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