archive - issue 18
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Louella Sullivan
Louella Sullivan learned to type poems one-handed whilst bouncing small babies on her lap. She did an MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes in 2014 where she completed her thesis Bitten under Robert Berold. She is a Drama, History and English teacher as well as a part-time lecturer at Rhodes University. She has been published in Aerodrome, New Contrast, New Coin and Itch. Her poems have been described as "polished, poised and vivid". In 2016, her poem "Refugee" was longlisted for the Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award.
Friday, 16 September 2016 11:19
The Garden's Memory
A garden is harder than a marriage
you can’t throw sex or wine at it
to pacify the wilderness that threatens.
A garden remembers holds to
rhythms
you laboured to weed out. As you
tame it,
clear the Eastern Cape clay it springs
up
slaps you.
A climbing rose, a pale matriarch,
grows vicious despite my secateurs.
A pear tree, fat with lichen,
defiantly bears wizened fruit.
Friday, 16 September 2016 11:09
My Grandmother's Name
In her 70s
the rigid clackof a label maker
stamped out
her neat name
to be stuck
spirit-level straight
on cupboards, Tupperware,
biscuit tins and dustpans.
Her widowed father,
open-handed helpless,
had passed her on to his sour sisters
to be raised in a house of chiming clocks
and maudlin tapestry cushions.
Even as a child she marked everything
in strict Victorian capitals:
MOIRA ELAINE LONG
in case anyone should
think to take what was hers
in case anyone should
forget (again)
where she belonged.
Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:29
Childhood Home
Childhood Home
When they retire, my parents
will sell our childhood home.
Hot-cracked slasto by the pool
The fading shadows of a long-gone frangipani tree
The echoes of children’s voices
Grow paler each year.
My brother is wistful:
I wish I could buy it from you guys
He dreams of a new wife and babies
growing brown and happy there.
The rope swing still hangs from the avo tree
The stone birdbath endures in the rose bed
The azaleas grow fatter every year.
When they retire, my parents
will sell our childhood home.
Hot-cracked slasto by the pool
The fading shadows of a long-gone frangipani tree
The echoes of children’s voices
Grow paler each year.
My brother is wistful:
I wish I could buy it from you guys
He dreams of a new wife and babies
growing brown and happy there.
The rope swing still hangs from the avo tree
The stone birdbath endures in the rose bed
The azaleas grow fatter every year.
Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:25
Last Roadtrip with my Brother
Last Roadtrip with my Brother
We drive through the unruly hills of the Wild Coast
The potholes bigger than our Mazda 323
Little boys and girls fill the ruts with cow dung
Begging money for their service
The stones on the beach
We take shots – one of us
Posed awkward against the background of sea
C’mon boet take the bladdy picture
The acrid mosquito coil
And hot December night
Oozing with hippie drumming
I on the floor, you on the bed
Neither of us sleeps
We rise at dawn for cold showers
And a quick getaway, leaving cash
And a note: Never coming back here
We drive through the unruly hills of the Wild Coast
The potholes bigger than our Mazda 323
Little boys and girls fill the ruts with cow dung
Begging money for their service
The stones on the beach
We take shots – one of us
Posed awkward against the background of sea
C’mon boet take the bladdy picture
The acrid mosquito coil
And hot December night
Oozing with hippie drumming
I on the floor, you on the bed
Neither of us sleeps
We rise at dawn for cold showers
And a quick getaway, leaving cash
And a note: Never coming back here
Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:20
The Bench
The Bench
That afternoon in the damp, green spring
I see you and Chappie: at seventeen
You are all angles and sharp edges
With your against-all-school-rules afros
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Tossing a ball for Blackie
Today I want to unearth a smoke from your box
Hidden under the loose bottom of a side cupboard
And sit on the bench with you — my brother
Even though our beloved Blackie is long gone
And no-one smokes anymore
That afternoon in the damp, green spring
I see you and Chappie: at seventeen
You are all angles and sharp edges
With your against-all-school-rules afros
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Tossing a ball for Blackie
Today I want to unearth a smoke from your box
Hidden under the loose bottom of a side cupboard
And sit on the bench with you — my brother
Even though our beloved Blackie is long gone
And no-one smokes anymore
Monday, 01 June 2015 11:29
The Silence
Today as she was swept off to school
I teetered like a forward slash.
Every afternoon
I ache for silence.
Every afternoon
as she sings,
cries, tosses toys / Yet
in the pin-drop void
of morning
I miss her
and the chubby noise that
trails in her wake.
I teetered like a forward slash.
Every afternoon
I ache for silence.
Every afternoon
as she sings,
cries, tosses toys / Yet
in the pin-drop void
of morning
I miss her
and the chubby noise that
trails in her wake.