Sun-Blanched Blood

for Kwame

1

It is mid-afternoon now,

the sun streaks slant wards

through the attic’s double-glazing

melting the scorched ink

in my crowded note-book

that lies blanched

on the sparse weathered table.

Hardened sepia-stained lines

that once approximated to

a flock of metaphors,

now rearrange themselves

into a congregation of phrases,

a lineation of new line-breaks:

stops that defy

even the physics of refraction,

thoughts that now re-surface

and resurrect just as

passion and reverence did

within the folds of The Prophet.

2

It is still mid-afternoon,

the blue blaze makes the pages

of my book flip over gently

in the invisible wind of silence.

The heat penetrating the glass

focuses even more fiercely

smoking out redolent similes,

questioning the whole point,

the nib of writing itself.

Underneath the permanent scar

of jet-black fluid and heat

is pulp, half-dead.

Beneath the persistent hoarse-

drone of metal-scratching

is bleached pulp, half-alive,

its cotton laid sheets

carefully encoded with

the magic arc of a gold-tip.

Words appear, and more

words. And under them all,

I discover much later,

a small spring insect

that lay mummified,

quietly crushed below

the weight of words,

its innocence and juice

trapped under oppression

of ambition and intellect,

baptised and bloodied.

3

It is mid-afternoon,

and I too lie, dead-

still, blanched, bloodied.

˜
Mediterranean

1

A bright red boat

Yellow capsicums

Blue fishing nets

Ochre fort walls

2

Sahar’s silk blouse

gold and sheer

Her dark black

kohl-lined lashes

3

A street child’s

brown fists

holding the rainbow

in his small grasp

4

My lost memory

white and frozen

now melts colour

ready to refract

˜
Jacket on a Chair

You carelessly tossed

the jacket on a chair.

The assembly of cloth

collapsed in slow motion

into a heap of cotton —

cotton freshly picked

from the fields —

like flesh

without a spine.

The chair’s wooden

frame provided a brief

skeleton,

but it wasn’t enough

to renew the coat’s

shape, the body’s

prior strength,

or the muscle

to hold its own.

When one peels off

one’s outer skin,

it is difficult

to hide

the true nature of

blood.

Wood, wool, stitches,

and joints —

an epitaph

of a cardplayer’s

shuffle,

and the history

of my dark faith.

[based on Cezanne’s Jacket on a Chair,

graphite and watercolour on paper,

47.5 X 30.5 cm, 1890-92]

˜
Offering

the kindness of libation, lyric, and blood

her endless notes left for me —

little secrets, graces —

trills recorded on blue and purple parchment

to be lipped, tasted, devoured —

only essence remains —

its stickiness, its juice, its memory

seamless juxtaposition —

the brute and the passion,

dry of the bone and wet of the sea,

coarseness of the page and smooth of the nib’s iridium

I try and trace a line, a very long line —

the ink blots

as this line’s linear edges

dissolve and fray —

like capillary threads

gone mad

twirling in the deep heat of the tropics —

threads unravelling,

each sinew tense with the want of moisture

and the other’s flesh

there are no endings here —

only beginnings —

precious incipience —

translucent drops of sweat

perched precariously on her collar-bone

waiting to slide,

roll unannounced into the gulleys

that yearn to soak in the rain —

heart-beat shift

the shape of globules

as they alter their balance and colour,

changing their very point of gravity —

constantly deceiving the other

I stand, wanting —

wanting more of the bone’s dry edge,

the infinite blur of desire,

the dream,

the wet, the salt, the ink,

and the underside of her skin

˜