Later

We drop you at home,

young girl –

at your mother’s makeshift fence,

the small room being built upon,

the brave attempt

at life’s dignity:

next door the guys are drinking

their first-thing-in-the-morning-beer;

I could be amongst them,

me and all the friends from Cannery Row,

but my now eyes

see a hand upon stained walls,

their house-steps dirty grey,

the toddler lost in her eyes.

What’ll be going on here

by half-past twelve,

or when darkness falls?

 - Brian Walter

bedagsame pigmente

al wie bly mediteer in hierdie tye
is die bedagsame pigmente
wat nie meer die hart het om
oor die velle te wil spat nie

abbakus

en speel abbakus-abbakus met die blare

ek moet weer in aanraking kom met

die in-tel-lig-ensie van die natuur 

kariljon

die meganiese trots van die kariljon
kners op sy tande
elke beier van sy klokke loop katvoet
deur die vergetelheid
wat knobbelrig bly progresseer met groot drif

- Lara Kirsten

Company

Warm Ngqushu

and then the container of maize bread,

pot-baked, were laid out on the staff-room table.

“The thing,” she said, “about our rural places

is home grown food: the flour for this bread

was ground on a flat stone.”

She told of its soft declivity,

from years of human work, milling maize . . . .

“And how I’ve always longed,”  I said,

“for just such a stone, flat and dipped concave

from grinding corn to eat,

for I would love one in my garden,

to cup the rainwater I offer to the birds .  . .”

“But,” she said, “You don’t get it, it seems.

These are not for gardens, nor for birds:

these stones, these old stones,

are for our work. They are our machines.”

 - Brian Walter

When night falls

We find ourselves in darkness

between blurry blots of orange light

skimming through bathroom windows

from the street

and the persistent hum of the fridge

that dwindles at day

while television sounds and laughter compete

with dinnering,

dishes

and life

when the wind tugs on roof sheets

and howls around the corners

of the mind,

livestreaming faults,

failure,

foes

of which the I is largest.

We find ourselves between sheets drenched in

lonely

wrapped naked in our thoughts,

skin on skin with the wounds left by day

for night-time to mend:

our souls oozing

the burden of being human.

- Alvené Appollis- Du Plessis

verbly

die spektrale kariljon bly in my ore lui 
lui alle klaagliedere uit die pen uit!
laat ek die filigraan idée fixe vasvang 
en dit opklits tot een pronkende pou
dit sal die poppemeesters verbly  

grootbekke

dit is hartverskeurend hoe grootbekke 
hoogty vier in hierdie wêreld
ek skaar my maar by die sonskyn
om my sin van standvastigheid te gee
ek nooi die malvablomme en 
die tarentale om saam met my 
in die voortuin piekniek te hou

soos 'n taksonoom

soos ‘n taksonoom
vat ek die dooie gedig
en stop dit op
plak met bewende vingers
sy smotsige vere in deurmekaar metafore vas
en hoop die wêreld sien
nie sy onpolsende hart raak nie

Present

The crumpled paper smells

of long-ago youth, wrapping paper

– blue Christmas,

and polka dot presents

my parents tried

to piece together.

The poor sixties lives

and the old laughter

that looks back at us now,

who hold crumpled paper

and memories

in time’s blue wrapping.

 - Brian Walter

Só lyk genade

As die son eers by my venster inloer

en die duiwe langsaan koer,

weet ek:

die Jirre het my wraggies wéér gespaar.

Dis my kroeskop kam

en die ketel kook

en die nagmerries van gist’raand

met Colgate wegjaag:

smile a little, they say.

Dis ʼn matter van kindmaak,

grootmaak,

geldmaak,

repeat

en al die katjies en hondjies

en kindertjies oppas

tussen parlement-speel,

doodspeel

en safe kap

in ʼn land van surviving the law,

the lies

and the poets.

As die maan eers oor die vloer dans

en die rondloper ginger kom groet,

dan weet ek:

die Jirre was my wéér genadig

en my kroeskop kan maar kussingskop

en rus.

- Alvené Appollis-du Plessis

Between horizons

Dust, heat, silence . . .
A truck stops dead
between horizons –
farm workers waiting
to hitch a ride.

For Townes, feline companion (II)

Little friend, long gone,

driving on the N9 to Aberdeen

I feel through the windscreen

as you once did while you lived –

the steadying warmth of the sun.

- Eduard Burle

Eating a naartjie

Not the old apple – the pristine fruit

of paradise was so clearly the citrus

that Botticelli's Primavera shows.

In nature’s allegory, there, you’ll see

evergreen citrus leaves that signify

triumph over time. Defying seasons,

the trees have chaste white flowers

alongside a crop gilt with orange.

Now I break the soft citrus skin

and naartjie segments fall to hand

with ease, as in the Golden Age,

till you beguile my thoughts:

“Can you give me just one housie?”

Your old South End language,

the child-talk of the streets,

wafts me back to the old homes

and the folk: the flotsam of people

drifted in from both sea and land,

naturally blending cultures,

their gods laughing like neighbours

– till leprous apartheid whiteness

tore it all down, house by house.

I look at the naartjie segment,

your sweet housie, hand it to you –

just a moment’s paradise,

a brief taste of timelessness,

a housie of peace

in this hard world of men.

 - Brian Walter

Two ships

Two ships, on their way, disappearing,

a section of white paintwork

on each of them caught,

for a moment, by a glint of morning sun.

Two ships, two incomplete

floating puzzles

half-visible in the grey haze of clouds

above the sea’s horizon.

Passing clouds

We share the fate of clouds

and yet we keep on finding ways

to mark and claim the hours.

*

We share the fate of clouds

and so we keep on finding ways

to mark and claim the hours.

 - Eduard Burle

tussen pers vygies

ek sit op 'n skilferende creosote bankie in Nature's Valley

die goue gedenkplaatjie op die rugkant lees:

Die Muller familie - 4 geslagte

soos my tone oopsprei tussen die pers vygies

sing ek 'n sagte lied

ter herinnering aan die Mullers

my oog korrel na 'n by wat holomhoog 

in 'n bos stuifmeeldrade skrop en suig 

en krap en beur en stoot 

ek gaan af op my knieë

- ek self holomhoog - 

om die aksie van naderby te bekyk

hoe langer ek kyk 

hoe meer blomme en bye merk ek op

bye wat verwoed mekaar uit blomkele stoot

groot korrels geel stuifmeel 

klou taai

aan spartelende beentjies

instinktiewe verpligting

vreugde

oorlewingswaansin?

wat dryf die bye tot hierdie 

onophoudelike soeke, versameling, korwe bou 

en die magiese heuningalchemie?

 - Lara Kirsten

THE WITNESSES

Throughout the wedding service,

from her seat in the third pew,

the groom’s grandmother held

the right hand of her husband, in part to prevent it

from exploring her thigh.

From behind the microphone, an uninspired

voice tried to breathe life

into stern advice for the newly-weds,

written by a fiery

first-century celibate.

Walking out afterwards

into the heat, the blinding glare of summer,

the grandmother’s eyes found the eyes

of a much-married man, drawn into himself

at the love-feast, unsure

if he himself could commit such a rash act

yet again. She winked at him, said:

“I do find things like these get easier

as you get older.”—meaning

marriage, meaning

the perilous leap into the arms

of another, requiring

some skill and much luck, but mostly

a love of broken things,

of imperfection. Then her own husband’s face

slowly softened and relaxed, and he began to feel

the earth beneath him again, crushed grass

under his feet in spite of his shoes;

and a slight breeze came out of nowhere

to ruffle his clothes; to lift his dampened spirits

again and again, as they all walked on emboldened

into the beautiful, wicked world.

 - Jacques Coetzee

DIOGENES

Today he appeared

to me again:

the old man who lives in a barrel;

is content to share it with a dog;

eats, drinks and relieves himself

in public places, like the dog;

calls it his master in all things.

Once, according to ancient legend,

when he was already old and disreputable,

world-conquering Alexander sought him out

and offered him anything, anything

his copious mind could imagine, anything

his body could desire.

Diogenes, it is said,

did not hesitate an instant.

“Stand a bit further off,” he said. “Right now

you are standing in my sun.”

This morning, sitting in our winter garden—

yearning for yesterday’s wine,

kisses and long, hot showers—I suddenly remembered

that stubborn old man. Once, it is said,

he smashed a bowl—his only possession—

after seeing a peasant boy

drink from the public fountain.

You—always intent

on what works best, and concerned

with sharing the world—said:

 “Why didn’t he give the bowl

to the boy if he no longer wanted it?”

But Riaz, from the other side

of an ascetic turn

only dimly dreamed of

in my philosophy,

just smiled and said: “Of course.

He wouldn’t want to corrupt

the boy; to encourage anyone

to want anything that wasn’t

essential.”

So now, even in this

quiet, water-wise garden,

I can feel the lashing

of the old man’s tongue.

Brave and reproachful, he stands at my shoulder

each time I click to buy

something I don’t need;

each time I reach out, one more time,

to assure myself that you’re still here—

beyond reason, beyond

anything I could have hoped

to earn or deserve;

just here, beyond argument or philosophy—

just because.

 - Jacques Coetzee

die visioenêre waatlemoen breek in stukke

die visioenêre waatlemoen breek in stukke

op die geteisterde teer

die agterdogtige akkedisse skarrel opeens

in wye sirkels om die sanikende stroopspatsels

die eenoog eekhoring trippel in pastorale parentese nader aan die soete mise-en-scène

die merkwaardige mites probeer hard om nie

onder die klas van buitensporige bewerings

gekatalogiseer te word nie

dit is so 'n onbeduidende onreg wanneer

die argetipiese aksies deur die peremptoriese patriarge en burokratiese boelies so waansinnig weggevee word

die parate pruimedante en pluimende proteas

omsingel die fanatiese foonaanbidders en

hulle kettingvormende kak

en smyt hulle die suigende seestrome in

dit is te verwagte dat die duistere dwingelandy 

waaronder ons onsself en ander sit

die yslike eina veroorsaak waaraan die weemoedige wêreld ly 

 - Lara Kirsten

DESERT SONGS

I

Desert fathers, you who live in caves

and grottos, who ran away

in search of silence, hear me.

Slowly I become acquainted with you,

even though an urgent voice calls me

back, always, into the crooked world.

I too know the bliss

when the hard wind dies down;

when the heart has found what it asked for,

and still finds it good, if only for a moment

between one season and the next.

Give me today

just a little of your silence,

although I bend the knee to the things of this world.

Give me the strength

to remain waiting in the same place,

to remain standing underneath the sun

till the song sounds clear again

between the bones of my skull.

II

Desert mothers, you who stand

with empty arms, who dance

with the invisible bridegroom,

by what roads does the heart

travel to this place? What appetites

slowly spent themselves

and were calmed, until you came here?

Can you see me, will you recognise me

where I stand, in the hard light

of my desire?

Is there room for my hunger

there, where you read together?

And when the sombre song finds you each morning,

does it have knowledge of me

and the shadow I cast

across the path,

in this noisy old world?

 - Jacques Coetzee

Do the work

I wake at night

to do the work

which day has not allowed.

– Silke Heiss, 26^th August 2019

Naartjie

No, I can’t write a poem to praise you.

I’ve made wines from many kinds of fruit,

from marrows and new oak leaves, for goodness’ sake;

and they carried the spirit and soul

that was theirs alone;

and for all the promise

of the coat you’re delivered in,

-so lush and royal, so gift-wrapped

(that you slip out of too easily,

like a soft, pale girl)

-you don’t deliver, do you?

Not really.

You’re tinctured spring-water

with citrus notes:

delicate, floral,

but no real body:

no tannins, no lasting food

for soul, or palate, or our own red hearts.

You can’t compete against

the blood orange,

                     ruby grapefruit,

 holy apple,

                     noble grape.

You looked sweeter with your clothes on.

Maybe your sweetest self

would appear in a liqueur?  

 -  John van Wyngaard

Yellow dog gift

He leads the pack that chased

my duiker –

he knows I dislike him:

runs when I come.

Just outside the fence,

I see he wants to enter

with a gigantic thing in his mouth,

but, seeing me, he puts it down.

He puts it down deliberately,

puts it down as something intended

for me. And runs.

I heed the sign and go

to look

at

the badly decomposed head

of a goat – eye sockets

maggoted, a dry piece of lip

curling a slim tusk

at the front of the jaw.

Pawing through the meanings,

I sense dimly

that my past of sacrifice

is done, and that battles lost

are won.

– Silke Heiss, 25^th October 2019

SINGULARITY

She wanted to slip out of her complex mind;

she wanted to slip

out of the museum of many names,

where each thing is inventoried, ordered, shelved;

she wanted to find a place

where the shell of language was soft enough

for her to edge her way

into the silent heat before thought ever was.

And each morning she would wake

with the half-formed memory of escape

still on her lips, the dishevelment

of her night’s journey.

And the same old familiar world was all around her,

and oh, it was lovely, it was terribly beautiful;

she would stretch her arms towards the sky outside,

try to keep her mind empty and innocent.

But always, before she could stop them, the layers were there:

the thick, multiple scatter of many words,

the sheltering clothes against her naked skin.

 - Jacques Coetzee

Laughing

White daisies completely cover

the dunes,

fronting a blue-green sea –

as if they were laughing:

at the time we were told

we couldn’t bathe here, because

whites

weren’t allowed

on that beach.

– Silke Heiss, 28^th August 2019