In the spirit of Valentine's day, Ecca Poet Silke Heiss collected a variety of love poems from the Ecca Poets. Herewith the selection.
Catch him
As the mists at
last clear,
a robin comes to
the troughed aloe leaves
to drink.
You can’t see him
from your seat
– splashing,
sipping, flipping away –
so I write this
poem
to catch him
for
you.
–
Norman Morrissey
(published in To the Far Horizon, Hogsback: 2015)
Namibia
Pitched camp. And
the mopani bush is quiet;
the evening still,
the clouds adrift –
the first clouds
we have seen these two weeks.
You have taken the
kids out to see the cheetah
at the research
centre: some breeding project
for an endangered
species. I sit amongst our things,
with day’s heat
setting in the west,
a Windhoek beer
a-downing for my thirst:
I’ve worked up
quite a heat, pitching the tent,
in this desert
land, spreading our sleeping gear,
laying out a meal,
for you and the boys.
Ah, my love, you
are encamped in the fenced
wilderness of my
heart. Our place is made.
Come home now, and
rest. Love is such a rare,
endangered beast,
we must deliberately protect,
so that coming
generations may know.
– Brian Walter
(published in Brood,
Ecca Poets, Hogsback: 2010)
For Clara, 19 months
Language is an envelope:
inside it you might find
a tiger, a dragonfly,
or a smooth river pebble.
By now
your own naming of the world
is gathering pace like a river . . .
Just when the sound of the words
“Mond” and “Sterne”*
became, for you, moon and stars,
I do not know,
but there is wonder
in your eyes and your face
as you look to the sky and say
“Mond”, “Sterne”.
You are the bright star
in my universe,
and a moon, too, often in flux.
Together with your mother
we form a triangle, a clan,
a constellation.
In the years to come,
whatever they will bring,
may your light keep reaching me
just as it does now.
– Ed Burle
(published in What It Is, Ecca Poets, Plettenberg Bay:
2020)
__________
“Mond” and
“Sterne” should be heard according to their German pronounciation, i.e. ‘mawnd’
and ‘shtahne’ (‘a’ as in ‘glad’)
Each day its reverence
Waking
into my consciousness,
gradually re-kindling my flame,
I want to press
my forehead
against your shoulder –
innoculate
by touch of pulse
your tissue, vapour, fragrance
against whatever dangers.
Ah, Love, let us protect each other
from those moments in our selves
that do not sing –
let tender touch of skin on skin
to each day
its reverence bring.
– Silke Heiss
(published in Greater
Matter, Poetree Publications, Johannesburg: 2019)
jou
borskas
vir Kim
jou
borskas is die perfekte houvas
soos 'n warm rotswand waarteen ek hoër en hoër uitklim
my
hart spring met 'n swier uit my ribbes
en kom lê polsend teen jou bors
jou sternum smelt weg
my hart skop nes teen joune
in
rooi, nat ekstase
–
Lara Kirsten
(published
in Alles is Anders, Ecca Poets,
Knysna: 2021)
Caving
There is music
in the way you say my name
sounds of Coldplay
ringing in the air
reminiscing your hands up my shirt
bent over literature,
philosophy
and cups of cold coffee
in our cave
Where our bodies share secrets
and our minds made love
to childhood foes
and grown up dreams,
not knowing
if tomorrow holds enough books
to keep our story alive.
– Alvené Appollis-du Plessis
Love
Fury
Today the world is coming
through the walls again –
through our computer
speakers, declaring
that doom is imminent,
insisting
that we are turning the
earth into a fire –
just like the one I used
to imagine, burning
on and on into eternity
when I was a Protestant
boy.
Today it came to me: what
if
that vision was accurate?
Maybe I’ll find myself
one of these days, in a
long line
headed for extreme
weather. I don’t know.
All I have to exchange
with you,
to set down here against
the likelihood
of apocalypse as night
falls,
is this clear image: the
two of us
standing side by side
this day six years ago,
when we promised to
surrender
to a different, slower
burning,
to offer ourselves up to
a different fire.
So I’ll be on board when
they say
we must cut down on
emissions.
When they ask us to leave
smaller footprints
of carbon on the earth,
I’ll sign up,
or at least sign the
petition.
But there’s a secret,
sustaining
fire I keep close to me,
guarding an inner space
science has not named;
and I guard it every day
so it doesn’t collapse,
so the world won’t keep
growing smaller inside my chest.
Now, as opinions harden,
as feeling
and thought are both
blunted from misuse,
may I always carry with
me
these traces of our fiery
pilgrimage.
May something in me
remember
how to be molten, to
remain
hot and excessive, in
tune
with things hidden under
the earth;
willing to change my
shape
to contain this old love
fury
that makes and unmakes us
every day.
–
Jacques Coetzee
Green tomatoes
for Sheila
“… apart from that
the house remains the same
since you have gone. I suspect
the clock has stopped in sympathy
with silence, cars at night
on the Alice road, pass,
a distance slower.
I couldn’t find the bread-knife,
bought some rolls instead
(the shop lady said they
would keep forever if I freeze them).
The man from East London came
about upholstering,
I said we’d have to wait and see …
He left his card “in case”.
O’ Yes, I almost forgot, surprise, surprise!
I pulled the curtains back
to watch the rain, hey presto,
there they were, blushing in rows,
the green tomatoes
you left to ripen.
P.S.
When are you coming home?”
– Cathal Lagan
(published in Sandbird, Alice,
Lovedale Press: 1999)
