Saturday, 27 July 2013

Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf!

Hou op om met jou kop in die lug rond te dryf!
Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf
Dit is nie so moeilik om die pen op te lig - 
vir wat wil jy voor die daad van skryf dan so swig?

Hierdie alewige ge-uhm en ah-ery 
moet nou onmiddellik 'n einde kry!
Hoekom is dit hierdie nimmereindigende gewroeg?
Dit maak net jou siel en kop onnodiglik moeg.

Ja, komaan, hou op om met jou kop in die lug rond te dryf!
Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf
Ja, JA, dit is wat ek doen, fokkin elke dag,
maar die woorde doen fokkol, sit net vir my en lag.

Ek staan op my hande om die wêreld andersom te bekyk,
dalk sal dit die woorde amuseer en hulle ook beter laat lyk
Ag jirre in die jimmel, hoor my weenklaag!
Hierdie stagnerende gesukkel is nou lankal te moer in afgesaag!

Dit is nou die tyd om die woorde aan die strot beet te kry
en aan te dring dat hulle ophou om jou so om die bos te ly.
Selfs beter, gaan sit op jou gat en kerf hulle neer - 
dit is al hoe hulle EN jy sal leer!

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

'n plek waar slegs die wit motte uit my mond vlieg

in die witste oomblik van my kop
wil ek insweef en myself vir 'n wyle daar inburger
daai witste wit van plekke
waar sin en woord nie 'n sê het nie

dis al wat ek soek  -
'n suiwer oer-plek 
waar ek tot 
die eindes van 
die heelal
kan sien
en dit nie 
te poëtiseer nie

'n plek waar slegs 
die wit motte

Saturday, 20 July 2013

Ode to the Avocado

There is
no other green
in the world
that carries
your texture
and your taste.
Fingers linger on
your skin
waiting restlessly for
the ripening
your perfect softness.
Knives and spoons,
tongues and teeth
can not wait to break through to 
the moist velvet heart of you.

Of all fruits
your beckoning
is the strongest.
There is immediate
between you and
us, the tongue bearers.
You are irresistible -
fingers flock to your silken
and pebbly skin
desperately wanting
to press and

When you cross
our paths with
your elliptical glossiness
the eating
of you
is inevitable.

Oh, Avocado, how you make
the mouth
a better place!
You are
the great tropical berry,
filling mouths and stomachs
with rich and nutty oils.
You are the globe
green peace

You unite
the disparity
in the salad bowl.
Cucumber, tomato,
lettuce, basil, olive oil,
lemon, black pepper and salt
make more sense with you around
What is tortillas, sushi,
crisp hot bread, pizza and
without you?

you mix
You make
a celebration
of every meal.

Independent, well-defined,
and dignified - 
you are a meal on your own too.

Oh, Avo, you make the kitchen complete!

You are the king of fruits.
One whiff of you opens
soft, wet and
mossy forests around me.

Hanging from your tree
you lighten up the sun.
And how is it that you are 
than butter?

We want to hasten our patience
and stow you away in
brown paper bags, newspapers
and dark corners of baskets and pots
steering you into ripeness,
yet you have your own rhythm
that beats to your own season

Your name even sings with warm
and open syllables -
A spelling sheer wonderment,
Vo signifying your eternal invogueness,
Ca sounding the thrill that careers through
the throat when a slice of you hits the tongue and
Do closing like a soft meadow on
all these sensorical richnesses.

And oh, let us not forget your majestical pip -
the seed that fills out the shape
of your pregnant belly.
When you are sliced open
your pip suddenly exposed and fragile,
wrinkly and papery, 
you cling on to the juicy flesh
refusing to let go of the fruit of life.

Oh, Avocado,
you make 
my mouth complete.
You dissolve
my inner conflicts.
I can not eat you alone,
I always want to share you.
With you on my plate
I can believe in
brotherhood again,
with you on my tongue
I can believe in
life again

Thursday, 18 July 2013

and i'll huff and i'll puff till i blow my igloo down

in the preposterous situation of wanting everything and nothing all at the same time
the waves in my brain fluctuate at undesirable intervals
energy gushes from my muscles
I can not keep still
the unsatisfaction is draped all over my face
like falling cutlery my heart clatters loudly throughout my body

enough of this raucousness!

i fancy a bit of peace and quiet within the mineshafts of my soul

don't you have the right flame to ignite a longlasting fire within my soul?
or maybe you have an amplifier through which my meek little being can sound from
each thought, sight and dream have such verisimilitude
i used to grab all of the possibilities in fear of missing out
i simply understand that my mind works on a concatenation of poetic and unpoetic ideas
but where o where can I give life to this process in a new light?
must i conflagrate before I can rise anew from the ashes?
or maybe i am just living at the wrong altitude giving my blood a less than boisterous flow
and causing my nerves to jitter from morning till night
ah, can't the gods drip a bit of clemency over my head?
these blank page feelings are getting rather distasteful
it really puts me in such an egregious light that makes all the vile juices inside
my guts to foment into one hell of a revolution
now you ask what is the gist of all of this?
why all this huffing and puffing till i blow my igloo down?
you suggest i go for a weekend away to the karlsbad springs –
that might sort out the fomentation
and will inspire me to pen down a mellifluously sounding poem on the white winged lepidopterans
i will cease biting my nails and all orthopaedic worries will be a thing of the past

Monday, 15 July 2013

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!

Thursday, 11 July 2013

Snob do not gloat

And so my parodies doth continue.

For a while now I have been craving to take the piss out of snobs. It is the one type of human that makes my palate itch most uncomfortably. Seeing that I have been using parody as a form of writing exercise I looked to the great and bold poem of John Donne Death be not Proud, substituting Death with Snob. 

Though this is a form of parody, my intention is not to mock, trivialize or demean the power and beauty of the original poem. 

The poem by John Donne follows at the end.

Snob do not gloat

Snob do not gloat, though thou think'st thou can stand
Tall and puffed up, and thou pretend'st to glow
For those whom thou hope'st to ov'rshadow,
Still shines, pitiable Snob, nor against me shall lift thine hand.

From skin and bone, for certain, thou art made,
Piss and shit, thou dost do, like the rest of us,
And suffer from illness and wounds that do puss,
and 'tis so that from mem'ry thou soon shall fade.

Thou draw'st to thy side braggarts and name-droppers,
and pull in smart-asses and a highbrow.
Earnestly I ask, how canst we this allow?
For they act ashamedly just like floppers!

We, the modest, should learn to touch the sky
And snobs shall look down on us no more; Snob, thou shalt cry.

The original poem by John Donne:

Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally
and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Tuesday, 9 July 2013

The Cross Roads II

Under an overhang of trees the Prehistoric Postal Agent stops and wonders
"Where have the Cross Roads gone?"
He has not seen it for days now.
"How am I to reach the right address to deliver the news without the Cross Roads?"
At the end of the overhang the dewdrops start to evaporate
and causes a play of light that startles the Prehistoric Postal Agent to his wits' end.
"Can this be the Second Coming?"
From behind the biggest tree the Wretch comes stumbling.
"No, you idiot, that is the Universal Hunger playing tricks on your brain!"
The Prehistoric Postal Agent, thinking that only he is the Carrier of Strange and Wonderful News retorts:
"Oh, come now, how dare you carry this news with such flippancy,
step around my toes and not on them, please."
The Wretch, not taken aback, continues reading the news.
"And so it has happened that under the overhang of trees the Prehistoric Postal Agent has been arrested for Universal Arrogance. He has to appear in the World Court of Fair and Gentle Speak by the end of the week."
The earth starts rumbling and shaking as the Cave-Dweller steps from under the trees.
"There is no such a thing as a Court of Any Sort. We live in a world where the winds rule over what's fair and right."
The Wretch couldn't believe his luck, for the first time someone is speaking up for him.
In the distance the Carillon rings in this odd and new occurrence.
This wakens the Anarchist's deep and long sleep on the tree's top branch.
He eyes the activities down below and can not help sniggering "How long they take to learn."
The Wretch jumps onto the tree and shakes off all the remaining dew drops.
"No!" shouts the Prehistoric Postal Agent "you can not do that!  You will be arrested for Universal Upset!"
The Loner has been viewing this mad interchange from up above on his lonely hill
"Why get involved in anything? It is enough to be audible to only oneself."
Overhearing the Loner's thoughts, the Carillon replies: "On the contrary, I believe one needs to ring for all to hear!"

This link to the previous Cross Roads poem >

Sunday, 7 July 2013

We are the Poets

Now and again I study strong poems and lyrics – getting a feel for their craft, rhythm, structure and the inspiration they imprint on us. As an exercise I re-write/re-fashion/transcribe them into my own new content. You might argue that it is a form of plagiarism, laziness, or arrogance;  I think it is pure and simple exercise AND an engaging way to truly absorb the original text. This time round I could find nothing better than Queen's famous anthem "We are the Champions" to be my next exercise. I re-worked it into > "We are the Poets" (Quite predictable, hey?!)

i write the words
day after day
i've made my verses
maybe they're just curses
and forced rhyming
hell knows why for
and i've had my dose of luck blessing my pen
but not enough
to go on and on and on and on

we are the poets, my friends
and we'll keep on writing till the end
we are the poets
we are the poets
no time for silence
cause we are the poets of the world

i've eaten my vowels
and my consonants
now i'm sweating metaphors
similes and all that jazz
i thank you Word
but i'm not finished with you yet, hang on in there
it is a discipline worth the practice
every season of the mind
in each turn of the pen

we are the poets, my friends
and we'll keep on writing till the end
we are the poets
we are the poets
no time for silence
cause we are the poets of the world

The original lyrics of the song by QUEEN

We are the Champions

I've paid my dues
time after time
I've done my sentence
but committed no crime
and bad mistakes
i've made a few
and i've had my share of sand
kicked in my face
but i've come through
and i need to go on and on and on and on

we are the champions my friends
and we'll keep on fighting till the end
we are the champions
we are the champions
no time for losers
cause we are the champions of the world

i've taken my bows
and my curtain calls
you've brought me fame and fortune
and everything that goes with it
i thank you all
but it's been no bed of roses no pleasure cruise
and i consider it a challenge before the whole human race
and i'd never lose
and i need to go on and on and on and on

we are the champions my friends
and we'll keep on fighting till the end
we are the champions
we are the champions
no time for losers

cause we are the champions of the world

Friday, 5 July 2013

An Odious Ode to Writer's Block

Oh, how Cunning and Pernicious Thou art
Acting like a Real Despicable Upstart
You make me Gobsmacked and Tongue-Tied,
How dare you walk with such a Confident Stride?
You leave me Dumbfounded and Thunderstruck,
How can you have Such Incredible Luck!

Why oh why dost Thou on mine Battery Piss
and Hope I doth not see your Astutely Insidious Underhandedness?
Thou dare'st come Wam Bam sit right under my Nose
and Unshamefacedly keep up your Neat Little Pose
Admirable in your Sly and Stealthy Way
You force me into this Battlesome Fray

At first I was quite Delirious with thy Heavy Hand numbing my Skull
I could not believe that You Vile Creature could make me so Positively Dull
When I discovered that It wasn't due to Lack of Concentration
I fell into a Quagmire of Dire and Dreadful Desperation
I stood up from my Bed, the Anger licking at my Spit
Arrrrggh, come what may, I have to climb out of this Slippery Dark Pit!

By now I knew for Certain and Without a Shadow of a Doubt
- In Great Earnestness I gave an Inflamed and Vehement Shout -
that I must refuse to be His Damned and Docile Slave
And by mine Own Reason and Wit should step away from his Encumbering Cave
As much as He tries to keep up with his Plotting and Scheming
I will Tenaciously keep Scribbling, and Beware, I will do it Screaming!

Wednesday, 3 July 2013

o gaats, ons digter het skrywersblok!

sy het die hele woordeboek vol gebedel
opsoek na daardie ontwykende woord
kruip dit weg in die donkerste hoek van haar skedel?
o fok, dit maak haar verboureerd en o so verstoord!

sy soek hier, sy soek daar, onder en bo, agter en voor
sy't nooit gedink dat sy haar sinne op hierdie manier sou verloor!
haar asem is vlak, haar voorkop die sweet
en haar hart het 'n paniekerige polsslag beet

wat moet sy doen om die woorde te wen?
verseker nie met die grandste bôlpoint pen
wat moet sy maak om die letters te oortuig
dat sy nou moeg is om voor hulle neer te buig?

is daar iewers 'n geheime resep wat haar kan vertel
hoe sy dit eenvoudig in woorde kan stel?
sy smeek dat die muses haar sal aanhoor
en hierdie aaklige lyding weg sal toor!

Monday, 1 July 2013

die plig

ek vou die wit blad oop voor my
en oombliklik daal daar 'n sware duiseligheid oor my
die plig om die woord neer te lê
lê swaar op my
ek kyk diep die son in
wag totdat hy in 'n brons blom verander
ek kyk diep die volstruis die oog in
sien net sy pote raak
ek het gehoop hierdie gevleuelde wese wat nooit vlieg
sal die antwoorde in my oor kan fluister
die kandelabra met die druppende kerse
kwinkeleer my aandag die dieptes in
demmit kan ek nie eenvoudig dink en skryf nie
waarom moet alles 'n alewige omslagtigheid wees?!?
my voete staan swaar op die aarde
wat het van die veerkragtige dans geword
wat my tot sonsopkoms gedra het?
my tong voel swaar
my bene voel swaar
my hart voel swaar
hoekom daal daar so dikwels hierdie neweligheid
oor al wat 'n droom en gedagte is?
ek het opgegee om te staan
toe gaan lê ek
toe raak ek weer angstig
en spring weer op
want as ek nie op aandag staan nie
mis ek die kans van 'n literêre leeftyd wat voor my oë
mag verby wals