Helenvale evening

In the twilight the last children

play the pavements,

pigeons circle the waning grey

where a few kites tug

their twine,

the boys catching the last breeze:

and close to the houses

flits

night’s first bat.

 - Brian Walter

Carry on

Numb from news
– hate-speech, violence, lies,
noble essays, reasoned tries
defending values, hoping
to avert bad trouble, blues –

pained by poems
I’ve proofed
– by children and their guides
in townships under siege
by gangsters (“Satan’s servants”) –

I walk The Bluff
knowing, seeing,
but not feeling
the cliffs caressed by mist,
grey old bracken bending,
looking at their young
in bright green hoodies
coming up.

Stop.
Will I ever be
at one
with what I see
again? Grieved I stand
for loss
of me.

The mists heave lightly,
sucked by sun’s eternal thirst,
revealing slopes of trees
that never have been cursed,
the Proteas and Watsonias
hold up and shake
with flirting birds
(whose avian tongues dispel the worst)

and this
they do:
cancel me
to pull me through.

And I continued
walking.
I saw a Longcrested Eagle …
the wind flipped
through his crest
as if it were the Yellow Pages,
and there in silhouette:
he was all focused, black
and grand
and free
to look about him
there
on The Bluff;

and a little mongoose
did its delicate staccato stipple,
frittered over the path
and was gone;

and I knew
I must go on
cancelling my self
– cancel news and lands of pain –
if I want
to carry on.

                        20th November 2016

 - Silke Heiss

between the cavities of my ribs

that is where i want to be

there where continents of sound

flow from my throat and fingers

and i give birth to a whole new earth

there where the mighty poetry

determines the rhythm of the day

i feel the interminable knocking in my throat

the never-ending pricking of my ears

i stand to attention

ready for the mighty verse

to land on my palms with full-blooded wings

i dig in the seashells in search

for the truth of the word

i scratch under the toenails of the ostrich

hungry for the metaphor that will surpass all other metaphors

the words lie like ghostly footprints

on the shadows of the night

refusing to be seen or captured

and yet, like small black poppy seeds

the relentless willpower of

the poetry

lies

between

the

cavities

of

my

ribs

when the word comes

i know how rapturously the syllables

will melt like ripe slices of avocado on my tongue

let me lie deep within the grip of the word

make me swoon, make me unconscious,

make me fly, make me laugh,

make me shiver

and
make me free

 - Lara Kirsten

Hanging the exhibition: 1989

Artists work in the gallery,

moving things,

calling orders, pitted against

the tempest of time:

outside, a little flock

of white-eyes,

a twittering group of swees

brush the bush,

dab colour on the trees,

like autumn hands at work

with palette, brush and turpentine.

 - Brian Walter

Freedom is

The wind on your skin,
your mother’s voice,
embracing a friend,
and that tree
against the skyline
dancing
with its branches.

                       2nd November 2016

The melody of rain

The melody of rain in gutter,
the quiet glow of light,
the sated tummy after supper
when everything is right.

                        21st November 2016

 - Silke Heiss

in die skemering van die verlies

in die skemering van 
die verlies
is my keel nog troebel
van die wil-wil trane
die dae sonder jou hang soos
sugte aan die deurkosyne

dit is asof my selle nou weet
dat ek nie aan jou kan klou nie
iets in my het laat gaan 
die hunkering na 
jou fisiese aanwesigheid 
het 
so ietwat
bedaar

in die skemering van 
die verlies
is my hart stil
vlietende beelde van jou 
beweeg in my geestesoog
soos wolke in die wind

oralste lê leegtes van 
jou nie-hier-wees
ek kyk met 'n hartseer gelukkigheid na
die reën wat op die pompombome val
die aarde juig oor die breek van die droogte
maar my hart klem met die wete
dat jy nie meer die nat-aarde-reuk 
deur jou trillende neusgate insuig nie

in die skemering van 
die verlies
staan ek mymerend in 
die diep rivier wat 
die onafwendbare verhale 
van die lewe en dood om 
my ledemate fluister

 - Lara Kirsten

Fruit

My mind is Port St Johns,

with feathered clouds on a morning sky,

sub-tropical tall tree ideas

standing still,

and above all ravens turn

dark feathered, hard birds: no shit.

Their full-throated high rasps

turn the morning

and my mind is in their distant eyes

a-watching.

Now they are down

hopping, or stiff-legged stalking

on the green, like thoughts in fruit,

never as imagined ‒

bits of bread in pincer bills,

and all the other things they eat.

 - Brian Walter