From Johnny’s Anthropocene Blues

Marlene van Niekerk

1

Du musst dein Leben ändern.’ Rilke

I perturb the earth, they say,

when I eat a bowl of oats

to which I add a cup of frozen

blueberries these days. When I

take a mouthful I see nothing

but smoke from factory stacks

and my interest in Wimbledon

instantly wanes, not to speak

of my love for creative writing

in unspoilt mountain resorts.

They say I should note that

my actions return from the back

of the globe like a toxic loop—

an ouroboros made of lifeless

fish and silent, plastic-riddled gulls.

Who would count the beads on such

a rosary? Who could meditate

on waste? It’s an ominous sign

that I don’t feel like fucking

anyone, not even from behind.

I have stopped going out, whereas

the arctic snow-owls, I gather,

are catching rides nowadays

on the sterns of petroleum tankers.

All of this, I know, concerns

only those who pick with finger-tips

at snippets of breaking news

on the screens of Apple iPhones

and who grab their dinner

from fast food counters. How

can I tell the poor to shit less, shout

less, stop fornicating if I live

with so little fight or flight

left in my bones? Come on, seriously,

would you talk to someone

like me in the queue? It is true,

I must change my life.

2

Die Welt is fort, ich muss dich tragen.’ Celan

Quite astounding what

people are prepared to try.

Some hide away like Siamese

twins in the wheel well

of an aeroplane.

When the gear is deployed

on the final stretch the lower

one falls, frozen, head first,

into an aircon sump atop a block

of flats in London. Not even

Hieronymus Bosch would think

of such an arrangement.

The survivor, from Durban,

partly thawed, is held in quarantine.

He talks nonstop to the man

in the mirror he believes

is his brother. Day and night

with a warm, damp cloth

he wipes the ice stars

from his brow.

Others travel in magnetic

coffins stuck to the chassis

of cooler trucks. Clawing

their throats they perish

next to some road while

the driver takes a piss

in the woods. He thought

they were a batch

of frozen ortolans.

I heard of a boy, just

turned twelve, who was zipped

in a suitcase and stuffed

in an overhead compartment,

on a flight from Kabul.

His mother says it’s her fault

to have thought he would

fit unharmed into her hand luggage.

A crushed spleen was the last

thing she worried about.

There are fathers, I read,

in the horn of Africa, who send

their boys barefoot across

the Sahara with caraway seeds

in the seams of their rags

and an empty cob to chew on.

And all the while the boats

keep coming. Thousands

drown. Some speak

of the re-mineralisation

of the Mediterranean.

Three hundred storm the Spanish

border using each other like ladders.

Ten get over threefold fences

but most fall back with ankles

broken, broken wrists from blows

by ski-masked guards.

The flow is staunched

in desert places, the captured

press their faces into chicken

wire leaving diamond

furrows on their cheeks.

The escapees on rocky outcrops

hold up wee blue screens at night—

I’m safe! Goodbye! I go!

One poor sod jumped into

a manhole and swam up a shit

stream to freedom. He got out

alright but later succumbed

to the fumes. In a nameless grave

they buried him, in a barren

dale, wearing gloves

and moon suits.

It shows: you may

expel your waste,

it will return bearing the dead

like bread on the water.

The world has gone and I

must carry you. Who

wrote that again?

3

‘Doch konnten wir nicht

hinüberdunkeln zu dir:

es herrschte

Lichtzwang.’ Celan

When the city cramps

me in its rising glare

I’m torn apart—

the child of Chronos

my titan father.

I can’t tell right or

wrong from left in this

duress of light.

My ankles catch

against the pavement

gutter as I walk

the streets.

What open space

would have me staring

from the thistles,

what incline offer me

a prospect?

At dawn a buzzard

on a stile looks out

over the fields. I watch

him from behind.

A brotherhood hatches

between us—

russet

amber, charcoal,

buff.

My feathers lock

into a coat of mail.

I gather from his tilt

that this bird

has never known

anyone like me

before. He’ll wait

for me tomorrow.

When he dies

I shall uphold

his darkness.