Towards Linoism

It was the watermelon and fresh lime juice that first attracted me to Lino, a small cafe situated on a veranda down a side street off the main road of Kalk Bay, Cape Town. It didn’t profess to have the “best coffee” in the Bay, but it did list a “long black” on their chalk board at a time when I was tired of explaining what one was.

Lino is run by James Hope who not only reminded me of Simon Lamont from Annandale’s mid-80s permaculture cafe, Lurlene’s, he was the only second person I’ve met in the world who knows where Mongarlowe is and has been there!

In a tribute to Lino and the lovely, generous, talented and wayward people I’ve met there, I’d penned this piece starting off with a tone poem in the style of Kurt Schwitters.

Lino, lie low, linoneum…
Lino, leano, linguistic…
Li… No!
Li… Lee… arnardo… Lino!
Leno, lipo, lineage…
Li Li Li Li … No… Lino…
LiLiLiLiLiLiLiLiLi … Yes? No?
Yeh… LINO!

Lino is an idea.

More than an idea, it is an engine of difference…
the making of different things
that which supports diversity of trade, of opinion, of needs
and in doing so offers visitors a safe place in which to absorb change,
in comfort, with style,
with little more than coffee and delicate cakes baked at 250 degrees max!

Lino is a hub, a rolling salon or soirée,
never quite fixed,
never quite complete…
it’s not a work, but lives in progress…

Not just anyone can create, sustain and deploy a Lino…
The Linoist is at the edge of anything
and has been everything…
The Linoist has put their life on hold for the people they have cherished,
and you have shaped your life as a schnitter would wood…

The Linoist would have dreamt of sea beams in alpha centori
and sea planes landing in Kalk Bay…

The Linoist was born in the 20th Century too late
and lives through the 21st Century too early

You are, the Linoist, in fact, in your time,
the right time, Lino Time…

For fear of sounding cliché dear friend,
it is now or never…

You are your name-sake…
A line of hope… Lino!

Andrew Garton (21 – 22 Feb 2008, Kalk Bay, Cape Town)

Bye bye Robben Island

Visited Robben Island a couple of days after returning from the APC meetings in Ithala.

You rise from the sea
suspended between it and the sky
above and below where poets have trawled…

You have held the mighty and the fallen,
the fighters, the lepers
and held fast the moist air…

The moist air falls leaden onto the silent walls, gates, wire, lime mines…
a pall of velvet air heavy on the voices buried in concrete and toil,
in the rocks and sand,
eroded but not forgotten…

Dry and gnarled the sparse trees,
their weathered limbs ache for sun high to the sky,
beyond the perimeter walls where every Mandella stood their incarcerated ground…

You held the banished there,
fed, if but sparsely, the brave and exiled there,
knowing nothing of their misery and pain,
for were they to have wings they would have come and gone as frequently as the tide.

Home for some,
prison island we will remember you by,
bye bye Robben Island.

And on this day that I came to you,
when he was freed,
hope for the many that would follow,
you invite now the curious, the wanderers, the followers who would,
if only briefly, scuttle upon your broken top-soil,
through the freshly painted prison museum,
resonant still with the potency of isolation and inhumanity there…

Dignity does not become you with ease,
your cartography, the points at which we know how to find you your only crime,
for we have sullied your beaches and desecrated your wind borne land
where hope burnt eternal in spite of the oppressors of men,
them too men who saw you as their place of thankless duty,
to demean others of their species divided,
and further still, much further still, from you,
left behind, bye bye Robben Island.

Andrew Garton
11 February, 2008

a week in words

white flag burnin monday
oil slick pollutin tuesday
saturation wednesday
another frightful thursday
body crushin friday
border crossin saturday
another bloody sunday

Currajuggle Dreaming

From 22 to 29 March Justina and I travelled to Braidwood, NSW. We spent Easter 15ks from town at Currajuggle, a property owned by friends of ours who have cared for all its 600 acres for some 20 years or so. “Currajuggle Dreaming” is dedicated to David, Geraldine, Murray, Lyne, Rob, Ernie and their dogs with whom it might be just that little more difficult to survive in such remote a place.

Burdekin City Neon

Written for Black Harlequin in Sydney, 1991, not long after completing Gibson’s Neuromancer.

SOMETHING ON THE OTHER SIDE

I was reminded of a memorable evening on Kings Farm, Northern NSW, in an enlightened state of mind with my long time buddy, David Nerlich… Was it 1989?

We penned this piece together which I subsequently wrote into early performances of Black Harlequin. Thanks Dave, for digging this one out

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A ringed moon,
Trunks of trees carved light and shade out of the mist
solid dark
in and out of shadow and bright
some felt the earth through feet swollen with the pounding
through and through the night
the moonlightfull
brimming with dew
the foggy breath of the heart of the place
so easy to find
the cup that runneth over the hill
the nightbirds that screetch, the cows that wail,
a full moon is for lovers and practitioners of ritual alike
we don’t cross the fence ’cause something on the other side roars
the grass goes untrodden
it echoes its own valley
we’ve got ours

As we descend into the mist a new line of shore
a halo of mystery that decieves the eye
but all eyes are decieved
until they know they are decieved
and no more are believed.

Pathetic Human

Written in response to the foriegn affairs policies of the Keating government, in particular the manner in which human rights abuses were over-looked in Malaysia, Indonesia and East Timor (1993).

Die like a tourist

Written in the Philippines for Black Harlequin (1992), a spoken word opera. Performed solo and with the Fierce Throat Choir.

Free of Sin

Written for Black Harlequin, (1991) a spoken word opera.