Archive
Winding
If you can’t see the video, you need to download Flash.
The river gave no sign
of where she might have drifted.
It carried the sky and trees like roots.
Leaves traced hieroglyphics
along the snaking spine of a gravel path
that led to the road. Cars passed
in transit, unwilling to stop
for a vine-draped shadow glimpsed
at the edge of light.
Arney’s girl was seen
near the rubble at the old quarry,
pale limbs twined with weeds,
curls of ivy on crumbling stone.
A fusion of need and air,
we reached for her like
drowning victims emerging
wild to claw the sun.
When the search parties stopped,
the land was changed.
We returned to the river,
its flux her blood.
by Jo Hemmant, Michelle McGrane and Christine Swint
Process notes
We started with a raw video of clips Christine shot while running errands in her town. After Michelle and Jo viewed the video, Michelle suggested a theme of ‘disappearance,’ and came up with a rough outline for a narrative that we all liked. There were a few images and scenes that Jo felt didn’t quite go with our intended poem, which we later deleted. We didn’t know how the lines would turn out, but we did have an idea of where we were going from the start.
Writing line by line, we alternated between the three of us via Facebook, a convenient option since Jo lives in England, Michelle is in South Africa, and Christine is in the US. At times we disclosed what was in our minds as we wrote — this particular aspect of our collaboration is important, because we did not write blindly. The poem is more a result of a merging of minds rather than a serendipitous creation.
Whoever said “three’s a crowd” never collaborated on a poem. Although having three different poets weighing in on each word was at times unwieldy, we came to an agreement about the success of each line fairly quickly.
After brainstorming for titles and reaching a consensus about closing the poem, we recorded the voice, and completed the video.
(Watch more qarrtsiluni videos here. —Eds.)
Typhoon
She’s here, an uninvited
guest, clouds clinging to
her coattails.
For her, trees pirouette,
newspapers take off,
calligraphied birds,
the harbour rains
startled fish and sewage,
scaffolding struggles to break
free of its restraints,
walkways sigh and sway,
empty even of beggars.
Lost possessions skeet,
potted plants from balconies,
shoes, a washing line flying
through the city like bunting.
Torn hoardings, road signs,
scuds of glass gyrating in this
carnival dance, the inanimate
brought to life with her breath.
When dark comes,
she blows out the stars,
gutters the moon, veers off
course to the mainland.
We wake to an island in tatters,
the thrum of unfettered things.
by Jo Hemmant
Left
Light is lifting, trees
sidestepping, circling
a clearing, in the centre
an abandoned house,
bareheaded, on its
knees before an
oblivious sky.
Fire’s rough tongue
has melted glass,
flamed wood to smoke
leaving a husk of
scorched stone.
Now grass grows in
empty geometries,
insects sift detritus and
the wind that fanned
the fire mouths an
apologetic sigh.
by Jo Hemmant