Wednesday, November 18, 2015

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

Saturday, October 10, 2015

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.

Benguela

This music burns
and shudders into darkness
its spirit
is deathless.

 - Eduard Burle  

Thursday, September 24, 2015

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.

17th 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.
                        
                        13th July 2015

  - Silke Heiss

Saturday, September 19, 2015

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

Friday, September 11, 2015

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

Sunday, September 6, 2015

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.

                13th June 2015

 - Silke Heiss 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

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

Saturday, August 29, 2015

                        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

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

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

Monday, August 24, 2015

                                    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

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

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

Monday, August 17, 2015

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

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

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

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

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

Monday, June 29, 2015

            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

Thursday, June 25, 2015

 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

Saturday, June 20, 2015

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

Saturday, June 13, 2015

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

Monday, June 8, 2015

            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

Friday, June 5, 2015

Cefani

I come away knowing
the calls of Pied Kingfishers
and Great White Heron.

21st May 2015

 - Silke Heiss

Thursday, June 4, 2015

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

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

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.

16th May 2015

 - Silke Heiss

Sunday, May 31, 2015

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