A selection of recent reviews of Salmon titles. Click on the book images to find out more about each title.
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'Sorry sir, I don't speak Afrikaans', I managedand what replied was my introductionto the classified, sonic weaponrythe inmost algorithms of apartheid's armature.Haai pasop roef! Jaa nie fock nie boetie ... Jy!jy's net nog 'n fokken dom rooineck ne?nou draai daardie wit mosdop opjou kop jou klein poes bliksom se doos!
Eruptions of spew andfury jowl-contorted soundshalf-formed hieroglyphs....
Removed from the center, I begin again, / where someone in the crowd might be, / those absolute strangers, in whose lives I am.
I can only look into the mind for five more seconds. / The true mind, the one of thinking, is far too bright to see directly. / I have to veil it to contain it.
I have to trick myself into believing I even can contain it. / The way someone drowning swallows the ocean, / I can take no more than a glass of river, and the rest consumes me.“I can only look into the mind for five more seconds. / The true mind, the one of thinking, is far too bright to see directly. / I have to veil it to contain it.”
Fear begins as larva. / Compare that to desire, / which is born just a smaller version of what it always will be.Fear transforms into other things, desires just get bigger. / Some like to point out that the caterpillar transforms into a butterfly. / Maggots become flies,but who pretends to notice?Fears can become both flies and butterflies, given a choice. / Fear predicts the future. / That is how it knows where it is now.
Where would I go if I were a word? / I’ve been seeking landmarks to pinpoint my position. / There is no other reason to even bother to observe.I draw an azimuth from four corners, / I try triangulation too. Here, where spaces / and lines intersect, is exactly where I should be.Yet such measurements only serve to prove / that the mind doesn’t seem to exist. / And where would that leave this version of reality?
Regaining the center is anticlimactic, like finding the end of a rope. / A complication of untangling. / Lost remains the only way to find.
Swan, Heron, Ducks
The surface on the canal tonight: black cellophane.And music without volume – here in overlappingrhythmic channels of water birds. On her island nesta white goddess folds an angular neck, arrangingand tuning feathers; then like a great wingedaccordion at the heart of this session, flamboyantflapping brings wind and sound to the picture.Across the weir, her partner raps with an old heron –bird banter between tunes, before the grey one swoopsabove the reeds towards a suitable platform for business;no show, motionless now on spindly fiddle-bow legs –content to sit this one out, waiting perhaps for a callto sing an old heron song – and all this time, weavingin their own patterns, the coming and going of ducks,silver-grey in the moonlight, tracking their owninvisible melody, dipping and diving…
nothing strange then in a concertina sounding jollywhile the player's expressionis so often grave, giving little awayof what lies beneath.
we make recordings of whales and dolphins[...]but the cows are singing in their campmarking their losscelebrating the grassthanking the rain.
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