Breathe me to the end of love

~ A parody inspired by Leonard Cohen’s Dance me to the end of love
            

             for Kim

Breathe me to your love with a flaming aloe
Breathe me through the longing ’till I’m folded in your arms
Lift me like a laurel leaf and be my summer swallow
Breathe me to the end of love
Breathe me to the end of love

Oh, let me see your heart when the lights go out
Let me feel you breathing like they do in the dance-halls
Breathe me slowly what I know that makes me gasp
Breathe me to the end of love
Breathe me to the end of love

Breathe me to the mountains, breathe me on and on
Breathe me very velvety and breathe me very long
We’re both of us behind our joy, we’re both of us in front
Breathe me to the end of love
Breathe me to the end of love

Breathe me to the forests who are begging to be grown
Breathe me through the lips that our kisses have outworn
Cup your hands now, though the water runs out
Breathe me to the end of love

Breathe me to your love with a flaming aloe
Breathe me through the longing ’till I’m folded in your arms
Touch me with your naked breast or touch me with your heart
Breathe me to the end of love
Breathe me to the end of love

 - Lara Kirsten

Blue rocks enchantment

I come to you, to hold me,
in your wordless dips and cracks,
your plates and protrusions,
by the incessant music of the living water,
whose salt nibbles you …

All your oh’s show:
your ridges are so holed
as to make me know the sea’s cast
her net of enchantment –
you’re hers, totally.

All you rocks! Cousins, elders and youngsters,
one big family,
on holiday forever
at the beach.

– Silke Heiss, 12th January 2023

2023

Al die poets skryf oor dié jaar
asof hulle regtig weet sy bring heil.
Die rykmanne gee raad oor dinge wat werk (of nie),
maak reg vir nog ‘n ronde dobbelwerk
om hul sakke te laat bult.
Die sangers polish kitare,
die sportmanne (en vroue) stof ‘n slag hul bekers af

Maar die Essies en Linas en Karels
sit onder koeltebome op sypaadjies en wonder
hoeveel keer hulle vanjaar sal eet
en of die Here tóg ‘n tikkie genade
oorhet.

This holiday

I ate Coco Pops from the box
With my 7-year-old son beside me,
reaching in for a handful too.
I jumped in swimming pools with strangers,
played endless rounds of cards,
read books by unknown authors
and ate a lot of food.
I danced in the rain with my daughter,
took drives down unfamiliar roads,
played tennis in the passage,
broke many plates and glasses,
and laughed and laughed with my children
till the inside of our bellies hurt.

I cried, too,
writing fiery poetry to my toxic self
filled with pinky promises of how, this year,
I will tread lightly,
gently
softly,
knowing all too well
that eating sweets for breakfast
is a lot easier to do.

 - Alvené Appollis-du Plessis

Ode to the Mango

Oh Mango!

i just ate the best specimen of you today
i can die a thrilled and exhilarated human being!
Oh Mango - delightful sister in the Anacardiceae family -
you are soil sun forest and nectar gloriously fused
there is no other fruit like you
you bring out proud and unashamed selfishness in me
i want to eat you all alone
you are made to be eaten in your exotic entirety
juicy and messy
even when i slice off your skin
i dig my teeth inside each peel
to run the very last sweetness of
your exquisiteness over my tongue
i can only be so patient and civilised
soon i throw the knife clatteringly into the basin
i grab hold of you with my two adoring hands
Oh Mango!
i sink my teeth deep
thrusting close closer and closest to your heart
i suck and pull at your clinging fibres
there is a leafiness
an earthiness
a primordial forestiness
that nestles in your flesh
i try to capsule your inimitable aroma with my tongue
i want to shackle you to my throat
you are sweet sun incarnate
oh drip down my throat forever and ever
let my uvula turn into the branch of a tree from
where you can hang your volcanic flavour and
lava over the voraciousness of my ravishing
Oh Mango!
you have gravitas
you have presence
you have boldness
you have splendiferous explosiveness
when i peel you it is like pulling the trigger from a grenade
but the explosion is not bloody and damaging
it is healing binding connecting
my every tissue into a wholeness of harmony
i do not dismay when your fibres cling between my teeth
i do not grab for the floss
i let the last signs of mango
turn my teeth into flying buttresses and
my tongue into singing spires
Oh Mango!
you make my mouth rise
like a grand cathedral from
your radiant revelations

 - Lara Kirsten

Photographer: John Donaldson

Haiku

Imagination:
that black crake softly treading
yielding lily pads.


Mud, and the day-grey
electric lamp – swallow’s nest
cupped, autumn empty.


And the buzzard turns
the sky, silent, far-seeing:
forest green, grey mist.


Mountain mists turn
to rain: then flying ants rise
in breaking sunlight.


That shrike, those weavers
– from dry tree top perches – hawk
the fluttering ants.


That tapping, dripping
– soft last rain on taut canvas –
the blessing of warmth


On the deck, quiet:
you read, I write and she knits:
thoughts like the raindrops.


Whole mountains have gone,
lost in the low mists and rain:
the world draws closer.


There is now no sun:
but waterlily flowers,
mauve in the rain-light.


Green cattle pasture
rain-moist: sacred ibises,
black and white, bow low.


Though all is silent,
raindrops, and a far birdcall,
still patter my heart.


I say after Donne,
patter my heart – let the rains come
and bring her blessings.


Now the mist drops low
and the rainclouds rise – darkly
the mountain shoulder.

 

 
– Brian Walter

Photographer: John Donaldson

klipwee

          meanings that will not part from the rock - Ted Hughes

hoeveel weke nou in die stad
en my oë soek elke greintjie van klip
en onbewoonde klip-koppie uit
daar is so 'n sterk hunkering na
'n diepe indompeling in
die klip-natuur

dit is 'n skaarse ding hier
want sement en staal floreer
en tentakel onderhands
elke klip-porie

as daar so iets bestaan soos heimwee
dan moet daar seker ook klipwee wees -
'n wilde waansin om in aanraking te kom
met suiwer onopgesmukte klip
daai onstuitbare honger na
die
genadelose
opregtheid
van
klip

 - Lara Kirsten

Wilderness

i.

Softly offering purple-blue
the waterlilies hold flowers
up from the still water:

sedge grows full-bodied, and rich
on the vlei-banks. Laughing doves call,
tender and tranquil.

The cottage there: smoke rising
from the chimney stack
– fat bellied, happy smoke –

and my pastoral mind
drifts with it, takes its hue
into the grey and livelong sky.

ii.

It’s the sort of day when
mists match your mood,

the old Australian gums
stand tall and still,

the white cliffs that streak
the mountains match the sky,

the sedge around the vlei
is green, and dead still:

sounds seem to sound distant
– dove-calls throb my pulse.

 – Brian Walter

‘n Lewe met myself

Selfs wanneer die dae op hul ylste is
en die skaduwee van menswees
soos donderwolke op my skouers pak
en die gehunker na die dood soos 'n draadloos
in my ore blêr,
is daar hoop in die stomende beker koffie
waarom ek my vingers vou
en die oplig van die kam
waarmee ek saggies die koeksels uit my hare haal –
soos my ma gemaak het toe ek klein was.

Ek weet daar is hoop
in die botter op kleinmens-toebroodjies smeer
en appels en piesangs netjies langs die jogurt pak
en die saamsing in die kar
tussen af-verkeersligte deur Stanford
voor ek rooilip-soentjies op voorkoppies plak.

Daar is hoop in die digkuns voor die skryfbord
en die tienerbreine, -bekke, -vrae wat lomp oor my drumpel trap
en net 'n glimlag van juffrou soek.

Ek weet daar's hoop in die opkap van die ui
en die afmeet van die rys
wat meer as net my hande besig hou.

Daar is hoop in slaaptyd stories
en in die aandgebed,
selfs as ek nét dankbaar is
vir die grys sokkies aan my voete
en dat die donderwolke op my skouers
nie vandag gebreek het nie.

- Alvené Appollis-du Plessis

An ending

The man with the shaven head has given up
his hair

because he has lost, because he has lost her;

because she’s made it quite clear –
that something, for her, has changed irreversibly;

because no matter how often he can say those words to her –
say them as he did only yesterday, as he goes on saying them
even now – they cannot unsay those things that have been said;

because he can see, there is no place here to hide;
because nothing can stop
what is pushing them, has moved them apart;

because she – troubled, lovely – more lovely perhaps
than she’s ever been to him –
she is so far from him now;

because if there is a future for them – whatever it may be –
it isn’t here or now,
and each of them must try to find their way;

because perhaps even from pain, and from all
that now is lost,
someday, something may grow;

because even if it was – even if it still is – this fight
is no longer worth fighting for.

- Eduard Burle

Escher tuimel in die digtersharte

ek wil 'n gedig skryf
wat soos Escher
jou kop en lyf laat dryf
op met die trappe af
wanneer jy dink jy rym na regs
gooi hy jou radar na
links
jy dink jy het gaan visvang
en nou sit daar 'n voël in jou net
die dubbeldwarsterugspieëling van metafore
die interweef van dimensies
kruisbestuif die oorvleueling van persepsies
en soek nie om die positiewe van die negatiewe te onderskei
hulle is gesmelt in dieselfde gesig van die munt
'n gedig met geen begin of einde
'n oneindigende verdraaiing en intolling van
'n duisend digtersharte
wat jou dieper en vlakker
verder en nader bring aan die perspektief
jy bly jou inasem uitasem
terwyl jou vryheid verstrengel lê in
die labirintynse arms van hierdie vers

 - Lara Kirsten

Clement

Out of the gossamers
of sleep – those wide lands
beyond consciousness, teaching, healing –

eyes open
to a yellow room,
like a city of jewels.

Head turns. Burglar bars paint
gentle patterns on the curtains
– rows of long-nippled breasts,
kissing, feeding permission to see:
an egg, congealing
in the womb of heaven –

perhaps another clement poem
I can write down as testament
to the relationship with earth?

While the wild geese outside
concert as usual
to the day's ripeness unfolding –

the moment for a moment
is
golden.

– Silke Heiss, 21st May 2022

Five short poems

Sharing dessert with you:
forbidden
sweetness …

   ***

Wind and palm tree greet –
shadows ripple, writhe against
the far garden wall.

   ***

In the dream the journeying of hands, the canopy of her hair.

   ***

She shifts gears
down pleasure’s highway.

   ***

Driving miss daisy
in the back seat,
her engine purring.

- Eduard Burle

Safely through

The purpose of your poems
is not merely to observe,
certainly it isn’t to disturb –
no: the words work to connect
your heart
with certain, chosen things out there

– the tree's bark, its falling leaves;
a jogging man, with children, cycling;
gardeners in conversation, striding by;
fishermen with gear,
for a night on the jetty;
diligent women, led, mornings and evenings, by their dogs;
the balding bushbuck, with his stately horns
and soft, wise eyes;
or, simply, streaming rain.

Each item from the cornucopia
pearls forth its shimmers –
each word is a choice vessel,
shipping
the prizes
of wonder, kindly belonging –

as the day dawns,
your moving hand guides your mind
safely and serenely through
even her worst storms.

– Silke Heiss, 29th May 2022

Bird

– for MB

There’s a bird of fire in the sick man –
the man who climbs the hill of his illness.

Someday, the fiery bird inside the man,
like the sun retracing its arc above him, will die.

The bird inside the man stirs. It says:
pull that book from the shelf; or:

play this album today – and this one, too; or:
go outside

and walk with your thoughts
under the trees; or:

call a friend and drink from the well
of shared stories; or:

risk love, without worrying about where
it may or may not lead.

Sometimes, when the bird flits into his mind
and speaks, he listens;
sometimes, despite everything, when he follows
the bird’s advice,
he finds he is translated into flame.

 - Eduard Burle

dit is nie toevallig

Madame Poësie,
dit is nie toevallig dat
jou Poesie sonder die umlaut
die ingang van die wêreld en
al sy wondere is nie!

O Poësie,
Jy is my Poesie sonder die deelteken
die kolkgat van ekstase
die fluweelsikloon van verrukking
die peristaltiese kern van Kreatiewe Begeerte

die kwikstertjie

die kwikstertjie kom deur die koffiewinkel gepyl
hy weet presies hoe om
om die stoele, rakke en menskoppe te navigeer

soos wat die kafee leër word
vlieg hy weer na binne en trippel
met 'n ratse self-vertroue oor die vloer
pik al agter die krummels aan

sy lewenshouding soveel aantrekliker
as meeste mense bukkend oor
hulle fone en koffiekoppies

 - Lara Kirsten  

Sniffing out trails poem series

    1
No cure

Ragged from a wakeful night,
chaos of dreams and drafts
of things you've yet to write,
stiff-necked and -limbed
from studio work, you take
your mind and body panting,
up the hill, down the hill,
past the jetty, into the marshland,
carrying your sandals,
frozen-footed, to accompany
the blank, brass sunrise,
predictably striping the water.

You could pretend, but
truth is, there's beauty outside
only when you're clear inside

- you're missing your beloved,
his so-everything-not-you being –

face it: for that degree of loneliness
there is no cure.

    2
Better

Setting it down –
writing your gripes,
does make the situation,
somehow, better.

    3
Crutch

It's not wine,
nor even work,
it is, simply,
my pen. I even have two.

    4
Sound

One of the reasons
I don't type my poems
and writing
is

I'd miss that breathy,
scratchy sound of
the pen's fountful nose

sniffing out trails
on the paper.

– Silke Heiss, 31st May 2022

Three Tankwa Karoo Poems

i am a drop

water at my back

blue sky up above

i am a drop

contained in

the walls of my mind

crack me

i want to seep into

you

   ***

float

my [scattered] thoughts

float on

the [togetherness of]

water

   ***

my ears stare

my ears stare

into

the distance

trying to grab hold

of

the furthest




silence

   ***

Tankwa Arts Residency, April 2022

 - Lara Kirsten

Four short poems

1

Light years still to go –
only one sojourn to learn
all he needs to know.

2

At the edge of an internal precipice –
self-preservation, and a longing for joy,
add their voices to the conversation.

3

Still looking for
enchantment
on the road to
disenchantment.

4

She keeps a lighter
on her person – what else
lights her days?

 - Eduard Burle

Digterlike ruggraat

Ek skryf hierdie gedig vanuit my ruggraat
Ek lei in elke sillabe vanuit my werwels
Laat die metafoor haarself om die volbloedige kolom weef
In tollende kolke ontwaak die oer-pols

Ek buig agteroor in ‘n wyduitgestrekte boog
Totdat my mond uitbundig oopval
En die son nie kan help om reguit af te duik
Na die kernsenuwee van my ruggraat

‘n Son begin te spruit tussen elke rug-sinaps
Die strale stroom met vaartbelynde spoed
Deur al die donker en newelagtige begrensinge van my selle

Ek buig vooroor met my knieë en voorkop al soenende die aarde
Innerlik omhels ek hierdie sonkragtige ontploffing
Voordat dit uit my vel peul en ekstaties my digterlike bedoelinge verblind

Ah, jy kan letterlik die letters sien afdruppel teen my rug
Hulle is altyd daar
Herinner my aan my digterlike ruggraat
en om sagkens saam met dit te beweeg en nie teen dit nie

In die gedurige giet en hergieting, ontwyk die gedig voltooiing
Probeer heeltyd daai perfekte natuurlike buiging te vind
Vanwaar elke vers kan uitstrek
En uitryk na jou soos warm ledemate
Om jou te omvou met waaghalsige ruggratige gretigheid

 - Lara Kirsten

Then

Luminous lilac and indigo
jellyfish
stud the misty shore;

a lone, bent walker
sinks steps
through the pristine sand,

stops, extracts
from a sling-bag
pen and notebook.

Black oystercatchers let her,
then,
much closer than before.

– Silke Heiss, 18th January 2022