eenvoud

ek lê onder die oorhang van die grot

drup-drup water uit die klip en bons op

die blare van ‘n jong stinkhoutboom

en spat ‘n sproei-reën op my oop gesig

sneeu lê op die pieke en hange van die Malutis

sien ek teen die kille bloue winterlug

‘n helende son

niks kom naby die eenvoud hiervan

geen intellek

geen fancy woorde

geen stadsgeriewe

geen vaartbelynde voertuie

geen argitektoniese vernuf

sal ooit blinker skyn as hierdie

water klip boom lug en son

 - Lara Kirsten

Loops, Voice, Harmonica  

– for Dave Ferguson

Layered, hypnotic grooves;

your urgent song;

a blaze of notes

that climbs through the ceiling

and down to your shoes.

Performer

– for Lucy Kruger

On stage you move seamlessly
between the serene flame
of the outer person
and the wisdom and hunger
of the inner.

   *   

The purity and fire
of your voice –
there’s nowhere you
could go with it
that I wouldn’t follow.

 - Eduard Burle  

After having been caught in severe squalls

Now I know

how the cows

exposed on the grass

get lashed,

how their naked noses and eyelids

are stung

by wind shooting drops

like arrows.

17^th June 2015

My chariot

Three degrees air

bites my face,

stride I to work,

the red grass mountains

radiant with anticipation

for

the drive

of day.

                        
                        13^th July 2015

  - Silke Heiss

ek is verlief op Stilte

ek moet erken

ek is verlief op Stilte

hoeveel keer wou ek al

met Stilte weghardloop en 

in donker en vergeleë stegies

met hom vry tot

die son soos goue taai stukke marmelade

oor die horison oopbreek

 - Lara Kirsten

Spring Haiku

The apricot blossom  

reflects in the spring 

of the young girl's eye. 

          ***

Spring, 

and words sprout 

from earth­minds. 

          ***

The dandelion holds on,  

lets go ‒ soft and bright, 

the spring breeze. 

          ***

The spring day gone:
cold clouds squall off the south seas
remembering winter.

 - Brian Walter

Definitions of winter

i.

Not cold

but potent

wind

nudges,

nudges, rams

naked birches.

ii.

The blinding

not hot

sun

threads the branches –

makes them

vines of light.

                13^th June 2015

 - Silke Heiss 

V

die dolosse ontaard in vonk-proppe

wat mekaar begin jaag in

die hippodroom van my kop

hulle begin lyk na artisjokke op hitte

as daar maar ‘n hofmaarskalk was

wie ek kon roep wat in die bresse kon tree

maar, nee, ek is op my eie

VI

ek gaan skaar my by die vrouens in die harem

en vra hulle of hulle ook so verlei word deur die Woord?

nee sê hulle, maar hoekom probeer jy

nie ‘n ontwapeningsveldtog nie?

haai, ek het nooit daaraan gedink nie

die geheim van hierdie driftige aanteel van woorde

deel dieselfde lankmoedigheid aanwesig in stalaktiete

‘n stille, onopmerklike groei

hoe kan ek hulle nou ontwapen?

wat is die wapen wat ek so voel op my geteiken is?

ek gee moed op

ek gaan slaap met ‘n elle-lange hanglip

en hoop die aand gooi nie

nog dolosse in my half-wakker drome nie

al wat ek kan doen is om op my tande te byt

en te hoop niemand sien my dolsinnige gryns raak

een greintjie van ’n kyk in my rigting

sal jou in ‘n sout-pilaar verander

al hoe ek hiermee leef is om deur die dag so

hiperbeleef as moontlik te loop

iewers sal die gedigte se gedrag raffineer

met my invloed

en die harlaboerla van hulle ledemate en tonge

tot orde roep

en soos die moeder-owerste sal ek hulle

siele deur ‘n ring kan trek

so netjies en heilig sal hulle voor my staan

VII

teen hierdie tyd sal die gedig

die stadsvryheid verdien

en vry deur die strate wals

en enige kafee inloop en homself knuppeldik

aan die atjar eet

die burokrate sal met nuut-ontdekte ywer

die verse se skoene poets

en die posmeester sal teen geen tarief 
die digkuns aan elke lid van die wêreld pos

nodeloos om te sê

die poësie sal ‘n groot hawiksneus groei

en homself luid op die skouer klop

en trots elke kruiwa vul met leestekens en sillabes

en die bakstene en sement vervang met dit

wat meer sin maak

met die gedig se pralery

sal hy homself oortuig dat hy

skuiling en warmte kan bied vir die massas

 - uit dolosgooier van 'n gedig, Lara Kirsten

                        Pageant

    A first-Winter-done maple

    just today

    sports a coppery sheaf of buds

    and the plums

    are dream-clouds

    on a cerulean sky

    – it is only I

     cannot unfurl his heart

    to the pageant.

                        Lonely

     Dog howling midst wide, fenced acres:

      lonely for the ancestral pack
    - for the litter he was born to.

 - Norman Morrissey

6 short word-paintings of Nahoon Beach

1

The sea-struck rocks

attacked

fight back,

their faces full of spears;

2

stunted trees

along the boardwalk

braced together

despite the bite of salt;

3

three wistful collies stand

at water’s edge in row of order

watching children roar and bounce

on breakers with their belly-boards;

4

a full-bearded surfer heads

towards six others in the milky green,

bobbing – one gliding through applause of foam,

then tossed up like an embryo;

5

the hazy midday sun’s reflection

in wet sand

is haloed in old gold,

then claimed by the tide;

6

and the wind

at my neck

streaks like Usain Bolt

with only one goal: speed.

– Silke Heiss

                                    Dreams

   The lantern your friend made you

    – a whimsical clay acorn

     with its solar panel –

    stands out on the garden table

    soaking sun;

    and one fibril of spun synthetic thread

    from your scarf

    has caught in it:

    a fine hair glinting turquoise sheens

    as the breeze tugs and lulls;

    and lantern and man-spun filament

    conspire

    to whisper of the soul in us

    that must bring forth beauties

    no natural thing

    could

    dream

    of.

 - Norman Morrissey

Augustus

In sy nessie tussen winter en lente
lê hy stilskaam,
daal soos motreën in die somer 
saggies op jou neer

hy herinner jou
skaamteloos
oor die jaar wat op sy rug lê
en wag om geslag te word

terwyl jy nog gister se wonde lek.

 - Alvené Appollis-du Plessis

diep daar onder is ek jy

diep daar onder is ek jy
en jy ek
die goue lyn wat ons bind
is sterker as spierkrag
magtiger as kopkrag
dit is nie verbeelding dat
diep daar onder jy ek is
en ek jy
die lyne wat ons bloed teken
skryf in ‘n taal

wat poësie uit ons are laat straal

diep daar onder
hoef ons nie te praat
hoef ons nie te sien
diep daar onder is ons nie normaal
maar wel bo-normaal
ja, daar ver onder
is ons suiwer mens
suiwer siel

soms neem dit 'n diep sny
om diep te tref
en tot by die essensie te kom
die diepte maak my o so hartstogtelik huil
want die diepte is so 'n raar ding
ons skroom,
kry skaam
vir daardie diepte

daar is geen keuse
die diepte is daar
om in te staan
en te groei
dieper en dieper
hoe sterk ookal die winde teen my waai

ek sal my grond bly staan

diep daar onder is ek jy
en jy ek
die goue lyn wat ons bind
is sterker as spierkrag
magtiger as kopkrag
dit is nie verbeelding dat
diep daar onder jy ek is
en ek jy
die lyne wat ons bloed teken
skryf in ‘n taal

wat poësie uit ons are laat straal

 - Lara Kirsten

Cape winter

for Janine and Martin Barr

These short old haiku

in translation encompass

how adrift we are.

***

How the haiku’s words,

so few, and their late winter influence

break my heart!

***

Cape winter evening:

from the stoep the slow knock

of the dog scratching.

***

The house hustles:

I sit in the quiet winter

corner of my mind.

***

Back from the bonsai nursery:

pots, and bits of time and growth,

clutter the winter table-top.

***

The solstice passed: this morning

empty bonsai pots nudge each other

like shy bachelors.

***

The juniper plant waits for spring:

small, low ‒  in a black plastic pot,

still sporting her price tag.

***

Collecting our poetry books

from the arranged restaurant

‒ stanzas sizzling like those spring onions.

***

The printed poetry book

in hand, with pages new

and familiar.

***

Crisp and hopeful this

mid-winter morning:

whistle of the dove’s wings.

***

The winter solstice

but days gone by:

the dove flaps up with a twig.

***

Writing awhile

these Cape winter mornings:

nerve knitting.

***

Bustling in the house,

getting ready: Cape wedding

this midwinter afternoon!

***

All the boys here

‒ catch up talk: outside,

listening from this writing spot.

***

Wedding in the wine-lands:

already these cold dry vines,

pruned back, know the spring.

 - Brian Walter

Vroegdood

Die dood
vir vele vriend én vyand
vou my in twee

my graf nog nie gegrawe
maar my kis
geverf

in donker kleure
en stof –

in dié lewe
is die lewe maar dood

en die dood
‘n angel

wat nooit
sterf. 

 - Alvené Appollis-du Plessis

            Mother Africa

 Africa is a strange place:

when the long winter that blew from Pretoria thawed

there was a stand of  Schotia afra

 – the finest I know –

that flowered, every tree,

summer and winter:

clusters of red tangled among curled pods all that year

like some Golden Age

– fruit and flower always together

as I’ve never known them,

 as if the earth were rejoicing;

 but then, in English the tree’s the karoo boer-bean;

 and in that season when the heirs of men who took horse agin Kitchener

 saw the last dream of the Boer Republics

 melt like mist

 the trees wept blood,

 strewed beans kommandos once foraged in fugitive hunger

 like manna:

 Africa has a heart that knows us all

 – despite everything.    

 - Norman Morrissey

 rivier en son

soos rivierstrome moeiteloos

oor klip stroom

stroom die frases van musiek deur

die ravyne van tyd

kalwe dit my siel uit in

diep holtes waarin

die melodieë soos helder waterpoele blink

as die musiek nie speel nie

is dit soos droogte

en kan die dorre rivierbeddings nie meer wag

vir die feesvierende frases

om uit die wolke te breek

en die honger holtes van ons ore

te verkwik met salwende harmonieë

suiwer suiwer suiwer mag ons siele bly

in die versuiwerende klank van musiek

die klank kolk oor my

en soos ‘n bedrewe toornaar

trek hy my siel van binne na buite

en voel ek hoe die musiek soos die son

seëninge oor my lyf uitspreek

- Lara Kirsten

Our Home

                  

Each day,

our home settles down

to the nest it's making

out under the far-flung

star-hung

immensities

as the mountains breathe

on the deodars

and the house-lights

glimmer

like a glow-worm

in a meadow.

 - Norman Morrissey

ek draai in sirkels met oë wa-wyd oop

ek draai in sirkels met oë wa-wyd oop

totdat ek kind-naar word

ek wil oefen om al die objekte in die draai-kolk

met sekuurheid raak te kan eien

ek sien 'n wit-glans boud met poësie opgeskryf

 - iewers het neruda ook 'n sê gehad - 

die jong seun kyk af met 'n afstandelikheid na 

die groen artisjokke

onder my gryp die weefsels van die mat 

my stewig aan die sole

hy vermoed ek gaan heel waarskynlik binnekort omtiep

in duiseligheid

maar ek kan nie ophou draai en kyk

dit is grasdakke en houtpale wat elke keer teen

ander hoeke in my oog val

en dan is daar die sagte kopkussings

en die blink kasdeure

wat soos halva en kakao-poeier inmekaar smelt

my ooglede wil nou swaar toeval

maar ek hou aan

asof ek die marathon hardloop
en beide die grieke en romeine wil oortref in prestasie

 - Lara Kirsten

            Lord of Life

                        (For Harry Owen)

There was an old White rhino bull

who'd lived for years in a huge boma

where I'd go

to sit and write

– back to a fence-post;

and one day

I felt this vast breath on my neck

and a head like a wheelbarrow

ducked between the old elevator cables of the fence,

nudged my shoulder.

So I sat

– scared to break the spell –

while he rested his horn-crowned head

beside me,

fine, furrowed, crepe-like skin

laid

companionably

against my bare arm.

I held my breath,

but he felt – as they do at peace –

so like a great horse

I ventured a hand up

to touch his restful ears,

tickled them gently

so he canted towards me

and closed his eyes

in bliss.

It became a ritual,

whenever I was around in the Reserve

we'd visit,

he'd come when I'd settled to my notebook

and we'd share our warm blood

in simple liking to be together, I guess:

I read him more than one

fledging  poem

– and his quiet gravity saved me, I'm sure

many a vanity or vagueness of phrase,

he silently mentored me

for more than a year

with his antiquity of idiom

and gigantic,

seasoned gentleness.

I moved on, he must be dead now;

but his calm, alert being at my elbow

often has haunted me,

stood pondering at my shoulder as I've written

(like Chaucer or Shakespeare or Yeats

will do)

– shaming all silliness out of me.

I am most lucky:

I could take my chance

with one

of the lords

of life.   

 -  Norman Morrissey

Cefani

I come away knowing
the calls of Pied Kingfishers

and Great White Heron.

21^st May 2015

 - Silke Heiss

die ambisie van die gedig is so indringerig

dit laat my nie toe om oor te

gee aan ‘n sukkelary nie

so waaragtige astrante houding

het hierdie woordkuns!

ek probeer my skaar met

‘n hardvogtigheid

probeer ander kant toe kyk

maar nee! die kleine lettertjies

kom sit met alle mag

so grieselig in my kop

en kom lek hier by my vingers uit

 - Lara Kirsten

It Is Music

The poet may not

visit her son

at his house,

because

she is

the ex-wife.

Two hours’ drive away

she has to live. No job. No money.

She must make her own arrangements.

Old family friends

offer her their daughter’s bed.

Amélie’s sleeping out tonight

and of course Kai can come

for supper.

The poet makes pizza for all.

A host of little ones

look on

the kneading, knocking down and rolling,

their questions climbing,

reaching, their declarations

sharing, all their funny voices

building

space

she’s lost,

been denied without a choice.

‘You’re not a part of the family.’

To be cast out –

there’s nothing worse

for a maternal creature.

Kai’s voice threads into the fabric

his low pitch she knows

beneath the children, and the older son,

with whom he’s playing at the screen,

and the char’s toddler Ouinene

has so much with raised eyebrows to say

and says it, incomprehensibly, gesturing firmly.

The friend, mother Ilse, sighs –

‘All this noise. I don’t know where

my thoughts begin and end.’

‘That’s what I long for,’ says the poet,

‘in the silence I have been condemned to;

although I know you’ve sometimes too much din.’

‘We don’t appreciate our blessings,’

replies Ilse, laughing, thinking.

The women’s voices run

slowly between those of their sons

and the children

and

it

is

music.

16^th May 2015

 - Silke Heiss

die klank wat my siel maak

in hierdie winter klimaat 

droom ek van 

warm gedagtes wat 

my hele wese 

sal 

oorneem

ek swem in 

die klank wat 

my siel maak

swem vooruit totdat 

ek in 

die klank 

wat jy maak 

in swem

ons harte maak 

geluide wat ons 

van 

mekaar 

laat 

hou

 - Lara Kirsten