Economics, Literature and Scepticism

Powered by Blogger.

About Me

My photo
I am a PhD student in Economics. I am originally from South Africa and plan to return there after my PhD. I completed my M. Comm in Economics and my MA In Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University of Cape Town, where I worked as a lecturer before starting my PhD.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Somewhat Studious

Posted by Simon Halliday | Friday, June 23, 2006 | Category: |

This may sound strange, but I have been trying to write less recently. But, this has been in an attempt to edit more, to observe my own writing and to engage with it (nevertheless, I have written a fair amount, but I am giving you one random sonnet(ish) I wrote and a few other poems. Enjoy. Oh yes, the other impediment to my writing has been the leaching of the soul that results from having to mark exams. It does you know, leach your soul I mean.

Gone the fires: A Sonnet

Lament for those left uncalled alone

And me who loved irrational and bold

who cared for you, who's body was your own:

possession discarded, left forlorn and cold.

Madness of it, the righteous indignance

of youthful joys, ripping fruit flesh sexy

love our rippling flesh, every fragrance

of sex, our own mind-fucked apoplexy.

I would not call it flames, or fire or burning

but it's course was hot passing through my veins.

And found a way to staunch my body's yearning

by burning out your face, your words, your names.

Strident, you left, departure uninvolved

Still I remain, a part of you unsolved.

dogs of war 01-16.06.06

the dogs of war

are weakened

without food

I see

they skulk

Langa's streets

the other orphans

of this filial-

feral affair

Wake 01-22.06.06 (when you read this pronounce the one X as you would for 'Xhosa')

Coming in

at the back

she was thin.

Her sons: Xolisa (Peace)

Thando (Beloved)

are dead.

As so many are

the unwitting victims,

unwitting of their victims

as so many are.

Bowed praying mantis

over their graves

she was so thin.

A carcass cooks,

in funeral fire smoke

she is thin, still.

And the re-working of another poem:

Turned Hands

With upturned hands

you demand and you

plead with me.

Turn your hands down

wrists connected.

Although you've moved

freely, you're imprisoned


Your hands turned down

would display it.

Currently have 0 comments: