Children playing

Children playing in a river –
all they don’t yet know;
all they’ll someday never know
with the same joy and clarity.

   ***

The game of what to reveal
and what to conceal
is played over a lifetime –
the child learns quickly.

   ***

The child plays
behind fences and walls;                                            
the game she plays
has neither fences nor walls.

 - Eduard Burle

Eye in the heart

These banks of seductively round,
pastel-coloured stones;
these blue rock-plates,
motionless, but swirling
with gestures of water;
or those mud-hued formations over there,
clustered with small holes,
in a devoted mimicry of foam –

must be trying to impress me.
And they succeed! How many
millions of epochs did it take
to make this elemental love affair hold
all the changes wrought upon it
by sun and moon and sea?

And how many times
did the wind breathe in and out,
to build the eye in my heart
that feels these growth-rings

– in a place that warms and cools me
deeper than skin?

– Silke Heiss, 16th November 2022

A pastoral

          i. Cerberus

At the gate the dog:
and he doesn’t know the children
and he is jumping madly,
so the kids are freaked

but we say go quietly,
one-by-one, quietly,
and let yourself be smelled
and be known.

And it half works
– the dog is fine,
but the children go through
in jittering groups

like out-of-place spirits
in an underworld,
as though they would fly
but have nowhere to go.


          ii. Classical wind

In the wind up in the hills
above Kwanobuhle, Kariega,

my words are blown,
swung out of my mouth,

lost to mind and meaning,
flapped away from any intention:

this is my home, my countree
– where unlucky words

flit from me like the oaken leaves
of the Sibyl, ancient at Cumae.


          iii. Smell

Alert in nose
we come into the new place

seeking memories
of the familiar,

sifting out,
trying to ignore

till we find
al fresco here

home.


          iv. et in Arcadia ego

Out from Helenvale
amongst the hills

with cows, a tractor,
farmlands:

there’s no traffic,
shouting,

no brass band getting ready,
with the thump of a random drum,

a few blown notes scraping the air,
for the funeral

of the band-master’s wife:
there’s no fear, here,

just the quieter rhythms,
trees nodding in the breeze,

and grass bowing,
as my soul ducks and dives

back through Helenvale streets
and the grave images of your hood.

 
          v. Out here

We walk across the veld,
dodging the cows,
and across the dry river,

up through the woody stand
of Port Jackson Willow,
past the wild buddleja,
into the shrubveld of the big ants,
the tortoise, the caterpillars:

and the wind is always whipping
our dreams, blowing them
through the bushes, across the veld,
and out to those mountains
there, in rainland.


          vi. In words

In the group, photographers
– a big camera, cell phones –
and videographers in the making.

Out in the veld with the wind
blowing through our words
we walk amongst photographers

who capture us. But here
I catch them back in words
that click into focus.

 - Brian Walter

Can’t argue

It is beautiful to sit
with you –
checking for whale spume
on the dark blue horizon,

here, at Haga-Haga,
watching the turquoise waves
come in at different angles,
break on the partitioned rocks.

Rocks, inlaid by time, into themselves,
opaque, open: like secrets
of truth you can’t argue with –

just as you can’t argue
with whales moseying
along their way,
nor with me
beside you.

– Silke Heiss, 20th November 2022

Being there

The loud ibises flap
the dusk breeze,
cackling their hadeda call.
House sparrows hop
on the grey tar.
I’m waiting for the wagtails
to come, to settle in the trees:
they roost here at night.

As do I.

From across the road
the elderly come
for the Wednesday special:
couples, or small groups,
to have a night away
from their old age home.

As do I.

After a hot day
the clouds are out,
slowly, slowly drawing
the light from the sky.
This evening, ah, the cool breeze,
the late afternoon draught
makes peace with the moment,
calming the coming dark.

As do I.

- Brian Walter

But, at least

On the rocks again,
doing what I must do.

Feeling the breeze,
my consciousness open

– like the wings of the cormorant,
whose feathers the warm morning wind is drying
with tenderness today.

There is no sun,
clouds have wrapped the sky
into a silken, pale grey shawl.

While I sit, with my silver pen,
on the blue rock, feeling
neither bright nor shiny, but,
at least, writing.

– Silke Heiss, 12th January 2023

Haiku

There: mating. Quickly.
Two grey pigeons on that ledge.
Wing-flaps – down. Preening.

***

With little to say
I do more haiku now:
wish you were alive.

(for Katherine Samuelowicz)

- Brian Walter

Blue rocks

What can you teach me?

Yield
– to the shapings of the weather,

breathe in
the mist,

shake your consciousness
like the cormorant his wings.

– Silke Heiss, 10th January 2023

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