Black Looks

• Still Life

  Posted: January 23, 2011, 1:15 am by Rethabile

  
  
  

  When Van Gogh’s lobe fell pinna up
  on the tiles, its face a shrivelled funnel
  like a floor’s ear listening to the universe,
  and deftly he traded razor for brush,
  he painted potato-eaters. Which gave him
  ideas for the outline of two cut sunflowers
  on a blue table in the moonlight, the pain
  suddenly abated, the whirring heart mute.
  That’s how artists are, pondering one thing
  and birthing another. He splashed colour
  and painted the afternoon away, knowing
  without question the direction to take.
  How could he not, when he was planning
  such a starry night over the Rhone?
  Besides, answers now grew in him, tubers
  of earth reaching into his fingertips
  as he painted: blood-soaked oaks to forest,
  to meerkats waiting for the end, to August
  when dust rises to meet the newly dead.
  If one answer is to be given, why did god
  promise my father the kingdom of heaven,
  then imprison him and give me his amulet
  to wear on my neck? No spirit ought to dim,
  for neither heaven nor hell can contain him.

  For Namanyana, 1931-2010

• Happy Birthday, Derek Walcott

  Posted: January 23, 2011, 11:27 am by Rethabile

  
  
  

  
  The poet and playwright Derek Walcott was born and raised in St Lucia. His work has been described as an evolving conversation with his birthplace.

  In Omeros, his adaptation of the Illiad, he centres on the rivalry between Achilles and Hector, who are portrayed as two St Lucian fishermen.

  He maintains a presence on the island, though he lives in America, where he has been a visiting professor at Boston University since 1985.

  He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992 and will be in Trinidad this summer to collect another award. Derek Walcott is 79 today.
  [source...]

Blah blah blah

Fish cakes

Alas a fish cake.

Yet more fish cakes

Guess what ... yeah ... fish cakes.

The end of the fish cakes