Thursday, June 28, 2018

New Words and Images by Wayne H. W Wolfson

So Far Away

 It was the whispered harmonies of the Everly Brothers singing “All I have to Do is Dream”, mixed with an unknown sessions player on brushes. 
 No, it was those minor sub nautical chords at the end of a Debussy solo piano piece. The feeling of floating on the surface of water, sinking down while staring up at an unobtainable sky.
 She was sitting cross-legged on the bed using part of my pillow to stabilize a bowl in which was ice water.  I do not know what the criteria was for renewal, but she would re-dip the white cloth only lightly wringing it out before reapplying it shroud like to my forehead.
 I was dripping sweat but cold.

She had something the size of a tennis ball. Without nicking the surface of the bureau upon which she cut it, the fruit was soon halved. 
 My head was propped up. The skin was a chocolate brown, dotted with darker splotches and smelling of dirt. Her bracelets tinkled as she squeezed out its juice over my cracked-lipped, open mouth.
 I lay back down exhausted.
 “It will be the fuhlschtuhl. You will dream of tiny octopi. As long as they are purple, it is OK. Green though, would be bad.”
 In moments in which I was awake, but she had not realized it, my one slitted eye occasionally spied her rubbing the pulpy skin on the nipple of her exposed breast. Music floated in from the street but never the same song.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2018

Just click on the link for Wayne's latest collection of short stories.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

New Poetry by Abigail George

If you want to write, then write

(for the Kenyan philosopher Nyambura Kiarie)

   You can see it if you look closely enough. Even
    the comets step out in faith. The meteors. People.
    Volcanoes. Even the patterns on your flesh have
    a complex. Prayer to me is like air. My reading
    hands are greedy for the sunlight. The palace of
    the sun. The sun, well, she’s moving. Revelatory.
    Even the holy is visible here. I can see it. I can see
    it. I’m full of laughter and tears. My heart is open.
    Willing to share the inheritance of futility and loss
    found there in the silence and the empty rooms
    of my childhood house. I think of how I know the
    tastes of childhood trauma, like I know the smell
    of spaghetti. It’s an ancient landscape. Seldom
    glorious unless it is overcome. I think of the
    therapists I’ve been to, how many of them have
    been Indian women, and beautiful. I think of class
    and speaking English proper all my life. I think
    of my sadness, and then I think of you. Now let
    me talk about broken families. Your wit is warm-
    hearted but your heart is condescending and cold.
    You call me up when you’re lonely. You’re digging,
digging, digging into me, and I’m branching out
    into particles. We have to tell our stories. The
    leaves here are holy. Sister has a voice of longing.
    Brother’s clothes are on the bedroom floor. I
    live in mother’s house. She wants me gone like
    yesterday. I think that the gifts of humanity are

    like the ocean. That same ocean also belongs to
    my mother. The sadness that was there before is
    gone now. I am caught up in a dream. I have yet

    to find a being to be with, live a lifetime with,
    settle down, marry, and have those children with
    the angelic shine on their faces. Thank you for

    not calling. Thank you for not texting me. Thank
    you for this long silence. For this pain. I think of
the fact that I am no longer afraid to close my eyes.

    You were something beautiful. An altar. I think of
    the retreat of solitude and futility. Their exposure.
Lava. The anointed. Wherever the soul comes from.

- Abigail George 2018

Abigail George is the author of Africa Where Art Thou, Feeding the Beasts, All About My Mother, Winter in Johannesburg, Brother Wolf and Sister Wren, Sleeping Under the Kitchen Tables in Helenvale, and the novella The Scholarship Girl. She is a South African blogger, essayist, poet, short story writer, and has just completed her first novel.