Page 30 - The Villager July 2021

Special Tribute

death of a poet

By JAMES CLARKE

pastime of angling from the angler’s Then there was a strip club for the
Gus Ferguson
point-of-view and the fish’s: snails in his garden:

was saddened to read of the death I come to fish here all the time. Beneath the Agapanthus shrub
of an old acquaintance whom I’d The fish are only five. There is a Mollusc Stripper Club
g
r
I eatly admired over many years – I know them, each one, personally That boasts an act to titillate
Gus Ferguson. He died aged 80 in the And catch them all alive. The jaded snail sophisticate.
city he loved, Cape Town. But thanks
to him, we keep on smiling . . . Of course I use fine hooks and bait, To shifting drums and throbbing base
Gus had a pharmacy in Plumstead Good line takes the strain: A vamp comes out at sensual pace
but his claim to fame was that he was But since they are inedible, In Lurex mantle, sequined shell
one of the world’s great writers of I let them go again. She weaves a concupiscent spell.
comic verse – every bit as brilliant as
Britain’s Ogden Nash. To eat to suffer is our lot, Explicit movements, not Burlesque
He was a poet, cartoonist, author, It pierces lips and gums But undulating Arabesque.
publisher, scientist . . . and a long- And rips us from our element She slides across the flickering strobe
distance cyclist who, for many years, Until our saviour comes. And, piece by piece, removes her robe.
did the annual Cape Town Cycle Tour.
He was known for his love of snails He mercifully slacks the line, To climax this erotic act
and wrote many amusing poems Unhooks and sets us free; She makes her lovely foot contract
about them. His infinite compassion is And slips from underneath her shell:
Our sacred mystery. A hyper-naked Jezebel.
One of my favourites is:
And this verse, entitled Carpe diem, is Not every eye was out on stalks
Many poems I have writ about a goldfish’s world view . . . Not every snail who gasps and gawks.
Extolling snails and I admit A cynic gives a knowing shrug:
I might have rambled on a bit. A goldfish in a goldfish bowl “She’s nothing but a common slug!”
But now my conscience tugs, Surveys the world outside
Would I have done the same for slugs? And feels completely in control
They’re both molluscans, both pathetic, Of everything he spies.
But the snail is more aesthetic.
He thinks: “I’m in my element,
He encouraged many aspirant poets My glass a faithful lens
and was himself published in Britain That shows a foggy firmament
by Penguin. But poetry is not a way to That wobbles and distends.
make lots of money. He wrote:
Today I took books “An ever-shifting universe
To the pulpers but sadly Of ectoplasmic forms
They don’t do poetry. Beyond all known parameters
Of finite fishy norms.
Gus was an empathetic man and
understood the nature of animals – “And yet, this mystic interplay
fish, fowl or four-legged, he loved Does serve me with such love
them all. I cannot imagine him fishing That I am blessèd every day GuS FERGuSON
but the following poem looks at the With manna from above.”

28 • Issue 7 2021 • The Villager