scowl

let me pull an honest scowl 

rather than a hypocritical smile

in die geselskap van die wysgieriges

in die geselskap van die wysgieriges

die rigtingaanwysers

die sielverrykers

die spekuleerders

kyk ek in elk van julle se oë

probeer pyl wat julle sien

wat julle dryf in hierdie rigting

sien ek baie passies

kyk julle in mý oë

en soek ook iets

in my

al wat ek kan gee

is liefde

fokkin baie liefde

ek wil net lief wees vir julle

nie omdat want hoekom nie

net

lief

wees

vir

julle

en in die nag het ons ledemate mekaar gevind

en in die nag het ons ledemate mekaar gevind

by mekaar se voete het ons begin

en deur komberse klere en hare

het ons geprogesseer na

ons sagter en natter dele

die aanraking was soet

die ontdekkingsreis oor vel-landskappe het

my diep laat sug van

my hart wat so lekkerkry

deur die hunkering na leerkenning

deur die borrels van fassinasie en

bewondering van jou liewendheid

is dit dit:

die begeerte om onder die vel van

jou te kom

ek kan nie aan die abstraksie van jou vat nie

ek kan wel aan die waarheid van jou vel vat

dit is elke keer begin by die begin

dit is elke keer begin by die begin

die blanke vlak wat elke keer

niksseggend my kreatiewe oorlewing uitdaag

is staar genoeg?

ek balanseer die pen op die toppe van my vingers

ek staar diep binne

hierdie  breindoodse verwyling

van tyd

ring ring ring in the sound

ring ring ring in the sound

make my skin quiver relentlessly

soothe the hard edges around my heart

ring ring ring in the sound

bring me to the heart of the harmony

where i shall find the answer to this

ring ring ring in the sound

lay the resonance on my skull

and sing into my mind

ring ring ring in the sound

oh how my heart trembles with delight

bring bring bring out the tears

i wish for bells,

birds' throats,

wind through grass

and soft satisfied sighing

i wish for silence too

for it rings in the perfect cadence

after all of this

soos naels

die poësie groei stadig en geduldig

soos naels

en soos naels is poësie daar

om die jeuk te krap

en al gaan die lyf dood

die naels bly groei

like nails

poetry grows slow and patiently

like nails

and like nails poetry is there

to scratch the itch

and even when the body dies

the nails keep on growing

colour red

die hond hardloop deur die strate

tot in die katedraal

akoesties is die toneel treffend

my dog ran away

resoneer deur Gods-hof

Rita die hond moet besluit

tussen bitter man

en mooi vrou

die Franse se doodluiterse dialoog

i want nothing

then stop breathing

good idea

spioeneer op die bure se telefoongesprekke

hy gooi die kookwater sekuur

vanuit die ketel op die vloer

skiet sy kruisband teen sy bors

                ek hoor die sluk in haar slukpyp

wat ‘n mens weet van ander mense  en reageer

of nie reageer

hy was ‘n regter en fel geen oordeel meer

hy druk die pen stukkend teen die papier

kougom sit vas in die slot

hy wil nie glo wat sy sê

dring aan op sy suspisie

oorfone hang met opera-sillabes in die lug

die bitterheid los op met

die geboorte van sewe hondjies

al wat hy soek is skadelose geselskap

in die skuldige oomblik brand die gloeilamp uit

oer-sprong

ek het niks nuuts om te sê nie

moet ek dan net ‘n spieël wees wat ‘n honderd ander spieëls reflekteer ad infinitum?

‘n kwakende padda wat al die ander kwakendes nakwaak?

‘n pappegaai wat briljant is met na-praat?

‘n krans of grot wat kop-en lyfloos

net agterna eggo eggo  eggo                      eggo                                      

en niks oorspronklik vanuit sy eie diep binnekant kan sê nie?

god weet, ek wil die stem wees en nie die eggo nie!

ek wil die bemagtiging van voorloop en vryheid weer voel

die swier van eie krag

laat ek altyd op die punte van my tone wees

op die punt van my tong

en gereed om in

die oer-sprong-likheid van
die Woord
te spring

diep daar onder is ek jy

diep daar onder is ek jy
en jy ek
die goue lyn wat ons bind
is sterker as spierkrag
magtiger as kopkrag
dit is nie verbeelding dat
diep daar onder jy ek is
en ek jy
die lyne wat ons bloed teken
skryf in ‘n taal

wat poësie uit ons are laat straal

diep daar onder
hoef ons nie te praat
hoef ons nie te sien
diep daar onder is ons nie normaal
maar wel bo-normaal
ja, daar ver onder
is ons suiwer mens
suiwer siel

soms neem dit 'n diep sny
om diep te tref
en tot by die essensie te kom
die diepte maak my o so hartstogtelik huil
want die diepte is so 'n raar ding
ons skroom,
kry skaam
vir daardie diepte

daar is geen keuse
die diepte is daar
om in te staan
en te groei
dieper en dieper
hoe sterk ookal die winde teen my waai

ek sal my grond bly staan

diep daar onder is ek jy
en jy ek
die goue lyn wat ons bind
is sterker as spierkrag
magtiger as kopkrag
dit is nie verbeelding dat
diep daar onder jy ek is
en ek jy
die lyne wat ons bloed teken
skryf in ‘n taal

wat poësie uit ons are laat straal

maar net mens

ek huppel vlugvoetig oor die klippe

met die ou tannies se sing-alongs

helder ingekleur

in my gemoed

hoe de donner moet die groen onder my

eie voete groei as ek die heeltyd om een plek staan?

die gras sal mos verdor!

al gedra ek myself hoe,

dis altyd so moeilik om my wispelturigheid

hok te slaan

ek verpes verleentheid

en donder, hoekom sit geleentheid

so na aan verleentheid?!

ek hou van die grond onder my voete

dis kaalvoet wat my leer om die weerstand te laat vaar

en net te staan

voete klou vanself

moenie my opinie deesdae vra

want ek forseer so dikwels om nie saam te stem nie

drapeer die winde van weerstand om my

my vel sal wild wapper

en die duiwels op my skouer sal grinnik

onmiddelike lewegewendheid sit 

hier in my asem

hoekom nie mildelik asem skep

duisend keer per dag

ek sal 'n paar muggies insluk

maar meer suurstof in die longe

sal verseker 'n magtige sin-dikaat

van helder gedigte skep

ek sal die spel van die lewe ook beter speel

ek hou van krismis-tyd – die neute skyn

meer goud en brons as gewoonlik

die strikke maak my tone krul van krismis-plesier

en die allerlei koekies gepak in hulle blink blikke

bulder skaamteloos die vretende tering van

die verorberende verbruikers

deur die kunsliedere wat deur

my vingers sypel

word my verwarring gesus

en kan ek weer helder dink

white moths

suddenly my arms do not want to lift

they refuse to wave to anyone

they refuse to raise in joyful salute

they refuse to swing in dance

my joy

my movements

my freedom

cocooned in the pits of my arms

yet i never forget the feeling

of flying with arms open wide

i can and will not forget

because the wings,

though now willfully immobilised,

will never stop rustling, budding, throbbing,

tingling, pulsing, 
quivering in anticipation to

spread   open     in       flight   

one day my arms will rise again

and the white moths

will

fly

free

digter-digter

ek speel met die tikbord

heen en weer rankskik ek 

die letters en woorde agtermekaar

ek wil hierdie spel bemeester

in die hoop dat die gedigte

die apoteose van

verheerlikende kuns sal bereik

sodat ek kan glo ek kan

digter-digter met oortuiging speel

eenvoudig

diep in

die binnenste ruimte

van die hart

klou die uitmergeling

die ootmoed

die verleentheid

die spyt

die weemoed

die verlange

vlak op

die buitenste ruim

van die vel

bly

die

son

eenvoudig

skyn

vandag is die begin

vandag is die begin van

die res van my digterslewe

slyp my pen

rol my tong om en om

diep asems in en uit

al my sintuie op aandag

sluk die suurlemoenwater met

oordrewe peristalse

vat aan my nek

druk my hand warm en styf om

my slukpyp

voel die beurende lus van

die verborge woorde

smagtend om uit te breek en

die wêreld in te vaar

do not talk down on me

do not talk down on me

because, let me tell you

i am as high as high can be

higher than a crown can raise me

higher than money can fling me

higher than a god can bless me

higher than drugs can make me

higher than learned speak can take me

so please, you are wasting your time

talking down on me

because i am as high as high can be

tragikomedie

ek wil die humor van 

hierdie penarie waarin ek 

verstrengel is uitsif
ek voel strak en styf
so verkrimp en onvry 

iewers moet ek 

die moedswilligheid van

my gemoedere in 

‘n komedie vasvang

daar is niks so snaaks soos oor-ernstigheid

tog is daar niks so tragies soos self-inkerkering

dit is nie onmoontlik

sluit die onmoontlikheid uit jou brein

dit is nie onmoontlik om verandering te weeg te bring

wees dapper en onbeskaamd

daar is niks beter as om uit jouself te klim

en in ‘n nuwe ruimte te loop nie

verbeel nuwe horisonne

droom van onontdekte grotte

daar is iets ongerep aan jou selle

moet nie jouself oortuig dat

alles verbrokkel en verdorwe

moenie glo dat lig verniet in jou oë blink nie

sy weet woorde is nie genoeg

sy weet woorde is nie genoeg om

haar te red

maar tog bly sy aanhou 
beelde, metafore en belewenisse

vas te vang in digterlike swier

die verse is haar net

sy kan so hoog en so ver spring as wat sy wil

tog weet sy haar woorde sal haar met die val

weer vang

‘n veilige heenkome

waarheen sy altyd sal terugkeer

ek is verlief op Stilte

ek moet erken

ek is verlief op Stilte

hoeveel keer wou ek al

met Stilte weghardloop en 

in donker en verafgeleë stegies

met hom vry tot die son 

soos taai stukke goue marmelade

oor die horison oopbreek

that feeling when my innards cry

that feeling when my innards cry itself into

the knotted sadness of powerlessness

when will i feel my jowls soar with wings again?

there is nothing that comes close to

the freedom of loud-mouthed creativity

          no one has to hear 
          my enunciations

          but me myself

may i write these words well enough 
to convince your eyes that 
words can simply be

soundless cyphers

exploding

quietly

in your mind

on the kitchen table she lies herself down

on the kitchen table she lies herself down

chopping her layered flesh up

as ferociously as she does onions

slicing her squirming limbs

as keenly as she does cauliflower

her tongue rolls off the bloodied surface

wagging and wailing

it has come undone

it has lost a hold of her body

for the first time standing loose

and on its own

a bit frightened in its sudden independence

this loquacious piece of flesh

feels a tingle of something

call it a tinge of excitement

that now it can be expressing

free of and from the body and brain

shamelessly feeling the liberation

to enunciate its wildest fantasies 

The Cross Roads VII

In a maelstrom of blankets and dust, curses and glares,

the Cave-Dweller is decidedly on the path of war.

In great insanity he is searching around his gloomy cave for

his left-hand glove. He claims that he has worn it only a day ago.

The Anarchist whispers in the ear of the Prehistoric Postal Agent

“What is all this fuss about a threadbare glove? Why don’t you go to

the Other Lands and get him a new pair?”

The Prehistoric Postal Agent stunned at the impertinence of this request

glowers at the Anarchist and whispers fiercely back into his ear

“It is against the rules of our industry to supply our services to

the selfish needs of a temperamental oaf.”

The Anarchist feigns a stutter “B..b..b..but I thought th..th..th..that

your agenc..c..c..c..cy is all ab...b..b..bout fulf..f..f..filling all sorts

of s..s..s..selfish needs.”

The Cave-Dweller long aware of this whispering grabs a stone, 
throws it in a blind passion into the corner of 

the meddlesome whisperers and bellows “How dare you miscreants 
scheme right under my nose?!”

The Anarchist leaps up and in a tone of unsubtle mirth proclaims

“The Prehistoric Postal Agent has kindly offered to procure a new pair of gloves for you.”

“I have said no such...” but before the Prehistoric Postal Agent can 
finish his sentence the Cave-Dweller runs to embrace him.

“Your services to save my dire situation will not 
go unrewarded” the Cave-Dweller chimes in 
tones never heard from his mouth before.

From the shadow of the overhang the Wretch 
shakes his head and murmurs “What is this Cross Roads coming to? 
A Prehistoric Postal Agent turning into a charity and 
a Cave-Dweller feeling and showing immense sense of gratitude?”

For all this while the Carillon stunned into silence by all this ruckus

demurely asks “Should I be ringing in this evolutionary news for times to come?”

The Prehistoric Postal Agent hisses through his clenched teeth “You don’t dare.”

The Anarchist so pleased with the turn of events clamours with

triumphant waving of the arms “Please do, Madame Carillon.

Your ringing will in truth pronounce the devolution of life at 
the Cross Roads and everyone needs to take note of it.”

As the confusion of the day settles in everyone’s minds

the Loner comes traipsing sleepily from the cairn of 
stones to investigate what all the excitement in 
the cave was about. In his casual stride he trips over something.
It is a besmirched left-hand glove.

Scarcely recognising what it is, he unstitches the thing

and winds up the tattered threads into a tight little ball

and mutters to himself “I will gift this to our

esteemed Prehistoric Postal Agent to use as packing string.

He will be most grateful.”

The links to the previous six Cross Roads poems >

http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-crossroads.html
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-crossroads-ii.html
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-cross-roads-iii.html
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-cross-roads-iv.html
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-cross-roads-v.html
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-cross-roads-vi.html

stadsduiwe

die stadsduiwe

sprei soos peperkorrels 

oor die winterlug

ek is bly hulle oorleef 

die gehardheid van ontwikkeling 

as die duiwe nog 

hulle dapperheid en 

gesondheid van 

verstand kan behou

dan kan ek ook

opsoek

met bene uitgestrek en omhoog oor die reëling

word ek wiegend weggevoer met die greyhound bus 

die swart vrou langs my se arm peul oor die sitplek

soos sy deur haar whatsapp flits op soek na vriende om te teks

steek sy my met haar elmboog tot in 
die ongemaklike werklikheid van busry

in die wolke soek ek my drome

in bob dylan soek ek my woorde

oor en oor luister ek na sad eyed lady of the lowlands

opsoek na leidrade

die einste vrou hier langs my vou haar arms inmekaar

nadat sy besef die flitse van my spasie-irritasie 
is gemik op haar annekserende elmboog

ek bewonder hoe sy met gemak haar oë toemaak 
en in haar warm vel en groot oë net so sittend kan slaap

soos 'n baba hang haar kop op haar bors

en vlieg die kilometers ongesiend verby

ek staar nog stip om my heen opsoek na leidrade

haar donker vingers is amper dieselfde kleur 
as haar baadjie se koper knope

haar kopdoek bedrewe om haar kop gevleg

ek is bly sy slaap

want nou kan ek haar in my helder wakkerheid 
noukeurig betrag

en haar oomblikse stil lewe raak skilder in vers

ma en dogter in die tuine

in die botaniese tuine

voel dit soos paradys

ouhoute en witstinkhoutbome

waterkuile en eende

stilte en clivias

klippe en kranse

twee swart arende

moyeni en tulane

wat takke en kos aanvlieg vir

hulle ses-weke oue kuiken

sproeiers oral op die grasperke

dit is so idillies

ek vergeet dit is winter op die hoëveld

op elke bankie wil ek myself uitstrek

in elke skadukol wil ek droom oor

hoe lekker ek kry

dit is alles nog lekkerder omdat

my ma sonja ook saam is

ek kan sien hoe die lig in haar oë ophelder

as sy in haar gunsteling laan afstap

sy kla nie een keer oor haar seer knie of enkel nie

sy is rustig en ongejaagd

ek hou die meeste van haar so -

tydloos in die botaniese tuine

wat voel soos paradys

           Walter Sisulu Botaniese Tuine

but it is okay

but it is okay if i don’t capture

the thrills

the volcanoes

the fire

of the Love

because in quiet trust

our hearts also

love one another in

simple small beats

keeping

the rhythm 

softly shimmering

volcanoes

ooijooijooi all these feelings make little

explosions in my blood

i think and think of this love

and it makes me tingle through

to my nerve ends

i try and try to make little volcanoes

within my verse

to capture the life

the fire

the burning

the hot molten flow of this love

that refuses to stand still and

grow cold

this love keeps reshaping into whirls

that does not want to let go of its

fierce hunger to dive into

the core of the immensely small,

quiet and intimate beginnings of its life

and bloom and arch outward into

the great expanse

and make it be

felt

in me

and

in you

Music of the Ancestors

I originally wrote a poem The Voices of the Ancestors for part of a performance piece at the AfrikaBurn Festival in 2012. I recently reworked it so as to be performed within my current music performances.

Soon after re-writing the poem I discovered an incredibly powerful documentary Alive Inside about the effect that music has on dementia and Alzheimer sufferers. This film shows footage of these sufferers totally disconnected with life in the frail care centers across America. They are at first quite lifeless, unresponsive and even angry. One man has a vision to bring these individuals back to a "connectedness" via the listening of music. The people start engaging, smiling, laughing and even dancing again. It makes so much sense that music has this power. But these institutions simply function around the traditional "medication" and dull their senses rather than enlivening them. 

Since watching this film this poem has become even more meaningful for me. I am aware that the poem can come across as quite "New Age". Whatever your taste in poetry, please read it with an open mind and heart.

Music of the Ancestors I

Let the Music of the Ancestors

shake the Walls of our Existence

Let the Music strike Deep into the Heart of our Beings

and sing the Harmonies of Solace into our Souls

Let the Music of the Ancestors

break open over the Plains

and sound over the entire Earth

the Song that sounds in our Dreams

pushes through the Cracks

and clings onto the Marrow

and does not let go

until it transforms our Bodies

into one Transcendental Wave

Let the Music of the Ancestors burn with the Celebration of Breath

burn with the glistening Peaks of Waves

burn with the Memory of Primordial Frequencies

that once reverberated in our Primal Ears

Music sings in One Language

that all Bodies and Souls fathom without rationality

It is the Unrest of Music

that challenges our Sense of Peace

It is the Embrace of Music

that teaches us to stand Together and Love

Music of the Ancestors II

The Vast Space begs to be filled

with that Sweeping Line of Sound

that colours Space with that Wondrous Harmony

that is so strongly at Home in our Souls

Let the Sound of the Music rise

like the Wind rises

rise like the Tide rises

rise like the Flame rises

Let the Music vibrate

Let the Music cascade through our Souls

and let us live livelier than ever before

Let our Music break through the Deserts,

break through the Forests,

break through the Oceans

Let Fish and Bird hear We can

Resonate With Song just as They can do

Silence is blessed

yet Music is more so

It is a Resonating of the Soul

a Baptizing within that Vibration that gives Life

to our Hearts and Minds

Music moves like Flame

searching for Air and when it is released

it gushes forth like a New Spring

Thank you Music for bringing Solace

in the Dark, Cold and Lonely Days

With your Warmth we can believe in our Dreams

with your Light we can see to the Edges of the World

we, like rock

we, like rock, endure many pressures

and contort into shapes and strata

eagerly awaiting the day the sun will emblazon

our souls’ odyssey and reveal the quiet writing of our stories

in deep shades of bronze

ek is nie my sillabes nie

ek bly skryf en hard-op dink

gedissiplineerd in die hoop dat

die magiese vonk

op my hoof gaan spring

ek kan nie bly gedigte skryf

oor vlerke, wilskrag, 

vryheid en onverskrokkenheid

ek MOET dit weer begin LEEF

ek het nie ‘n keuse nie

ek is nie my sillabes nie

ek is my vlees en bloed