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Poem addressed to fellow poet after our deaths. Looks at a South Africa transformed by technology and without poetry.


Imageby Damian Garside22 Jun 2014

We are
long dead now,
you and I

and not just in metaphor,
or a manner of speaking

blanked from memory
our voices
could not be less relevant,
more absent, unheard.

Look up
if you could, for their
is an image of the new
you would have
wanted to juggle with:
overhead, hovering
above the city
they are building the
stellar, off-
world link
it is our new
pride and joy, the final
piece in the puzzle of
how we have
transformed ourselves
through industry, technology.

And all those fitted with
the interface chip
await the moment
for life's supreme
ride (booked for
this by their parents
when they
were just
germ of an idea)

and we, servants of that
once quaint, now lost
and yes, prohibited art,
thought it
would be metaphor that
might truly transport us

and then we would
wince insufferably at
what we
thought such
abject disconnects
between man
and machine
between defunct old
and glimmering new

and all that
envy, rivalry, anger
I felt towards you
who kept the
keys of
aesthetic judgement in
your professorial fingers
so tightly grasped

melting away, no
what am I saying?, I
mean long disappeared,

for what process is
their now, what
law of time
are we
yet subject to?

If entropy is
well-satisfied, dispersal
and the molecules we were, so
star dust (once more)
free to wander,

if any
words were apt

when silence is
the default
is the

all else
invisible in

the light of
what must be.