Still life

There is nothing significant
about the apple which rests, forgotten
on a stone plate on the table.

There is nothing significant
about the table either:
it is round and made of plastic.

The bruises on the apple
do not alter the appleness of apples;
the smudged whiteness of the table
does not alter the tableness of tables.

The apple, red-flecked and ripe,
is ripe for a time only.

The table is bare,
save for the apple, and the stone plate,
at its centre.

 - Eduard Burle

The way back to myself

starlight touches my skin
escape from the past becomes possible
visions move in dreamscapes
ocean waves make music
return a younger me

 - Silke Heiss, 27th June 2026

our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity

my eyes fimble through the dustilicious pages of historical hysteria
i break out in one great sneezery and just hravoc between the syllaletters
what! you say i am in a farcy mood?
no way! i am simply having these lightbulbous moments
where i can really grisp the true meaning of generous profunding
it is a pity that our cellphonish gadgeteering
make us so ice-so-lated and
our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity
ah, come on, what has happened to your blisschievousness?
our tongues need to return to its original tasticality
rather than pwonder the queerific state of things
i snaddle up onto the bed
and do some proper blanketeering
i get so snozy that you might want to climb in with me
meaning you'll have to lift the sheets and open a fartinquiry
to which i will laugheringly smol in your face!

 - Lara Kirsten

Retrieved

Retrieved from the blur, the crowded spaces of days:

Time of my footsteps sounding
against a gravel path;

Time of the waves keeping time
alongside my thoughts;

Time of light and stone and the earth’s
slow shadows;

Time lived in the lines, the visions,
the word-trails of others;

Time lived in songs and stillness.

***

I dream into the recurrence
of these moments retrieved, and let them go:

tealight candles in paper boats,
floating on mind’s
unquiet river.

 - Eduard Burle

Still a ladder

for Bryanie

She points out to me
the beauty of the stacked porcelain plates –
like lines in a tower of clean, folded linen

           seen against the light
           through the gold
           of her glass of cider.

                       I want to honour the moment,
                       but it does not yield,

                       does not become a poem.

                                    There’s not enough wild in it,
                                    an overplus of civility
                                    on both sides.

                                               Still, there’s a ladder
                                               crystallised
                                               in liquid:

                                                           an image of pure intelligence
                                                           climbing
                                                           towards beauty.

 - Silke Heiss, 14th April 2026

stridulate

i learnt a new word today:
stridulate -

(of an insect, especially a male cricket or grasshopper) make a shrill sound by rubbing the legs, wings, or other parts of the body together.

and i fly with its sizzling syllables
right into
the dusky corner of this poem
              wooosssshhhhhhhhh

with resonant surety
the verses begin to rub against each other
and a soft vibration begins to spark the silence

              stshshstshshstshshhhhhhh

the shrill frequencies move into an ever higher pitch
and soon a dervish of hissing and crackling
breaks through the seams of the stanzas
              krrrrrrsccccckkkkkkchchchchchctjtjirrrrrrrrrrrr!!

what could the intentions be
of these piercing oscillations set loose in this poem?
attracting mates or scaring off competition?
              krrrrrrsccccckkkkkkchchchchchchchchtjtjtjtjrrrirrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!

the metaphor becomes agitated by this quivering word
the air is bothered and all ears try hard
to guard themselves against this wild metallic rasping
              tjtjtjtjtjrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!

all high-pitched energy depletes itself sooner or later
the tones are losing their earsplitting edge
a hoarseness sets in
              grhrhrhgrgrgrgrrrrrrrrrr

the strident angst can no longer hold
the stridulating pace relents
the sun sets and a stillness soothes the air
              sssshhhhhh....

 - Lara Kirsten

The procrastinator

He decides to wait,
waits to decide,

then hesitates, deliberates,
before he

again postpones, turns it
over, speculates,

somehow avoids
altogether

what awaits
his energy, his attention,

until someday, with this
cycle he perpetuates,

it is transparently
and irreversibly

too late.

- Eduard Burle

Xenophilia
with thanks to Mike Cope

Elixir, enrichment, enchantment,
ointment for boredom,
balm for the lost and
tonic for trapped souls.

Saviour of grace,
you make the wealthy generous
and expand the minds of the poor,
vitamin against inertia,
replenisher of energies,
zany lover who sees the plenty there is.

Gift of life to itself every day,
you are the secret of eternal youth,
curiosity’s bliss,
beneficiary of earth’s bounty –
Xenophilia, zealously I seek you!

 - Silke Heiss, 1st July 2026
For a live reading of this poem, click here

Arranging the deck chairs

Aboard the sinking ship,
the piano is playing
a funeral march,

an army of violins, all
out of tune,
is taking prisoners on deck.

Only the cello
murmurs its dissent,
while the drums

thunder and crash
down the stairs,
to where the ship’s engineer

lies motionless
under the swaying
chandeliers,

pinned to the floorboards,
by such strange music.

The chief navigator,
having found his bearings
in the linen room,

is swigging champagne
with a chambermaid.

The composer, in fitful sleep,
is still composing his concerto
for ninety-nine penguins.

The loudspeakers
on the beach, repeat
that the sun is shining.

The audience, as ever,
goes on rearranging
the deck chairs,

while complimentary tickets
are being distributed by the wind
to the choir of lost fish –

who’ll be the only ones
to attend the next performance
beneath the waves.

 - Eduard Burle

Leaves of wind

i.

Woman plants herself
face-up to the windblown gums
rush of blood

ii.

Leaves hiss sadness
missing me I must
come again, often

iii.

Lonely trees lonely people
remiss we’ve been remiss
remember us remember yes

7th March 2026

- Silke Heiss

By the hour

In the clock-repair workshop
the ticking and chiming
of innumerable antique clocks, the inter-
locking wheels and levers within each
working busily, moving the hands
across the round faces of time.
(Faces that have kept company
with books, dust and history;
that have witnessed tears, laughter,
the deaths of family pets.)

In the clock-repair workshop
a clock-repair man
gives such inventions
new hearts, new hands.
Each day as he works, he hears
in the chiming and ticking
of the clocks the sound of his own
mortality, of his own living heart
beating soundlessly, rhythmically in time.

He hears them layering, filling
the room, announcing each hour
in parallel (some slightly ahead or behind).
He hears them counting out, dividing
mathematically, sustaining the illusion
of this universe within a room
where time can be wound, is divisible,
is his to orchestrate, is his to mend.

 - Eduard Burle

Pearl song

Pearl song in rain shower
illumined by a street light.

Who is the bird,
umbrellaless, with the
undaunted voice?

6 May 2026

Night truth


Moonlight in a woman’s arms
No other sound
A single star
Silver body that you are.

29 June 2026

Signs of the world

Marks of the hand
            runes, lines, letters, symbols
                                  wrinkles in bark.

                                  Wisps of vapour
                                  in Forget-me-not sky
            ink on the page
already dry.

30 June 2026

 - Silke Heiss