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Writer's pictureThe Red Wheelbarrow Poetry

Evening Song (Durban)

Ari Sitas


After a day of stoning and gas

an ancient chore beckons

by the ocean’s lip -

a crowd heaving, heaving, sifting through the sand

for coins

A happy bulldozer resting

after eating up another row of shacks

its jaw nestling by a crab-hole

What a fine evening

What a sea, what pulse

of insects

tiptoeing to the lovelorn strings

of a dune’s cicada;

What a toptiptoe of tiny birds

Hurrying in and out of pollen

before the blooms shut shop

What a sigh from the darkening mangrove

as the crowd picks up the evening song:

“musa ukuthath’ investments ezulweni/

kodwa/

ukutheng’ iLotto ithiketi/

thathani MaChance! uLotto machance!”

I cannot sing

A jagged bamboo knife has scraped my throat

To sing and remind whom, what?

About the stars

or the strings of mango in between my teeth?

About the sneering palm tree?

About the piece of cloth waving in the breeze

on the barb of the casino’s fence?

How the descending sun wrestles with the shadows

of the thousand hills?

How past dreams lurk there?

How no one remembers that they do?

How there is a residue of dream on my frown?

The night’s very restless inyanga is already by the pier,

eyes shut, pacing

and murmuring the 11th commandment of a new faith

The beer-stained guards have exhausted their shift

umpiring since dawn the eternal struggle

between mynahs and crows by the rubbish bins.

The fishermen, past their third bottle of cane

dream of grunters, reek of shad

and complain that no ship was hooked

even though they cast their lines far in the far gardens of foam

And there: the sea’s eylid full of fins

The factory sirens quiet at last

The hooligan moon peers over the Bluff

and the horses of the deep get restless.

In another time this would have been the moment for our story-telling friends

but they are gone

Tonight the ridge and hills will not be on fire

The spring child’s last sigh will not be recorded

The salt march will not pass by

The salt - yes, only the salt endures, the salt.

I tiptoe past the bulldozer

Its eyes are moist

dreaming of its earth-mother

in some abandoned iron-mine.


Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 17 November 2022


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