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Collected Poems
Bernard Levinson
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Collected Poems
Bernard Levinson
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Poems from Bernard Levinson's four published collections as well as a new unpublished collection are gathered together into one volume, Collected Poems. Those previously published collections are From Breakfast to Madness (Ravan Press 1974); Welcome to the Circus (Justified Press 1991); I See You (Southern College Publishers 2001) and I Dreamt I Was Flying (Nimrod Publishers 2007).
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LiteratureSous-sujet
African PoetryBOOK 1
From Breakfast to Madness
(Ravan Press, 1974)
Part 1
Dear Anne
When I go from breakfast to madness
dear Anne
with the clouds clutched tight in my hands
and my frail books
filled with worn-out wordsâ
I tell the nurse
this is a rest home for retired spies
cranky characters
talking back to their chairs.
And we both laugh
to ease my pain
and hide for a moment
the sleep walkers
who pace their mops on the burnished floor.
Charles
I think of Charles
who hanged himself
from the lintel of his door.
On the surface of my mind
a single dry leaf floats.
Now it is a hand callingâ
now a rusty raft âŠ
I listenâ
there are no demands
no call for help
only the Autumn wind crying.
Elsie
Elsie talked to God from her flat in Hillbrow.
Perched on the edge of her bath
she discussed the price of bread
and the things the butcher said
when she couldnât decide.
She was always grateful that He found her.
Between the Swop Shop and the coffee bar
one could miss the doorâ
the metal steps to the fourth floor
and the dark corner
where the refuse drain rumbled and coughed.
The sun falls amongst chimneys
Splinters in a million windowsâ
Are you there Elsie?
Are you there in the darknessâ
in your own secret cave
holding the remains of the day in a shopping bag?
Are you talking to God?
Too Many Words
There are too many words.
Each day I drown in words.
Once I sat with a man
each day for six months
and not a word passed between us.
Iâve never forgotten
how moved I was
by what he said âŠ
What Iâm trying to say
is that I have a need
now and then
to shake the words out of my hair.
All the stale and used-up wordsâ
the frantic panic words
that jump about my deskâ
and the heavy meaningful words
that hang like curtains in the air.
The people who spin words about me
holding me tightly to themâ
and the people who fill every corner
with urgent wordsâ
every inch of my roomâ
closing the space
through which they may fall to nothing.
One word would be enough!
Just one word
that I might hold it in my palm
weigh it
and know it.
Your Small Fist
Thereâs no need for words.
Your small fist
cupped in the palm of my handâ
I insinuate a finger
inside the curled barricadeâ
and read the temperature
the amount of hurtâ
the hold-tight pain of your young life.
I remember once beforeâ
my first call to the township
between the steaming huts
on the lip of a makeshift road
where I swung my black bag
brash as a boy
safe in his Medical School.
The dark girl in labour
was younger than I.
A child bearing a child.
I fumbled in my bag
looking for words
among the shoe-horn shapes,
the trumpets and ...