Wednesday, July 8, 2020

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

Wednesday, July 1, 2020

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