![](\"http:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/sinclair-beiles-e1532955803256.jpg\" "\\"The")
<\/a>Sinclair Beiles (1930-2000)<\/p><\/div>Gerard Bellaart<\/a> writes that after the South African poet Sinclair Beiles<\/a> died, in 2000, “a wealthy collector who owns the largest holding of Sinclair’s manuscripts visited me” — this was in 2008 — “and assured me that he would sort out a proper gravesite. Seeing the grave now in the condition it is in makes my blood boil. I am grateful Gary is there.” Gary Cummiskey<\/a>, who with Bellaart has done more than anyone to memorialize Beiles, writes: “Sinclair\u2019s grave continues to be unmarked. There is no headstone. The one you see in the photo [below] belongs to another grave. When I was there last time I was told there was an in-cemetery service for about 500 rand a year, and they would ensure that the grave is kept neat and free of weeds. I will enquire if the service is still available. Then I will pay for the service and make sure that they are keeping their end of the bargain.”<\/p>\n The gravesite of Sinclair Beiles (1930-2000) The tyranny of rhyme– Cops and finks who comb This unmarked plot of earth –JH<\/strong><\/em><\/font><\/p>\n Indebted to Vladimir Nabokov, <\/p>\n <\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/font><\/p>\n![](\"http:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/sinclair-belies-gravesite-3.jpg\" "\\"The")
<\/a>
in Johannesburg, South Africa.
[Photo: Gary Cummiskey, 2018]<\/font>
<\/p><\/div> INFERNAL<\/em><\/strong><\/font>
\n For Sinclair Beiles<\/em><\/font><\/p>\n
\n the shivering branch,
\n the perishing flower–
\n makes everything a crime.<\/p>\n
\n their hair with signatures
\n let us know–don\u2019t laugh–
\n that integrity and sincerity
\n are not the same. <\/p>\n
\n is primeval and infernal–but
\n we who are as temporary
\n as plants that fail to flourish
\n shall therefore give it birth. <\/p>\n
\n Frank Scully, Andr\u00e9 Previn,
\n and E.M. Foster.<\/em><\/font><\/p>\n
called poetry
there is a way of taking a knife
and carving from the infinite nothingness of the sky
a solitary cell
in which one spends a lifetime pacing about
occasionally shouting messages
through the barred cell window
at different passers by.
there is a way of trying to create a universe
with all its constellations
from the view of people scurrying by
in the rain with their umbrellas up,
a way of ruling a nation of shadows.
there is a way of imagining
one possesses all the secrets of the soul
and this gift will provide one with freedom,
a way of imagining all the sights
not yet photographed by the travel agencies
there is a way of believing
one has special dreams … <\/div>\n