Thursday, June 25, 2020

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

Monday, June 22, 2020

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

Thursday, June 18, 2020

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

Saturday, June 13, 2020

Do the work

I wake at night
to do the work
which day has not allowed.

– Silke Heiss, 26th August 2019

Tuesday, June 9, 2020


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

Friday, June 5, 2020

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, 25th October 2019

Monday, June 1, 2020

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