Page 39 - Silver Lakes July 2021

SPECIAL TRIBUTE

DEATH OF A POET

By James Clarke

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

Of course I use fine hooks and bait,
Good line takes the strain:
But since they are inedible,
I let them go again.
To eat to suffer is our lot,
It pierces lips and gums
And rips us from our element
Until our saviour comes.

INTRA MUROS JULY 2021 37