Cut Off Places

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wait

“Calvay, an island with no history of habitation”
From a Governmental Survey of the Western Isles (1912)

Dear K-, what does it matter if, at some time
someone piled together the thousand stones

in a square, and thought that inside he could score
on the walls his enduring calendar

of water-rock and rain and kittiwake.
And yet we’re here, men away from our wives,

searching for signs of a sunken gable-end
in the thick scrub—touch on touch, the blind

amongst the blinding weather—a thrilled picture
of our tenant: grey beard, broad, a stunted posture,

an acolyte to the rough protocol
of sowing, trapping, gathering, the practice

of easing back the weak calves to the dark;
whose deity was blind and old and drunk;

who found the pockets at the hip and breast
useful for nothing but a prayer’s storage.

This man away from other men, as if
this remoteness were so awful in itself.

Dear, I spend the nights cursing him, the distance
between the damp sand and your floorboard dust.

kcahrrli setroi fke br rsøannddb –o i v e r s e n 102

103 103 c u t o f f p l a c e s c u t o f f p l a c e s

ck ahrrli setroi fke br rsøannddb –o i v e r s e n 104

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k a r l e r i k b r ø n d b o 106

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k a r l e r i k b r ø n d b o 108

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c h r i s t o f e r s a n dk –a ri vleerrsieknb r ø n d b o 11 0 110

111 111 c u t o f f p l a c e s c u t o f f p l a c e s

m o n i c a a a s p r o n g 112

the soldier’s market

fire a head
for a head
white
in the flesh an apple
heard
between fingers
the child rocked
between fingers
satmar sun ma
arche re
is it you there
walking from here
to there back
by water side
into the shirt
the earth
into the string
yes so
press yourself in
into fire and catch
carry stand straight
your will yes go
falter in doubt
a stone you saw
stone that stone

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all is taken
paint it red
every bit
casted in head
hand an apple
scar a shield
shine light
rings
break a finger
in the writing hand
point it
press it
down in word
is it your
is it your
thigh
it bleads the thigh
don’t look
you need the
cart
just take it
bot water
just take it
wound
rafter
fingers
mouth salt
flour oil ox
vat vat milk fat
it’s all yours
salt is salt thigh
tide made of
air of ay
stroken
pressed
against the chest
over the brow
down in the glance
round and round
a shining eye
it shines look evr to
man woman
land memory
memory my bones

m o n i c a a a s p r o n g 114

is it really
my children
prayer pray
them into tree
bare cart
err them into
chest grass
ork
you neios eios
ei in skin
in into lio
ill in lamb
make the prayer
dark
come
take the hand
take them
the words
are they mine
I think so
I think so
it’s the walker
in the hall
hear the echo the steps
beaut growing steph
it is chair table
ceiling floor guard
the rooms
paint the shadows
bigger pure
don’t laugh
blogg
lay hand on
the childs head
circle it in
with hair breast
rock it rock
it falls apart
in heads two
three than slowly
melted to
hand claw
look disapp
act jo now

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in warm sputtering
glass
to steps shoe
jackets trousers
all are walking
pillar back
what have you done
shadow ack
uck
back shadow
shadow egg
eggs egg
sleep
ick ick
shadow
laying lay
lay lay
bitte bite
yours
danke danke
clock
child u pie
steph in e u steph in e ie
e lio ill
i o io i ill i illi
illi o iol
ioli
ill
in do eck oubt
e urch
a cloth
choi i ier
mo o other
o oth seele
erde erde ele
une
see ste erne
a ar arche
ma ask ashes
ek em age
act am ag e
a psal mene
me psal une
choir sla

m o n i c a a a s p r o n g 116

swe a a ar
act te ekel
thread to wor
aser slo we echt
wor eople
flay and part
salt and slaughter
steak eat reeks
slowly
snake o ox
lamb e act
cover lime
paint coat
rage storm
crust slide
mare mast
larm gust
kardel age
arch stalker
take the three
mask shift
comb shoe
smith melt
room chairs
thres frame
paint paint
blind soot
tele el
dessul dessul
where did it go
where did it go
dessul eply
u steph ers e
play ill in lio
ill o lo
o lo
o lo o
lo of
oble child
hit and hit
lolo o bloo
o bloo
o lo
a back

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search for stone
vat for water
dagger for lamb flesh
light for sun
for sun share since all
is in here
just take take
all which is seen
vloe it to fire
crownegged
yellow
did I
really stick
icing fingers
into the ears child
a lamb come
prayer
take the fingers
ice them into
frost wool
paint them stuck
in oil egg
whitend light
lime them
in cover
rafter
frame them
stuck
in tree pitch
wall
you big hall
hear the echoes
slowly
hold on
act yo selv now
shadow leg
slowly look
is it mine

c h r i s t o fpehre rs asnadn d–  -i vi ve errsse enn 118

119 119 c u t o f f p l a c e s c u t o f f p l a c e s

c h r i s t o p h e r s a n d  -  i v e r s e n 120

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c h r i s t o p h e r s a n d  -  i v e r s e n 122

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v o n a n i b i l a 124

next year i want to run the comrades marathon

    (after discovering that i weigh 90 kilograms before the age of 40)

chubbiness is weighing me down
like a tree that can’t carry its branches anymore
i don’t want to be brushed aside
so easily by the wind of love
like a rugged absentminded sweating men
with bellies of pap, tripe & beer

i want to run, crawl & finish the race
like bouga luv the kwaito champ
i may suffer muscle cramps
grow blisters & warts on feet
huff & puff like a dog
but i fear to collapse on my paper-filled table
with pen in hand
tales wedged in my head

i want to run & jump like a springbok
return home with a six-pack
muscular & glinstening
illumine the fires of joy in the kitchen of love
before this glowing bare-skin hunky neighbour
invades my nest
come rain or sunshine
i’m buying the sneakers, tummy belt & tight shots
bound to jog through the valleys, alleys
& over the hills & bushes of umgungundlovu & egagasini
come rain or sunshine
i’ll no longer poison my bowels with chips, coke, candy, hotdog & burgers
for i want to leap like a tiger towards bedside
thirsting for her
naked in silky wear
& splash her body
with running, living water

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in neverdie’s surgery

Things croak, hum & groan.
Unfamiliar sounds occupy the space.
The pungent smell drives the photographer away.

Animal hides hang on the wall.
Dogs bark & wail outside.
I’m scared to see ‘things’, I may faint & die.

Bare-skinned, bearded sangoma in suite, Neverdie enters the surgery
Calls the snakes. Slithering pythons wake from slumber
& lick his body.

The photographer’s camera stops clicking.
I shiver. My notebook in hand falls to the ground.
We are here to do a feature story on the life of a sangoma.

Our knees tremble.
Neverdie smiles. Write Bila. What?
Welcome to my life.
Let’s keep tradition alive!

v o n a n i b i l a 126

tshinakaho’s confession

When the police nabbed you, my skat,
You remained special in my heart,
But I watched the sun go down,
And for two years I wept, our pillow became a brick.

Since your incarceration, Mbulaheni,
My blood never stopped flowing,
It runs into all parts of my body,
Rushing to my head

And when your brother Nditsheni knocked at my door
It was late in the night. The breeze was swift and cold.
He found me in towels. After a fresh shower. So horny.
He lowered me to the bed. I was thirsty. We rolled. Tongues in a loll.

Now that you are back from prison, my skat,
See for yourself, the gin is out of the bottle.
The little one, Mashudu, is but happily crawling.
Calls Nditsheni papa. You were away. Stop bullying me.

Sometimes I thought ticks and rodents would feed on you
As you would rot in jail,
But sweetheart, what you did in the name of tradition was heinous.
It’s you who cut out her tongue, breasts and vagina. Out in the bush.
Kept the parts in the fridge.
Or did you keep the pussy in your underwear just for a quickie?

Last night I wondered what waiting women like me do,
Brazen Mother of the Nation came to my dream. Forever beaming.
I saw her all over a young man. Fondling and kissing in lustful desperation.
Her tall loveable husband in jail, walked away, carrying a heavy heart.

Since your incarceration, Mbulaheni, my skat,
You who broke my virginity,
I carried plentiful love for you in my heart,
But my blood never stopped flowing,
Rushing to my head.

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saluting lake fundudzi

we park the 4 x 4 s in broad day light
& walk in file like prime domba dancers
in the silent high cliffs
of sacred dense forest
the Vendas say if you are mauled by a white lion
guarding the bush
you’ll only be discovered after a decade
but we are here carrying the blessings
of vha-Musanda Tshitangani
& vakoma, magwena a Venda

we bend our knees
our backs facing the immaculate lake
look in between the legs
& salute the lake
ndaa!
& the women say aaa!
here, ash of the dead is sprinkled
in water, a cemetery
but thoughts of disaster
of not returning home
grabbed by ndzhundzhu
linger on my head

we look forward
facing the Thathe Vondo grey mountains
gazing at the lazily grazing cattle
& the boys catching fish by the lake

oh beautiful lake fundudzi
is it true that the one-eyed shadowy swidudwana
burrow holes in sand & call the cattle herders from the holes?
is it true that the fertility yet orphaned pythons mingle & swim in you?
is it true that prayers are conducted to bring the rain by the lake
is it true that you hide the ndadzi bird of lightning that cause thunder?
is it true that once you once destroyed a fence a day after it was erected
& showed some white researchers darkness when they tried to steal from you
or were they stealing you…?

i ask all these questions
because though you are a marvel in my eyes
i shiver to return to you alone
without the blessings of the gods

v o n a n i b i l a 128

zim 2008 the bribe

we cannot wait to bury him tomorrow a week before the 2009 election
a man rots like a fish people at shirley were given free toilets
we’ll put his corpse in san
call his relatives in south africa in another village
we’ll wait for her eldest son the poor were given food parcels & bubble baths
he works in a hotel in rosebank
but if the buses & trucks are full – elsewhere, a beast was slaughtered, bursaries promised to the
he’ll, like his sister in a sweat shop in london youth
pay last respects by the cemetery party moguls donated a house to an indigent resident
we’ve no fridge to keep a corpse freezing
it’s stark dark here in zim on the day of the election
elegant german cars ferried smiling grannies to the polls
we’ll explain to her children
their father succumbed to cholera
they must know the whole truth
their hunger-striking father was zanufied in prison
& left unconscious
gone

and zim is a lost field
plundered by greedy locusts.

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the pig

I checked his shoes –
Rough and wild

And the nails –
Long and dirty

And the mouth –
big and grubby

I checked his eyes –
Warped, wide awake though asleep

That’s how I notice a boar
Even in parliament

Too voracious
He even kills the piglets.

j a s m i n h u r s t & 130

anja høvik strømsted

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j a s m i n h u r s t & 132

anja høvik strømsted

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j a s m i n h u r s t & 134

anja høvik strømsted

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s t i n n e s t o r m 136

fox lifting garbage behind one’s house is a sign
leaving one’s house is a sign a big lake found in the desert a stranger calling
you disaster is

•

a sign when they look for evidence in your purse a broken window is
a sign or at least a consolation

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today I went for a walk with my knife I took my knife for a walk
through the prisoner town today they were playing their tromphets
you say even
prisoners
have moral

hot springs
       come up from the dirt ground he says
      he says he likes
      normal people

s t i n n e s t o r m 138

I did not tell her the rumors though I kept thinking her only hope was her
family

•

and besides that she couldn’t even spell e n c o u n t e r s or reservoir

all small boys are — beautiful
                          and it’s funny: hills all
                          have your name
                          I can’t tell the stories there’s so many
                          and they keep changing too

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outside this green stretches out forever outside this green girls does not want
us back home
all night it’s cold in the strip club it’s white now boy blows smoke out of his
mouth it’s all white now               b oy blows smoke

    out of his mouth

s t i n n e s t o r m 140

this devil is and this devil will be
interested in the new truth a good lucky charm

this devil rides an angry pig yes indeed this devil will
these two friends are riding bring you. good luck
so fast houses and dogs along you’re most deeply. yearning for
the roadside slide behind you meet him at crossroads

the air is cool. and the devil tells me . and he will grant you all you wish for
. and they’re so fast greetings from West Africa
and the gamblers with their
grass is yellow
the sky is big trophies
big places
distracted in their homes
like daydreaming grace

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a young. female rebelling to be. emancipated modern woman
who then am i. calling at night older than her. equally. alone
who

is this eskimo child in the thinnest air of winter nights

•

reappearing years later when
mama mama
mama mama
        is no longer a fair cry waking. on others
people’s sofas

a n j a t e s k e 142

dolly bird

Stefan und Juwelia

A simple woman, a sophisticated man, a diadem which
belongs to her. The joggers belong to him – and the
Birkenstocks. He paints her curls onto the canvas. She
paints the shadows of his guests into the foreground, right
down at the edge. She always does not have enough time
for shining and shimmering, for neatly arranged stones and
ornaments. He gives her all of his attention. And, when
nobody expects it, he is smilingly he.
He gives her the space she needs.

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a n j a t e s k e 144

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a n j a t e s k e 146

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a n j a t e s k e 148

“ Do take the rose into the picture ”, says Juwelia.  
What is beautiful for you ?
“ Everything is turned, in the same way as in a mirror.  
Glamour is part of it. My father and my sisters always said “ Pastel colors are beautiful. Sometimes, life can be
that I had to do it in another way than all the others. ” beautiful, beautiful feelings are beautiful, bright colors,
white and pastel, and sweet flowers are beautiful. ”
How do you feel being photographed ?  
Have you got role models – persons or pictures ?
“ Like an exhibitionist. A great feeling. It would even be  
great without a film in the camera, only to hear the click, “ In earlier times, I wanted to be like Quentin Crisp or
ah-great. Some situations are too intimate for me; however, Divine or Andy Warhol. ”
I always involve myself again. The change from man to  
woman, that is something I do not want to show. That is And pictures ?
like doing my toilet. If the pictures are fine, I always involve  
myself again. ” “ Journals are stimulating and brilliant photos, too. When
I was nineteen, I read “ Beautiful Homes ”. Today, I am
Do you feel better when being a man or a woman ? not interested in that any more. In earlier times, I bought it
every month. However, it is always the same. ”
“ It depends, sometimes so and sometimes so. Oh, now I  
would like to be woman or man or what I am just at the What is the meaning of creativity for you ?
moment. ”  
“ It evolves from the feeling, it is something disturbing, it
“ To be honest, I am a lonely person, and being a woman I relieves. Life becomes easier. I have got it in me. I always
get into contact with people more easily. I get to know three have to do something. I am addicted to needlework and
or four people per year more intensively, but besides this I I paint and I feel well, then. Art means, to feel well, to
am alone, I like to be at home and like to be lazy. Lothar create something, to forget the world-weariness. Everybody
likes to stay by himself, too ; we got accustomed to that. At has got his own style. I like second hand and beautiful
the end of the day everybody is alone. I like to be with other designs. Some styles are more pronounced. Travesty has
people ; however, it always depends with whom. When I to do a lot with glamour. Perhaps, I should have a fashion
“dress” myself, it is like a cure. My body is being rinsed out. photographer. Hmm. Though glamour is very fine, I
A feeling like thirst has developed. It is silly, too ; however, do not always need it. Nevertheless, it always has to be
with the wig a show evolves. Ultimately, as a man I behave over - decorated and playing in lots of colors. I still have
in the same way. I am asexual, like David Bowie. ” to manipulate, change everything, do things differently.
Though being man, I have to be woman and being woman
“ Being man or woman, my feeling is the same. However, I have to be man, I have to do it upside down. Like a
being a woman I receive more feedback. I am very, very mirror. ”
eager to be recognized. I experience life and meet lots of
people, hundred times more than being a man. ” “ Somehow it is harmony; I get a kick from it. In earlier
times I had to drink two liters of water when making myself
“ Life is easier with beauty farms, physiotherapy, and the up. Water rinses everything out, immediately everything
fount of health. I want to be recognized, being a man changes. The body is being rinsed out. It is a cure to make
nobody is looking at you. I need it ; it gives me a lot of oneself up. I was confused in former times, which nowadays
energy. Today, as a woman in Berlin – is that nonsense ? It is is not the case any more. It has developed step by step. Like
easy living. Full of vitamins. People drive motorcycles or go thirst. ”
fishing as their hobbies ; I have got my wigs and dresses.
Of course, I am transsexual. ”

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j e n b e r v i n 150

the sonnets of william shakespeare

            2

    When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
    And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
    Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
  4  Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
    Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
    Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
    To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
  8  Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
    How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
    If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
    Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’
12  Proving his beauty by succession thine!
     This were to be new made when thou art old,
      And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

            5

    Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
    The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
    Will play the tyrants to the very same
  4  And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
    For never-resting time leads summer on
    To hideous winter and confounds him there;
    Sap cheque’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
  8  Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where:
    Then, were not summer’s distillation left,
    A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
    Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
12  Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:

   But flowers distill’d though they with winter meet,
   Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.