Other Poems by:

Rob Szabo

This Alchemy

frank recall
spikes at moments
interrupts central 
european sundays
between rye bread,
history books
and the sour taste
of Catholicism.

a green flood of
palm trees and
arcadian art schools
bright skirts flashing
in African sun, 
laughter and song,
isiXhosa, djembe
Transkei marijuana
and the Indian Ocean.

how we complicated
our sapling consciousnesses
with hallucinogens
and existentialism
in circles on the river 
in vigils at the beach

hot fast cars
over snaking
cape roads
soaked in acid jazz

odes to heaven
sub-concious
sub-bass whirling juno
synth undertows 

beneath  the surface

of my sexuality,
poise
and assurances

rocketing
into
the molten lake
of the Karoo
a shimmering
mirage
blazing
before God
and Time
The sun pulls high
over Poland
lighting mouse-holes
bolt-holes
shell-craters

Descend into Szymborska
Milosz
Herbert
I pull the palm fronds
of memory
Down over my bolt-hole
Feet now roots
sunk in misery
I alchemise
I grow.

----
Katowice 2007.


Seal Point

our africa sealed
off and subsituted
by wadding,
my head insulated
and a few degrees
too warm.

i tilt and subside
into the bodiless
abcess of the afternoon.
Chorzow
stultifying, 
blackened brick
houses that
steam beneath
mine shafts.

your litheness
your elfin
challenge
now surely
secured in
safety boots
at an immigrant job
in the heart
of the Empire.

I rush unchecked
toward the edge,
fail at the last,
sink onto my haunches
and enter into
the new cold war.
--------------
Chorzow 2007

Forgetting

On the first day
from the clifftop,
I watched Poe's maelstrom
wreck my fleet.

I lingered there
cross legged
looking East. 

And I started back down
the Rocky Slope
Lethe Quenched
and forgetting.

------------

Poznan 2006
Chorzowska
slow trams grinding the icy stretch
up Chorzowska in the dull light of Saturday
I trawl across frozen fields of memory
there are the children, obscured by ice 
their faces distant, pale smiling
frozen features
behind the ice.
the cold is abrasive.
my face is being weathered,
sanded down.
there are no birds in this white sky 
there are no insects crawling on the ground
In a place between judgements
In a place alien to joy
I hallucinate the tropics
the moist, rounded bodies
of beachtime and those undulating waves
of heat
the ocean,  vast and inscrutable 
surging beyond my vision
I spin, my head
is
screeching monkeys
dusty roads
thorn trees
We are in a cement garden
flanked by staues
where the old lady
carved the cosmos
from pain and broken glass
where the sun
would permit no joy.
Chorzowska stretches
beyond sight

-----------
Katowice 2006

Biography

Rob Szabo was born to Central European immigrant parents in Apartheid South Africa. 
He was 12 years old when the government changed and attended Rhodes University 
during the transition period to democracy.  He now lives in Silesia, Poland and t
akes every opportunity he can to travel and write. He inpired by Blake, Coleridge, 
Ginsberg, Wallace Stevens, Szymborska and Milosz 

**Copyright 2007 Rob Szabo, all rights reserved Send us your comments on this article
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