December 5, 2013


 
the night Mandela died
it seemed that every being
retired to mourning
muting hush 
 
plains once dazzle a dozen 
become bereft of black striped tan
hyenas held their laughter
holed up in their dens
jackals even lost
their unstinting hunger
no springboks no oryx
no kudus no ostrich
 
at dawn this land
lay barren as we passed
till beyond Fells Spring
we saw the king himself
and then
as if the moment marked
returning back the way we’d come 
his subjects danced 

Six Rhinos Sighting

One late morning in Tintswalo
six rhinos stepped onto the road
only minutes from the lodge
while our eyes were on the warthogs
i felt it, the rush, the stir
the fist around my heart but
it was my first trip out
and the moment’s grip on me
was stronger than mine on it  

Tutta is 9 years old
a young black who’s already lost one calf this year
her number one, three years old, has left home
alone she alternates seasons in the Palmweg
we’ve driven three hours through volcanic sere
to hear the walkie talkie tracking 
of a sighting 
a family 
two boys
and a spot under Mocampo tree
this time i know better
i snap her up

 

Fake

if you’re not so good
at taking the shot
it’s best to go where
the shot makes you

 

Sunset, Desert Rhino Camp 

Evening Shades

we meet up again
at desert rhino camp
in the Palmweg Concession
 
at communal dinner 
it turns out Sasha drinks 
red wine even vodka 
it’s just champagne 
bungs up his tummy
he confides i discover
warm and funny
it’s his stutter keeps him silent 
not he’s sullen
and yes, he still foregoes 
the pureed lentil soup
but only because
if he eats it he must see it
he explains meat 
should be meat 
see, what i’d pegged as pique
was simply sensitive
 
and as the evening went from pork to apple crumble
eating pie and humble
i had to unsnap those early judgments
i’m much too fond of making
for neither he nor Yanick
were Gasprom or ex-OSS 
or anything remotely sinister
instead, they bake 
Russian and Ukrainian
ceramic tiles for sale
in europe’s many markets
(in which trade there plainly is money
enough to marry models)
saving one last shallow surmise
of mine still standing
 
 
 
 

Magnates from Former Soviet Socialist Republics

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Sasha won’t drink champagne at breakfast after the balloon ride.
He just won’t.
From Kiev to the Namib, he prefers neither heat nor ice.
He just doesn’t.
But air-conditioned malls and the night F1 in Singapore
Light his eyes
They do. 
And Elizabeth, blonde-haired teen bride on his shoulder.
She does.
 
On the blimp 
We’re east of english 
closing on orthodox
The Frankfurt fraus on Maine
descend from Greeks 
And the Swiss Germanically vie 
their scars from knee surgery
Our pilot once was French 
which Maria also speaks
who’s with monied Moscow Yanick and
who teases Sasha 
because there’s so much still in this wide world to see
and absolutely nothing 
about our glide in the heavens to be grumpy 
 
 
 

The Intersection of Aub and Tsauchab

 At 5.58
we were third 
at the gate
to Sossuvlei
(that ivoried clay pan
with its sentry
titan dunes)

we’d outpaced the gloaming
third would hardly do
so we sped for first
overtook Messrs
Sunway Safaris
the first first bus
caught up with
the South African passat
which, tailgated, would yet not let

don’t blame the city slicks
these dunes too are whet
to slicing blades
whipped up to peaks
by grinding competition
between two winds
between the desert and
the deep blue sea

 

whinny

we raced home from the volcano
the all-day drizzle
cooling to graupel sheets
peeling off the windscreen

sheep and cows long since winter-barned
only stout shagged studs
watch us speed past
unperturbed by snow-blizz

patient for their turn
snowfall sundance

 

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reykjavik city south, west

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the gentrifying slips port side 

(geography as semiotics)

where FOB and FAS once were matey

genteel lodging sidles up against F & B

free alongside ex-works 

androgynes sip cocktails indoors

even as, just a slipway aft,

welding sparks fly

across the crisp dry dock

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icelandic angelica

famed healer

glows in the wild

where it goes by

sylvestris

 

if you bring it home

to your garden

it answers

rather grandly

to archangelica

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the modest dawn

A minimalist photograph of an Icelandic sunrise over calm water, with the sun's soft light peeking shyly through a silhouette of bare tree branches.