The 2014 Aldeburgh Poetry Festival runs for the 7th-9th November. Today and over the weekend Ink Sweat & Tears is featuring poems on the theme of ‘Poetry & Disobedience’ which is the subject of the IS&T-supported Short Takes this year.
from Lyra
He could smell the ocean. Almost hear the water
rushing up against the rocks. Great sprays of salt
banking up then falling back. Red carcasses of ships
rusting all across the shoreline. He clutched his hip.
The brass fragment jutting out – an ‘S’ with a bolt
loose at its upper most tip. He stopped. The sputter
of an engine. Looking over his shoulder he could
see a small black dot trailed by a tail of dust. Fuck.
The cliff face was bare and steep, his body pressed
flat against it, black like an ant. He was at the most
difficult point of the climb. Here he judged the rock-
face jutting out above him, a large shelf he would
have to scale using only the strength of his arms.
Pain tore through his body, his legs cycling the air
as his arms trembled above his weight. He pulled
himself up onto the top part of the shelf, crawled
for a bit, then just lay there on his belly, sucking air.
Beneath him, because the sand was already warm,
all he saw was fresh blood creeping out. A red stain
growing silently. He looked up, ahead. The mouth
of the cave gaped back at him. Black. He slithered,
angry with pain, towards the entrance, rowing hard
on his elbows. In the cave: cool air, a thin footpath
disappearing deep into the distant sound of rain.
*
The smell of water over stone fell heavy with iron.
A constant trickle riding away, deep to where colour
knew no other colour than black. The sound of a fire
crackled and spattered. The light at first vermilion
on the dome of the cave, then a whole riot of crystal
sparks revealing wet constellations: reds, purples,
blues – bright for a second or two – became alluvial
shadows, smoke cloaked. Incandescent. His people’s
words ran through his mind in rapid, furious bursts
of prayer. He could hear every whisper. Soft trickles of
water flowed along cold walls, compelling his thirst.
An arm cradled his head. Dregs of sediment and rough
indefinable grains seeping into the froth of his beard.
A woman’s voice echoed. A constant stream of cool
water flowed over his forehead. The cave’s colourful
display washing in waves. Its walls wet and fissured.
*
If it’s them, they’re coming down the south tunnels.
Sound carries deeper there. There were others though.
Others in the caves. They would hear the shouts echo
through the water corridors. Horrible screams. They’ll
kill us all. We have to leave him! He lay stretchered.
Water neck high. Oily rainbows beneath the dirty flame
slithering in their wake. Ahead the black passage stared
back at them like a lair. Deep, cold and uncertain.
*
For hours. Nothing. The cold on their skin like a numb
suit. Darkness echoing off the wet rock. They held still.
Occasional voices. Movement in other tunnels. The hum
of a fan powering some sort of machine. They held still,
huddled like eels in the cramped recess. The machine
humming closer with the slow swish of wading. The light
growing stronger on the cave’s wet walls, almost bright
as day, then suddenly brighter. Cold. Clinical. Clean.
Togara Muzanenhamo was born in Zambia in 1975 and brought up on the family farm in Zimbabwe before studying in France and the Netherlands. He returned to Zimbabwe where he worked as a journalist before turning his attention to the development of African screenplays. He now divides his time between writing and farming. His first collection, Spirit Brides (Carcanet 2006) was shortlisted for the Jerwood Aldeburgh First Collection Prize and his second book Gumiguru is launched at the Festival.
His Short Take will feature on Saturday at 10.45am. For more information on his other performances and the festival see here.