A selection of my work; my career as a poet ended in 1996, though.

1. 1
Poems 1996
Martin Hatchuel
martinhatchuel@gmail.com

2. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
1
I have seen no glory for dead soldiers
I have seen no glory for dead soldiers
only the quiet of unmarked graves.
Do not mock that sad lament
of the piper as he plays
(Nor the grieving of parents
grey and old and the sorrow of death)
Do not mock that sad lament
as the piper plays he plays for you
And meantime he will play for me.
I am the circle
I am the circle
Only half complete
I am the mind and body
That make me what I am
But I am only mind
when I believe my body
Agile as my mind
When I believe I can run
When I can skip and tumble
As I can in my head
I'll be the circle
Whole, complete

3. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
2
Winding time, in time's dull passing phases
Winding time
in time's dull passing phases
that, beating, beat time
to life's long maze.
The heart,
long suffering clock
to living,
redeems the death of time.
'Til ending,
the heart and time are one.
And we, mortal and alone
become time's heart, and heart's time
to dying
Mirrored
Mirrored on a
million
windows,
(reflections
off a
thousand cars)
sparkling through
sprinkled drops
rainbow'd
in the
falling rivers
The Sun.

4. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
3
Burn burn, fire of the night
Burn burn, fire of the night
Love love 'til love's respite
blaze
against a colder wind
bolder than stars
glow, light.
Flick flame, flickering light
Love love 'til love's demise
smoulder
against a stronger wind
duller than stars
die, light
The took the things he had
they took the things
he had
away:-
he's gone from this barrack.
the bed is bare,
the cupboard
and shelves
that he filled
are empty,
and his space, void:-
he's gone.
and when they swept
his dust from under the bed
they sealed his going

5. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
4
On my twenty sixth birthday
Mother, Africa.
heal the sins of my people
against ourselves
the sins of removal
the sins of detention
the sins of the pass book
and of colour
and most of all
the sins of ignorance.
I never knew, until tonight
how terrible our lives
Forgive me
that I have done nothing
for twenty six years
And forgive
if I should forget in my future
a coward whose cowardice is guilt
where cowardice should suffice.
And forgive
if I must leave
oh my god, oh my father,
oh my Africa.
What have we done,
You and I?

6. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
5
23 - 11 - 1985
Did I kill the Langa Dead?
did I
with apathy
and reluctance
and fear
of a quicksand that might drown me?
when I have to make
my final account
will He ask me
did you kill the Langa Dead?
Afternoon
Subtle nuances
peach blossom
piebald grass
speckles
of shadow
freckles
of light
pink flowers
and wilted petals
swim
on their ocean
of green brown red grass
gentle rocking
smooth swaying
in a silent wind.
The afternoon
quietly
will draw on.

7. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
6
What songs should I tell?
What songs should I tell
or stories sing,
how shall I say
what must be said
with glorious language
and profound?
How shall I talk of you
in love? or in friendship?
Did we
know each other at all
or shall I sing of strangers
as you recede
into my memories
On Sunday
On Sunday,
you said
you heard a canary sing
in Eloff Street
You said
in twenty years
you hadn't heard that
song
Rewarded now
you should leave
don't you think?

8. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
7
Drove hard in history and in time
Drove hard in history and in time
the highways of tomorrow
upon the lives of yesterday
steam rolled
into traffic flow and intersection.
The advance is on.
Driven out from time
into history's sad death
the lives of yesterday
(crushed under this blackened carpet)
seek the comfort of their misty night.
This Parktown moon veiled in mourning
cries itself to sleep in dreams
of yesterday's town
(black-caped witches, ghosts,
the doomed and the dead
curse the freeway we build)
Herbert Baker'd
in the softness of a light's dim halo
sees the crumbling of the ivy'd walls.
King Edward's, old school
St John's, bitter rivals
these parks, these houses
history of this Parktown they built
this Houghton they made.
Goodbye, places and spirits.
The moon and I
we mourn your passing.

9. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
8
I loved you
I loved you
and the sing sing song of water
and leaves and things
and dark nights scaring
with coffee in the silent kitchen
I loved you
and the black-greased crash of engines
and motors and things
and cold days blowing
with coffee in the silent kitchen
I loved you
and the blue-jeaned rasp of parties
and music and things
and starlit nights romantic
with coffee in the silent kitchen
I loved you
and the naked look of you
and your mind and things
and lonely nights missing you
with coffee in the silent kitchen
What life has the wind
What life has the wind
this disembodied howl?
Whispered tears
that, shaking my door
ghost the wildest nights?
Which dreams has he seen
hopes, and fears?
How has he laughed at us
his fools
his servants in mockery?
What life has the wind
this oldest presence
this ancient of forever?

10. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
9
When ops. company left for the border
It was
quite sad
their leaving
today,
and I said so
tonight
in the canteen
over a coke
and a smoke
But Christ
you know
you said back to me
you didn't hassle
to say goodbye
I didn't,
no.
But what's
left
in me
by them's
what's sad.
That dance was timeless
That dance was timeless
when the rain fell
when August winds
threw leaves into castles
brown and red dusts in our sky
And timeless
when our bodies touched
across a continent
when your letters pierced my mind
and timeless,
because it was rare
like that August Rain

11. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
10
Love, evil buccaneer of the night
Love, evil buccaneer of the night,
curse me now
to sail some stormy sea
of passion;
and curse
to navigate the blackened skies
of romance;
curse me
to pirate a heart
fiery with lightning
and gentle
with mist.
let me sail those rocky straits
and then, at last
I'll find some quiet cove
and keep that last
at bay.
Small boy make me laugh again
Small boy make me laugh again
It was so good to laugh
It was so good to laugh
Small boy warm me up again
Make me laugh. Make me laugh
You do it so well

12. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
11
Damn you for making me look like a clown
Damn you for making me look like a clown
Haha
Wasn't it funny?
Red cheeked, fight lipped, clench fisted
Anger and fury rising ever rising so that I want to strike
and hit and devastate. Smash
Your bloody beautiful nose. Scratch
Your bloody divine eyes. Crack
Your bloody helenearubenstein lips. Reach
My peak of anger and pull your bloody
Goddess brown hair.
Crack your bloody, bloody face again.
Damn you for making me look like a clown
Red nosed smiling stupid with floppy feet
And buckets of water to fall over and into.
Damn you I loved you
Carcass to carcass
Carcass to carcass
Press harder
as animal
as beast
Scream
Cry at your supreme second
I, at mine
Sleep
Dream of running wild
Run with the herd
Carcass to carcass
Press harder
Love.

13. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
12
They pass along that know the blinding deafness
They pass along
that know the blinding deafness
of our love
sung hard in the nights of time
in the falling crevasses
and cathedral mountains
of our African days
They, too
that sleep the animal dreams
of our blood and our savagery
soft haunted by our spookeveld days
rent by the storms of our passion
in the dead and loving darkness
of our African nights
And they,
that live the grassed dreams
of time as time is assagaai'd
and shielded in the mask of a warveld hero
in the bitter ideals and broken tears
of our African peace.
They pass along who dream
where dreams must die

14. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
13
People the city with your dreams
People the city with your dreams
and built on your speeches
it fades, the greys
and grime are the colour of squalor
and knives and blood of desperation
People the city with your corporations
and built on your wealth
it fades, your monuments
and slums are the colour of your ego
and poverty and crime of obedience
People the city with your poor
and built on your fortunes
lead them in devotion to you
devotion and supplication are the colour of power
and poverty and humility are the shame on you
Autumn has come
Autumn has come
rhapsody in red and brown
a requiem sung
on laughing, howling winds
Leaves running ahead
scurrying flight and graceful death
gliding slow to the carpeted tar
quiet to die as quiet was lived

15. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
14
Make the tea
Make the tea,
Jessie wee,
wash the cup
and saucer up.
Warm the pot
(it must be hot)
cool the milk
smooth as silk.
Sugar one
(lots of fun)
tinkle spoon
drink it soon.
Make the tea,
Jessie wee.
Please. For me?
Johannesburg bitch day
Johannesburg bitch day
Warm hazy with pollution
Mist if you close your eyes just right
Johannesburg bitch day
Warm lazy with laughter
Hurts if your upper lip's too stiff
Johannesburg bitch day
Give me another day
Warm crazy with friendship

16. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
15
I walked some lonely corridors
I walked some lonely corridors
last night
and wept in some lonely halls
my mind revolved
on you
and the halls and walls because of you
their greyness showed me you
my emptiness pictured you.
I know that you are not so dull
as that painted plaster showed:
When I came from that house
your heart shone sunlit gold
and your love from your small kindness
and gentle smiles
to me.
What Paschal Lamb to celebrate their deliverance
What Paschal Lamb to celebrate their deliverance
these poor dead there lying
bodies awry
in unmarked graves?
Who will eat their bitter herbs
and unleavened bread
these poor dead there lying
in pauper's graves?
Only a salty tear
to remember them
and a god too tired to help
to mourn them.

17. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
16
I wanted to tell you
I wanted to tell you,
you see
about today
when I saw you asleep
on a chair,
your pale sick face
opened
to me
and a haze surrounding you
I wanted to tell you,
you see
how I wanted
to reach out and touch
to heal you.
And how I wanted
to look up
to know you.
Golden Monday
Golden Monday
A laugh and roll out of bed
clatter to the floor
holding my head
Laugh through the day
noisy and fun
enjoying it
Tarnished Tuesday
A groan and cower in bed
clatter to the floor
holding my head
Sweat through the day
Monday was fun.
Loved it

18. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
17
Look at me in this dark and sombre jail
Look at me in this dark and
sombre jail;
love, having no bounds,
has made them
No small light
enters my prison
but thick bars and nets
shield me from it
No fresh air
enters this room
but strong shutters and slats
protect me from it
Then be my dynamite
to let this light and air in
upon me
Come to me and take me out;
Love, having no bounds,
must break them
Whore
Whore
come out to me from your blackest alleys
and I must brush you off
(shall I take you?
small cravings of my mind
too small for that
Whore
I leave you to your alley
too hurt for words to glare goodbye
(shall I take you?
strong cravings of my body
too strong for that

19. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
18
Clown
Clown
prophet of a time
lives under the big top threat
balancing high
tells of a smile
that broke a nation
and of a frown
that built it
Clown
lives sadly and dies alone
Clown only
makes sense in this senseless world
Laugh at the clown
laugh, laugh at the clown
Clown only
can save you
On greenset hills of Knysna
On greenset hills of Knysna
on calm and ragged lagoon
here sighs my spirit softly
here waits, and pines for me
On gentle lawns of paradise
on grey and sky-touched sea
here lies my heart so heavy
here waits, and pines for me
On Western Head or Eastern
on moody cliffs or shores
here lies my soul untroubled
here waits, and pines for me

20. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
19
Summer Morning
Summer morning
of a cold shower
and green blue landscapes
early rising
is energy
laughing, singing
the world is song
Now the bitter night
its heat and clammy sheets
have gone
daybright lightness
is open glowing sky
To work is play.
It is
today.
It is
summer.
It is mine.
A force binds us
A force binds us
that sit warmly entombed in our glasses
gravely watching the future;
The wizened eyes of youth
catacombs in the quiet face of melancholy
search the wisdom of naivety
The sighs of age echo
through the depths of our souls
but laughter is no brighter than that
The smiles of devils
shrouded in youth
frown on goodbye at this shrine of the flesh
The final parting is death
and wine, our only comforter

21. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
20
I travelled home sometime, I think
I travelled home sometime, I think
and went to see myself there
as I was and am
to pat the little white dog
on the carpet before the door
to eat the coarse brown bread
and the cakes and cookies
and fudge and scones
to see all the familiar strange things
the pictures, the books
and the far away people
in that small house
living some life or the other
somehow or the other
doing their daily doings
reading their daily readings
I travelled home sometime,
once I think
because somehow I had to know.
The hymn that sings this town
The hymn that sings this town
the cathedral the religion
the choirs the prayers of existence
(pews are the streets, and the congregation, the cars)
The hymn that sings this town
drives us uniquely what we are
sings our lonely destiny
(look at our town -
city light, alter bright
sees not the loneliness our town does do.

22. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
21
Slow the rhythmic waves
Slow the rhythmic waves
plead the shells from these beaches
soundlessly wiping my feet
from the sand
and quiet,
steals a memory.
Sound has gone and the stars have faded
the ships have passed in their nights
foghorned ahoy
and now away.
Slow the rhythmic tears
plead the salt from my eyes
soundlessly closing my chest
with memories.
Night fall, light rise
Night fall
light rise
peopled by darkness
the corners of the world
and I
tripped on a neon-rise day
fantasy of the streets
pantomime of the alleys
I'll be among them
the darkness will envelope
and I'll people the darkness
In the forest's deepest silence
In the forest's deepest silence
like a prism to the light
twist the colours of your rainbow
bring the morning on your flight
In the forest's deepest silence
catch a spirit and a feeling
with a memory of our friendship
and a smile to ease its night.
25 February 1996

23. Poems 1996. Martin Hatchuel
22
The watch you gave me still ticks its hours
The watch you gave me still ticks its hours
though your hours here on earth are done;
The silent hand that sweeps its face
marks time for us no more.
Your time, my dear and deep beloved one
Is over now at last.
The life you had will live in us
whose love still bears your name;
The silent tomb that holds your cross
holds just your earth's remains.
Your spirit, my dear and deep beloved one
Is ever now at rest.
I'll celebrate your life, my love
And mourn its brief refrain;
I'll celebrate our love that's lost
And mourn, and mourn again.
The time you gave still lives in me
though time has robbed us both;
The finite hours that made our love
are counted now and done.
Your time, my dear and deep beloved one
In me burns ever on.
The smiles you gave still light my days
though laughter's hollow comfort now;
Your life and memory live in me
though death's crop is gathered home.
Your love, my dear and deep beloved one
In me burns ever on.
6 July 1996