Words selected and imposed on time
The following sections are excerpted from this long poem, first published in Time Travels Light.
1.
This time. This place. A poet’s window looking out
on snow. Fat and heavy flakes that drop
too quickly. The scene inside a paperweight.
White monotone. Grey sky. Change/no
change.
She stares. She is trying to interpret
February. She is trying to interpret
time.
Time an arrow pointed at her heart.
Snow weight, dropping past the window.
Each flake a minute of her life
falling away. Drifts will immobilize the past.
Time a bubble, swelling out from
here
towing her into the future.
Time a wave, the rolling boundary
of change, a line as long as a world
inevitably blurred
by the swirling flakes of
now.
2.
The black man is very far away.
The world knows well
his name, its liquid syllables. Man de la.
Indelible. He could not be erased
by twenty-seven years of prison. The world waits
to hear him. He must pick his words
carefully as any poet.
Around him, all is flux.
Cape Town evening: night upwelling
like a black convection cell
into the last red light. The hot wind
plucking his tie, ruffling the pages of his speech.
Surging people on the platform.
But prison taught him
stillness, a way of not moving. He waits, calm
in the confusion of microphones.
These are the pictures all the world will see,
selected images. Waving arms obscure
the cameras. Night fills too wide an angle
for the lens.
These are the selected words the world will hear—
portentous, sinking syllable by syllable
into the crimson influx of evening, the inexorable heat
of blood against the heart.
Still, the words broadcast by satellite will seem
free.
6.
The cameras pull back. The black man now is distant,
another figure in the crowd.
He is cause, effect, a point source
broadcasting complex signals to the atmosphere.
“Go home with discipline,” he says. Words simple
and ambiguous.
The cameras pull back again. The crowds move slowly
through the darkening streets of Cape Town, channeled
by buildings. They move inevitably
like the flow of lava. They move
back to the ghettoes
to Gugulethu, to Nyanga,
to the Crossroads Squatters Camp.
Back to the discipline
of despair. Disease. Indignity.
Back to the dark internal anger
off-scene, beyond the lens.
The cameras do not follow there.
7.
Snow still falls
more slowly now,
and the poet still watches, while her world moves
on the skin of a swelling balloon,
while the present wells continuously
from the deep springs of change.
She is trying to interpret lakewater
turning over in spring
when the frozen water of the surface
melts and descends, when the gases of decay
and dissolution rise from the bottom of the lake,
are swept away by rush of meltwater and spring rain.
Her poem is a way of not moving,
plaster poured into a cavity, words selected
and imposed
on time.