Roy Joseph Cotton – September 11, '53 – March 10, '85

Roy commenced writing poetry during his latter school years. He read prolifically and was passionate about music and was a devote to Bob Dylan. He wrote many plays or "Musical Paintings" as he called them, and was also busy with two works "Multimythicum" and "Girlpools, Whirpools, and other gusts of Twirling Hair". He wrote from the security of a warm, close family in a comfortable Cape Town (South Africa) suburb. Yet most of his huge output of poems reflect a consuming angst. It was an angst which drove him to search for peace throughout books, music, writing, and religion, and it led to ultimate despair. His highly idiosyncratic way with language and the intense pressure of his emotional and spiritual concerns make his poetry compelling and disturbing reading. His untimely death at age of 31 cut short his promising career as a poet.

THE IMAGES OF OURSELVES

THE IMAGES OF OURSELVES:

i
The images of ourselves
come from glasses, far
wide and scarce. Where
the winebucket tumbles
the hare scarce remembers
the reed to call. Pious
is our jungle. Weak its
call. Sometimes a lunar
tick tickles me pink.
Least of all when my soul’s
on the brink. But trouble
brings good measure to the
smallest fly. Why not pack
up your own set. Go back
to Truth and die?

ii
The sky is a mirror;
no less the sea; our
souls harmonise our
moistings; our table
fee.

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