"We are the caterpillars of angels" Vladimir Nabokov, 1932 poem
The earth is a crucible.
And the dew that drops at night from the wings of moths,
chrysalis dreams forming in the drool of a sleepy
open mouth is actually the spit of the pot,
bubbling forth its clear bouillon from deep inside out
onto the grass- that looks so moist and warm,
ready to wrap you in a fur of tropical air- but feels cold
with the frost of anger biting toes,
hungry for more soup.
Nature pours herself from winter into summer, feeding us with colours,
so many hues of green, white, orange, pink and
so on and so much and so much, on and on -
pissing fecundity
into our mouths and eyes, ears and noses
until all orifices are full.
And yet, the hole remains wounded and open-
spilling a pupae’s blood onto the ground.
The search for sustenance continues boring
into the crust of her body,
spirals through the dark crumbles of earth –
(we want to package neatly into little pots
so we can grow small herbs and plants,
control the seeds of her existence.
And we will never more
be at the mercy of her breast, crying
more and more and more).
And still, the hand turns the pot's spoon silver,
alchemical crepuscule melted and waiting.
This beach
has not been cleaned into submission to fulfill lost dreams-
surrounded by black volcanic rock and scattered
with deep smelling seaweed- washed up daily
fermenting in the sun, fecund
to the thousand-million beings living beneath.
The seeds of sea-dwelling trees join the debris,
uncomfortable to bare feet, feeding the sand.
When the full moon rises on
this beach,
love snails pop out from far below. They journey up from the subterranean to find others like themselves and
make more like themselves. Shells,
luminous in the moonlight, protect translucent bodies –
only seen when placing these lovers in boiling water
as food. Otherwise, their fragile see-through skins remain
mysterious, hidden
by the hardness of glow-in-the-dark armour.
When two such creatures meet on
the beach,
they glisten more profusely than the phosphour in the ocean.
2002/2004: Bristol & Munich
"Beauty will save the world"- Doestoyovsky
There is Beauty in this world.
Red poppies
beside a car dusted hi-way,
profuse amongst rubbish,
they scintillate-
flamenco dancers in Speed's wind.
Or, the silver tinsel
of a take-away waffle's stuck-on foil
in barely there sunlight-
underwear
melted into flesh. Hot,
against a ready mouth.
- Madrid & Munich: 2004
Tania van Schalkwyk is the cross continental spawn of a Hamburg sailor boy and an Indian Ocean mermaid. Born in Africa. Raised in Arabia. Uneducated in America. Currently lost in Words. Her poetry has featured in international literary magazines, been mixed to music by Underconstruction Records and appeared on Commonwealth FM. Tania has performed in the UK, Munich & Cape Town. She recently returned to Cape Town where she now lives with her beloved man and cats, writing poetry (?!) & a film script. Tania is a proud founding member of SEWS: Society for the Erection of Women Statues.