitate into the children’s room
on the morning a partner has not woken up from disease.
The birds don’t care; I watch them hop and fly from twig to twig
like they know something I don’t, the thing being that as I turn
around to leave the park I become more and more convinced
that wherever her voice is—these birds are singing with it.

(16 August 2018)



Aretha Franklin
(25 Mar 1942 – 16 Aug 2018)


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