Lonely Beginning [REVISED]

I can’t prove anything to anybody - what
can I convey that will make a difference?
The rich grow richer - thus I want my kids
to grow rich; the poor grow poorer - and I
cannot condone such senseless increase
in needy people. What movie do I want to
see, when can we go down to the ocean?

And how can I explain that a pure, robot
voice sings perfectly, every note in place
but it can’t move me - yet another voice,
younger, vibrating beautifully, drives me
to tears? How to lock on to good things
when gloom envelopes my beloved who
has to retire in prime of life? I beg him

to build himself a work space - enjoy his
hobbies of woodwork & ironmongery at
home, but he waits for financial security
before moving forwards, ere committing
to anything - my heart is melting in me;
how do I keep breathing, what to do in
this misery of wasted opportunities, of

waiting for reincarnation in a dimension
completely new and unheard of to learn
what companionship, warmth and joy is
really like? My heart is cold, my mind is
empty. It is impossible to visualise Hope,
Faith and Belief because I’ve lost all of
it - & how can I infuse my existence with

positive expectation as well as relax into
peace and beauty of a life of ease? So -
please, please, rekindle the flame of life
smouldering within my heart, let me revisit
wonder of existence v nothingness - or am
I to believe that again this is the legacy of
a lonely beginning to life?

[Wednesday 24 January 2018]

Try Again [REVISED]

I eat my unsweetened yoghurt with religious
fervour then wander down convict emergency
stairs in the new office building - desperately
trying to sing “Your Love” by Morricone - but
my voice can’t achieve my aspirations to soar -
frustrated I have to concentrate on the murder
case to be translated while my desire for free-
floating song remains unfulfilled: how I long to
rise with the notes unto heaven - and to float
down the street on a song spiralling in the air,
but such is not to be; I try to sing the song under
my breath in the passages without disturbing my
colleagues; you can imagine outcomes of that -
but still the desire for freedom of sound vibrating
through me is stronger than my rational faculty
and I run to the stairs to try again…

[Original 23 January 2018
Revised 24 January 2018]

Lonely Beginning

I can’t prove anything to anybody – what
can I prove that will make a difference?
The rich grow richer, so I want my kids
to grow rich, the poor grow poorer, so I
don’t want a senseless increase of poor
people. What movie do I want to see?
And when can we go down to the sea?

And how can I explain that a pure, robot
voice sings perfectly, every note in place,
but cannot move me, but another voice,
younger, vibrating beautifully, drive me
to tears? How to lock on to good things
when gloom envelopes my beloved who
has to retire in the prime of life? I beg him

to build himself a work space to enjoy his
woodwork and ironmongery hobbies at
home, but he waits for financial security
before moving forwards, ere committing
to anything - my heart is melting in me –
how do I keep breathing, what to do in
this misery of wasted opportunities, of

waiting for reincarnation in a dimension
completely new and unheard of - to learn
what companionship, warmth and joy is
really like? My heart is cold, my mind is
empty and it is impossible to visualise
Hope and Faith and Belief – because

I’ve lost all of it – how can I infuse my
existence with positive expectation and
relax into the peace and beauty of a life
of ease? Please, please rekindle the fire
of life in my heart, let me feel the wonder
of existence versus nothingness – is this
the legacy of a lonely beginning to life?

[Tuesday 23 January 2018 Sechaba House,
Pretoria]

Behind The Light

Weak coffee to stay awake in the gloom of a
darkened office, blinds drawn against Africa’s
sun burning with incandescence destroying life,
head compressed, pressure forcing down every
thought - and a black burka skirt in the freezer

As protection against the flames burning from
the pavements and streets, a spray can and a
frozen bottle of water to wet my head when dis-
comfort becomes too much; my brain has been
destroyed to the point that I have no capacity

To retain positive feelings which sink as soon as
I tasted their joy and elation – leaving me with the
the bitter taste of hopelessness and fatigue – this
is no life, it’s merely a sad existence and only the
challenge of trying to survive the murderous march

Later in the day, gives a sense of purpose to this
quiet struggle against the overpowering blackness
which reigns on the inside behind the light…

[Monday 8 January 2018]

Dead And Gone [Rev]

Marie Antoinette walked in while I was covering my parasol
with shiny black fabric, as usual she was contemptuous of
my clownish attempts to thwart the sun warming me to the
nth degree; she is a true bourgeois whose ideas of middle-
class respectability are more important to her than having
fun and enjoying life - with sour mien & disdainful hauteur

she makes it clear she looks down on me as a low-class
clown, but at least it keeps her out of my space & her dour
face does not often grace the office where I reside with my
now burka-black parasol on my hat-stand & Hanlie smiling
at her desk, although a German contract law monstrosity is
waiting to be translated with the aid of the Internet, and this

menace is enough to drive a saint insane, the Department’s
unable to provide modern technology so a campaign started
to hound all employees, checking our coming and going and
decorating the Sechaba building with the ugliest cultural art
objects it can find, a “Joseph’s amazing technicolour dream-
coat tree” made of material and smelling bad represents the

rainbow nation, large drums converted to chairs with garishly
coloured cushions represents - heck knows, rednecks - and
inexorably the happy, dreamy days pass one by one as we
ponder moving to Putin’s Russia to be cool in Siberia while
offering our language services to facilitate nuclear reactor
construction by means of international communication, but

let me return to the practical reality of the here and now and
a new Memorandum of Understanding raising the spectre of
failure once again requiring a slow process of acclimatisation
to my being here to translate against all the odds of suffering
from brain cells lost, dead and gone…

Sing My Way Home [Rev]

I enjoy my caffè crema and walk in the sun with my
parasol; this is a beautiful umbrella festooned with
pictures from Frozen on which I hang scarves and
strings with beads, singing as I go, & accepting all
good things offered by the universe; I stare at the
lemon-&-lime green of the trees as seen through

New golden brown lenses; I enjoy a diamond-bright
silver sunlight shining through the leaves as I float in
our pool, happy & docile like a satisfied Crocodile; I
watch Pointless on BBC with my beloved & marvel
at the fact both my kids chose partners with names
beginning with an E: Estiaan & Eloise - & blessed

With allergies - fitting right in with me; I wonder at my
colleague’s sunny disposition which accords with her
surname Sonnekus: kissed-by-the-sun; I am amused
by our own Marie Antoinette’s declaring my artificial
flowers of deplorable taste; & see, she says, holding
coasters brought from home - good taste looks like

This; I nod hypocritically - real flowers now adorn my
desk - today I’ve two super-boring and POINTLESS
documents to translate, providing raison d’être as I’m
held safe by work, tho not starting asap, & as yet no
fear that I might get it wrong rears it’s ugly head; so I
am sitting here breathing in Velikovsky’s theories the

Universe is determined by electro-magnetic streams
& reading about the Establishment suppressing all the
evidence which supports that in our return to the Black
Middle Ages’ scholasticism; I’m happy & content with
peace in my heart - having survived the attempt on my
life I’m ready to sing my way home - leaving soon

Alive At This Time [REV]

Marching full speed to where I’ll be picked up
after work, caught in a charging-figures melée:
taxis who loiter at green lights then drive off as
soon as the robot turns red - bearing down on
me who’d set off at the right time with nervous
distress growing worse dodging stalls taking up
three-quarters of the pavement & pedestrians
shuffling single-file past shop-entrances with

Bus passengers alighting & blocking the way;
I lose all ease of mind ’til deciding to try walking
down another street & lo, a nice place - shady
trees, wide sidewalks & taxi’s restfully parked
at standstill - I pass without having to charge
past loiterers blocking space; I’m happy now
in the new building as my road home’s good
for my soul; thank heaven, at least I can walk

In peace now thinking thoughts of joy instead
of lamenting at being alive at this time…

[Tuesday 24 October 2017]