Mario d'Offizi is a Cape Town based writer and poet. He is also assistant editor of Sawubona magazine.
Mario's work has featured in many publications over the years and his writing - prose and poetry - has been critically acclaimed thanks to its unfailing honesty and the warmth of his poetic voice.
NOW AVAILABLE...
Banana Crates and Wire Mesh spans several decades and sheds Mario d'Offizi's unique and often brutally honest light on a wide range of subjects, from the taboo to the mundane. Mario published his first poetry at an early age, but Banana Crates and Wire Mesh is his first anthology - it's a book that brings a lifetime of observations on the minutiae of South African life to the fore.
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Mother city
You are the city
of the boy without a mother
sun and sea breeze
wild wind
golden-bellied sands
lean
below your green-lush breasts.
City of wharves
carbuncle-studded,
slimy with the waters.
City that reeks of fish and smoke
cough the early morning
pale with smoke
sick with grime
grunt the groaning streets
and choke the sidewalks.
You are the smiles
furrowed frowns
laughter
the scowls…
move about with all your faces;
stand in scores of stances
walk, shuffle, hobble, run.
Your nights are sometimes scarlet
screamed-anguished
life-sapped.
You are the city
of the girl without a father,
big city bellowing
sirens blare
people stare
drunken, boisterous,
booze – bawdy,
you are foul
you are fun,
tavern shaken down with dance.
You are the dark eyes of the dives
bottle-neck smooth,
silk-shirt slick.
Rags, also,
you are gutter-curled up.
The quiet and solitude of your past,
you stand as an oak
steadfast;
leaned-on, pissed against.
Galleries and museums,
you have fathered prodigies
and mothered saints.
The lull of bells
in the holiness of your days,
the polished pew beneath
the weight of burdened knees.
Understanding, you are forgiveness;
wrath,
you are the whip.
Hear!
On the cobbled square, hell and brimstone
from your soap-box pulpit
raising fears and jeers
and hopes.
(The true faith too, in the silent hearts of silent men).
You are the city
much loved;
distrusted.
You are the spirit of your cemeteries
consoling
bright the blooms
in hugging wreaths
sand-mounds
crystal marble
sad-faced cherubs.
You are the city
of the boy without a mother
sun and sea breeze
wild wind
golden-bellied sands
lean
below your green-lush breasts.
City of wharves
carbuncle-studded,
slimy with the waters.
City that reeks of fish and smoke
cough the early morning
pale with smoke
sick with grime
grunt the groaning streets
and choke the sidewalks.
You are the smiles
furrowed frowns
laughter
the scowls…
move about with all your faces;
stand in scores of stances
walk, shuffle, hobble, run.
Your nights are sometimes scarlet
screamed-anguished
life-sapped.
You are the city
of the girl without a father,
big city bellowing
sirens blare
people stare
drunken, boisterous,
booze – bawdy,
you are foul
you are fun,
tavern shaken down with dance.
You are the dark eyes of the dives
bottle-neck smooth,
silk-shirt slick.
Rags, also,
you are gutter-curled up.
The quiet and solitude of your past,
you stand as an oak
steadfast;
leaned-on, pissed against.
Galleries and museums,
you have fathered prodigies
and mothered saints.
The lull of bells
in the holiness of your days,
the polished pew beneath
the weight of burdened knees.
Understanding, you are forgiveness;
wrath,
you are the whip.
Hear!
On the cobbled square, hell and brimstone
from your soap-box pulpit
raising fears and jeers
and hopes.
(The true faith too, in the silent hearts of silent men).
You are the city
much loved;
distrusted.
You are the spirit of your cemeteries
consoling
bright the blooms
in hugging wreaths
sand-mounds
crystal marble
sad-faced cherubs.