A Ballade for Mr. Rhodes

(Cape Town, The Matopos, Academia, Pretoria)

The Architect:

Teak and force and whitewash, tiled and broad,

How the house subjects its client! He,

So vehement to be a myth, instead

Is in these walls the single shrill cliché:

The bluff, the inarticulate. I free,

Though he is jailed-an aging, Landseer dog

Upon an all-confining hearth. Who see

In heavy mantelpiece and dummy log

The knowing stage designer . . . let the peak

My porches open on confound them; they,

And when the deep bay-windows cleave the fog,

The pacing posturer whom I obey.

The Poet:

Here is the grave, and the mentality

Of added codicil, eternal flame:

The whole of Stonehenge in a chartered sky

To raise one slab with nothing save his name.

Venue of what Homeric rite, what game,

The mountain is as yet without them. Myth

Or tribute, both elude him. All the same,

They do occur. Theatrical this death,

Theatrical, elsewhere, the torches, wrath,

And massive stadia. They are at once

Themselves, and what we see: this grave and path...

Two native warders dozing on their guns.

The Scholars:

The final creatures of the final will,

We write the end of empire. If we fail

As athletes or as S.S. men, we thrill

To find that we are scholars. Not to hail,

Or seem to hail the founder, we revile

DeBeers, and take up women socially.

A little of his style informs us still.

In manner, any of us-paid the fee-

Might be his secretary. So end he,

Idea, gold, and we; they a charade

Real forever at Anzac Beach, and we,

Each year, an academic Jameson Raid.

The Myth:

Too literal to wonder what myth is,

I have become one. Servants, misfits, you

Who serve your princes, I was raised a shepherd.

Now, an idol like a cast-iron stove,

I rule my city. Birds, I am informed,

Nest in my top hat. They are regte boere;

Let them. Lime or homage, what the harm?

Safe in the fold the undone flock, and mine

The golden fatherland, the strapping sons.