Hockey Masters in March

Bob Commin

It’s a hot March afternoon
our Masters hockey players are at work
on an expansive green unwet astroturf field
the field licks its tongue in the dryness
and the white ball refuses to befriend our players
we are the over 65s, as fit as our longevity
breaking all the records that our parents set
we are living the life of eternal youthfulness
the invitation team we play against is really as old as we
but they have won a match!
the sun explodes in red spots
and reaches the fulcrum of our earth field
reducing energy levels and drying up our water
in the turmoil of heat and lethargy
the game lingers a little beyond stationary

Now I’m furious with the left wing
whenever I look up, he’s busy unscrewing his prosthesis
we advised him not to play but after Oscar Pistorius
he has a vision of becoming famous

Our backs are a little precarious
the hubs of their wheelchairs haven’t been oiled for months
the squeal of their wheels creates panic in the back line
to pass the ball back is like laying tiles on a weekend

The two inside forwards both suffer with arthritis

so that when one expects a strong pass

one gets this feather-weight lean-to that never really almost reaches you

Now our centre-half has irritable bowel syndrome

he’s a nice chap really but he plays hockey with such heaves and sighs

that it always appears as if he is rushing for the loo.

Our left wing is totally deaf

he plays and smiles

all attempts to exchange him for another player fails

in fact we have to slap him with a hockey stick

to injure him in order to bring on a fresh player

even then he only smiles, while someone clears the blood

Our link players are on Zimmer frames

they are all on the board of an old age home

they move in a wonderful rhythm to the tune of “We are the Champions”

which is quite misplaced as none of them

can keep a tune or move in sync

I look back and see that our backs are swivelling around in wheel chairs

our coach who controls the movement of their chairs

has lost control of the joystick and sneezes with hay fever

Our right wing who has an aura of shiftiness

has an alarm attached to his hockey stick

he’s paranoid about his stick being stolen mid-game

every time the ball touches it the alarm goes off

once the police arrived and took his stick off for examinations

they reported that they couldn’t find his fingerprints on it

But the most frightening feature of our play

is the nature and aspect of our shadows

they do not follow us as one would expect

it is as though they are more aware of what we are capable of

than we ourselves, for often

when we rush into a dribble

which is more than what happens along the line of our mouths

they seem to just stand and wait, almost with hopelessness

until we return to them

The centre-forward had to run fifty yards

against the run of play, to catch up with his shadow

his shadow didn’t half give him a drubbing down for being so ambitious

I look forward to having a few pints tonight at our local pub

The Old Goose, an event about which

our warden knows nothing.

From: McGregor Poetry Anthology 2013

Published by African Sun Press in association with the McGregor Poetry Festival
ISBN number 978-0-620-62302-5

The Poet:

Bob Commin is a poet and storyteller. He grew up in Woodstock, Cape Town and has taught in schools in Scotland and England. Latterly he runs workshops on creativity, storytelling and poetry. His most recent publication is Under the Ilex Tree. Leon de Kock is a poet, translator, essayist, writer of fiction, literary translator and professional literary practitioner. He has published three volumes of poetry: Bloodsong (1997); gone to the edges (2006); and Bodyhood (2010). He was awarded the Pringle Prize for Poetry and the FNB Vita/English Academy Prize for Poetry Translation. His translation of Marlene van Niekerk’s major Afrikaans novel Triomf won the South African Translators Institute’s Award for Outstanding Translation in 2000. He is Professor of English at the University of Stellenbosch, having formerly served as an English professor at both the University of the Witwatersrand, where he was Head of the School of Literature and Language Studies, and the University of South Africa.

Previously published:

Bob Commin: Wandering minstrel from the June 2013 edition of Good Hope

Rudiments of Grace: a performance of music and poetry by Chris Mann

On Wednesday 1 April 2015, we had the privilege of welcoming Chris Mann to our village. He presented a very moving performance of music and poetry titled “Rudiments of Grace” in the Caritas Library at Temenos. The presentation was based on his latest slim volume of poems, Rudiments of Grace which was launched in the Cathedral of St Michael and St George, Grahamstown, as part of the Spiritfest programme during the National Arts Festival in July 2014. 

Chris Mann is currently Emeritus Professor of Poetry at Rhodes University, Grahamstown, South Africa. His poems have appeared in a wide range of journals, textbooks and anthologies in South Africa and abroad. He performs his work at various festivals, school, churches, universities and conferences around the country as part of his life-long passion to promote poetry in the public domain.

A few reviews:

This is a beautifully crafted and unified collection. Chris Mann tells a love story which is full of passion, tenderness, and lyric grace. Lucy Newlyn, Professor of English Language and Literature, Oxford.

These poems tell a story that is as profound as it is familiar. The poems are delicate, shaded, sometimes startlingly direct, but above all honest. They are sacraments to love. Reverend David Jasper, Professor of Literature and Theology, University of Glasgow.

Moments of profundity spring regularly from Mann’s uncommon renderings of intimacy.

Nick Mulgrew, Mail and Guardian, Johannesburg.

This is one of the most beautiful books of poetry I have ever read. Emeritus Professor Rosemary Gray, Institute for African Renaissance Studies, University of South Africa.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chris_Mann_%28poet%29

Christ as a gardener

This is one of my very favourite poems. Anyone who is passionate about gardening may well appreciate it too. It brings to mind what the great mystic Julian of Norwich wrote –

‘I watched,

wondering what kind of work it might be

that the servant would do.

Then I understood the he (the Christ) would do the greatest work and hardest toil that is.

He would be a gardener,

digging and ditching,

straining and sweating,and turning over the earth,

and seeking the depths,

and waterimg the plants on time.

And in this he would continue his labour

and make sweet streams to run,

and noble and plenteous fruits to spring, which he would bring before the lord

and serve him therewith to his delight.’

Christ as a gardener

The boxwoods planted in the park spelled LIVE.

I never noticed it until they died.

Before, the entwined green had smudged the word

unreadable. And when they take their own advice

again – come spring, come Easter – no one will know

a word is buried in the leaves. I love the way

that Mary thought her resurrected Lord

a gardener. It wasn’t just the broad-brimmed hat

and muddy robe that fooled her: he was that changed.

He looks across the unturned field, the riot

of unscathed grass, the smattering of wildflowers.

Before he can stop himself, he’s on his knees.

He roots up stubborn weeds, pinches the suckers,

deciding order here – what lives, what dies,

and how. But it goes deeper even than that.

His hands burn and his bare feet smolder. He longs

to lie down inside the long, dew-moist furrows

and press his pierced side and his broken forehead

into the dirt. But he’s already done it –

passed through one death and out the other side.

He laughs. He kicks his bright spade in the earth

and turns it over. Spring flashes by, then harvest.

Beneath his feet, seeds dance into the air.

They rise, and he, not noticing, ascends

on midair steppingstones of dandelion,

of milkweed, thistle, cattail, and goldenrod.

By Andrew Hudgins

Surprises on the internet

Margaret Clough

Three exciting messages:
First a notification−
“You have won two and a half million pounds!”
Not rands! Pounds!
In a lottery I never entered.

Immediately, of course,
I booked a ticket on a Mediterranean cruise,
put in an offer for a mansion in Constantia
and splashed out on Gucci shoes,
silk dresses and designer jeans
and a down payment
on a BMW.

Then came an offer
from a man who loves my profile
and wants to get to know me better.
He is looking for a long term relationship!
(A long term relationship?
I’m seventy eight years old;
how long-term does he think
that it could be?)

Without delay I engaged a wedding planner
to arrange a ceremony at Val de Vie,
lodged a wedding present list at House and Home,
and got together all my old school friends
to form an entourage in tulle and lace
to complement an Errol Arendse
embroidered bridal gown.

The third surprise: an invitation
for an eightieth birthday tea,
starting in the afternoon and ending fairly early.

I believe this one was actually

meant for me.



From: McGregor Poetry Anthology 2013
Published by African Sun Press in association with the McGregor Poetry Festival
ISBN number 978-0-620-62302-5

The Poet:

Margaret Clough is a retired soil chemist and science teacher. She has published one collection, At Least the Duck Survived; and her poems have been published variously in Litnet, South Africa Writing, Carapace and New Contrast.

Previously published:
Margaret Clough: By Sandvlei Shore and What are you doing this evening from At Least the Duck Survived. Modjaji Books, Cape Town, 2011. ISBN 978-1-920397-85-2. Surprises on the Internet from Carapace Volume 94 Cape Town.