water mymering

photographer: Dani Debellis

Stroom waarin die donker

net die donker sien

met jou kan ek praat

ek ken jou beter.

- Ingrid Jonker (uittreksel uit gedig Donker stroom)

ek het vir te lank te diep gedink

dat die dieptes gatvol vir my geraak het

en my vlakkant toe gestoot het

nou mis ek daai dieptes:

daai verkolking van die self

in die liglose vakuum

hoe tragies!

ek is besig om te verdrink

hier in die vlakke waters

asseblief dieptes, kom haal my!

my lyf kan die inperking van

hierdie oppervlakkigheid

nie meer verduur

o dieptes, jy is oper

wilder

en

vryer

water pondering

Stroom waarin die donker

net die donker sien

met jou kan ek praat

ek ken jou beter.

- Ingrid Jonker (extract from the poem Donker stroom)

for too long i have thought too deeply

that the depths have become annoyed with me

and pushed me to the shallow end

now i miss those depths so much:

that vortex of the self

in the lightless vacuum

the tragedy!

i am busy drowning

here in the shallow waters

please depths, come fetch me!

my body can not stand

the confinement of

the shallowness

oh depths, you are more open

wilder

and

freer

soen-net

my pen word gevang deur die soen-net                                

veertien lyne geweef en gerym met feestelike pret            

drie kwatryne om jou toe te spin met soene                        

kom trick or treat, dit is beter as halloween se pampoene  

met honderd-vier-en-dertig soene wil hierdie soen-net jou troetel   

ontspan en hou op om aan jou bo-lip te vroetel                   

maak toe jou oë en sink in die beswyming                           

jou lippe sal begin tril met die beryming                              

gee jouself oor aan die soen-net se verleidingspel               

die hoendervleis gaan dartel al langs jou tong en vel          

drink diep uit elke soen se digterlike fontein                        

en so sal ‘n geluksaligheid in jou oorsoende kieste verskyn 

nou is dit net die koeplet wat oor is om jou koebaai te kus  

met haar twee rymende lippies sal sy jou nou aan die soete slaap sus       

gee die waternimfe hulle swemplek

photographer: Dani Debellis

         

    vir Billy

hou die poele dop

en jy sal jou begeertes in die

water-arsenaal vind

en binnekort op die water loop

die waterdraers is die uitverkorenes

om deur die donker stroom te vaar

en diep dieper

diepste waters oop te kerf

jy dink dit is net waterrympies

wat soos olie op die water lê

as jy mooi kyk sal jy vlammende voorspellings

in die stille golwe se opwellinge sien

dit is sillabes wat die waterweë

met kwartsiet uitspel

moet nie jou ledemate se gehegtheid

aan die warmwaterbron verkwalik nie

elkeen van ons het ‘n diepe waterbehoefte

wat nie met leë waterbeloftes verwar moet word nie

los die waterpolitiek op die agterstoep

die kinkels gaan nie my pype indring nie

laat ons die kuns van

die ongekunstelde waterminnaars leer

en gee die waternimfe hulle swemplek

hulle sal die immer migrasie van water laat voortblom

vrypostig

ek moet blindelings oor die papier dans 
met oë toe en hart oop
laat die sillabes musiek in my ore oopbreek

die intervalle klim my woorde soos trappe
die verlangende mineur sesde en 
die hygende chromatika van die mineur tweede

oor die toontrappe gly ek 
met dronke voete op en af
en vind my sinne hulle eie melodie

ek weier dat enige argitketonika 
met reëlmaat of simmetrie
die rym in my kop pons!

kyk net hoe my hande en 
heupe en hare 
en vel so vrypostig oor die papier dans

die metafore peul bont uit die oksels van my arms
geen enkele woord sal in my taal 
ongesê gelaat word nie!

kokon

dit is die vorm van my tong

 - ‘n kokon met krioelende blink drade 

dig geweef 

binne-in woel en spartel 

die papie in

ongeduldige afwagting op 

die oopbreek 

na die

nuwe lig

in the hunt the thrilled skin clings forever onto the slumbering paradise

in the hunt the thrilled skin clings

forever onto

the slumbering paradise

the doves are looking for shelter

in

the rustling of the silence

all that grows

are mushrooms from

the cooing mouths

from the white-blue-sky the soldiers hear

sounds that taste like cold vacuums

in porcelain cups

the other nameless winglings

sound like castanets

their staccato interjections into the sky

my mouth drools as I watch the dancing spots

trembling over my trembling eyeballs

may no shred of regret come lie on my temples

the yellow scarf lies

like a spasm

over the incredible sigh

her wandering breasts shine like a candelabra in the night

and the prettiness of her feet

lies trojanically between his sheets

the fly constantly hits his wings against the glass

neatly leaves his insect-alarm in the sky

no milk bottle will silence this anxiety

the grumbling stomach stands in front of the open fridge

like an off-legged broom he swerves drunkenly in

the sight of the frozen bugs

i feel obliged to flush the world's empty chatter

down the drain and throw all the matereality

into the dustbin

the arrogant pen has a manic way

to want to be greater than the moment

how hideous

again-the-hadeda on the thatched roof

boldly lulls the hordes of trembling little cinderellas

to sleep

oh, pardon me, the eyes in my head are only

ornamentation

that is brilliant in the hiding of my non compos mentis

Die digter is nie dood nie

photographer: Dani Debellis

Die digter is nie dood nie

geskoei op Die kind van Ingrid Jonker

Die digter is nie dood nie

die digter lig haar tong teen haar demone

wat Waansin skreeu     skreeu die stemme

van sin en behoort

in die konsternasie van die verlore siele

Die digter lig haar tong teen haar gene

in die stryd teen die sinneloosheid

wat Waansin skreeu     skreeu die stemme

van die voorvaders en spoke

in die DNA van ons opstandige woede

Die digter is nie dood nie

nòg in die bad nòg op die pad

nòg met die lem nòg met die gas

nòg op die brug oor die donker rivier

waar haar begeerte lê met salwende water in die longe

Die digter is die skim in die krygsliedere

singend met tonge kele en vuiste

die digter breek deur alle sinne en onsinne

die digter tuur deur donker poele en in die smart

van die aarde

die digter wat net wou skryf in die stilte van haar kop is orals

die digter wat vrou geword het sing deur alle tale

die digter wat mens geword het vlieg deur alle harte

Sonder ‘n woord

this is not going to be a rousing poem

this is not going to be a rousing poem

not even a slightly inspirational one

a poem that will not go deep

it will just hover over the surface

a poem that will not tug at your heartstrings

it will be cutting in its blandness

simply one great disappointment

a verse that will not pretend to be something that it isn’t

simply a poem that refuses to charm with metaphoric spells

lines as straightforward as lines should be

no seducing with sultry syllables

or enchanting with fanciful metrics

a poem that simply sits flat on the page

that does not excite the tongue

and definitely does not make you think twice

i know you are still reading to be sure 

that no arousal is happening and that i am not pulling your leg
 - or any other body part -

i was serious when i said that 

this is not going to be a rousing poem

no need to look further for 
rhyme or reason
climax or crux
witticism or twist in the tail

nothing of the sort to be found here

just a dead-end of a poem

when did i join the circus, ma’ma?

we live in such stirring and creative times

how can i write one-dimensional poems?

first let us bring in a rousing symphony orchestra and

winds sweeping around the highest peaks of

the Great Mountains as a soundtrack

then start writing verses imbued with the breath of grandiose statements

laced with the declamatorics of state of the nation addresses

it can’t be called a poem if there is no drum and bass

beating through its buttocks

it requires william kentridge charcoal drawings

a company of opera singers

for their resounding vocal cords are just the thing

and seeing that we are going for drama

have the stanzas adorned with

spectacular costumes and headdresses

and of all things DO NOT read it sitting down

incantate it with the voice of an inspirational speaker

a mix of voices of a president, a toast (coetzer) master, a rapper,

‘n kaapsevlakte ou and a shakespeare actress

no time for looking down on any papers

that is just distracting frippery

each word needs to be memorised into your skin

(but not to worry: in case of lapse, a prompter will mouth your words)

AND remember: lots of arm movement

you can only go on if you have groupies in

the form of likers, tweeters,

instagrammers, hashtaggers and share-holders

DO NOT forget your audience from afar

always keen to be cyber-rubbing-shoulders with you

AND a have-to-have is your entourage of photographers and videographers

that record your every syllable and frown

(note to editor: zooming in with slow motion on that sweat droplet

on the upper lip and bring in stills in vintage colours, otherwise no go)

and stating the obvious, we will hire that very bearded dude

who adjusts the height of your mic

keeps your drink and nerves stirred but not shaken

and gives you a hirsute kiss just before you utter your first syllable

when the cue is given turn up the volume of

that symphony orchestra and whirling winds around

the high peaks of your metaphors

throw in a singing line and dance step or two

you will be the coolest thing out

who wants the fine sensibilities of quiet metaphors

if you can join the 21^st century circus?!

...and all this time you thought you were doing poetry?!

Shall I compare thee to the Bard's best rhyme?

It has been quite a while since I wrote a parody. Here one I just penned - based on the famous Sonnet no. 8 by Shakespeare:

Shall I compare thee to the Bard's best rhyme?
Thou art less iambic and even less contained:
Certain verses grow heavy over the course of time,
And rhythmic metres art all too restrained:

Sometime too blunt the blade of the metaphor cuts,
And often is his bold intention deflated;
And every line so vacuously flaunts and struts,
By will, or poet's flawed ego, fated:

But thy wordless silence shall not wane,
Nor lose composure of the still breath thou inhal'st;
Nor shall Noise drag thou into his clamorous terrain
When unbounded Quiet thou still do crav’st:

So long as minds can strive for soundless peace,
And let these words dissolve; all restlessness will cease.

And here the original -

Sonnet VIII
- Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

soos 'n kat

ek rangskik my lyf soos ‘n kat

onder jou hande

my vel gedurig opsoek

na jou aanraking

die bloeiende pers tonge

die bloeiende pers tonge van die buddleja salviifolia rinkink teen die hange
ek vergeet die sjambolika van my tye
ek kom sit en asem ink-sugte uit oor die papier

die middernagtelike komplotte om transendentale strewes te koester
gee my siel vastrapplek in die konundromiese penaries 
wat alewig kapperjolle speel in die solders van my sintuie

ek sit pens en pootjies in die middel van die sillabes
wil weer soos 'n kind sorgvry klieder en kruip 
en klouter met al wat nuut en wondertorend is

die tugmeester binne my wil gedurig dinge korrigeer
so venynig hierdie gewoontes van haar
en so versot om my as haar pak-esel toe te snou 

ek keer elke keer terug na die blues van laerskool-herinneringe
hoe ek my moontlike genietinge so dikwels in parentese sit
hoekom verkrag ek die oomblik met verstoppende onmin?!

ek begeer om soos die xmen bomenslike kragte te kan uitvoer
pomp adamantium in my are
beskerm my teen die uitmergeling en aanstootlikheid

verwarreling

uit hierdie wilde wind wil ek ontvlug
en myself in jou arms toedig
die verwarreling in die woesteny
van 'n hart wat enige oomblik
my kan laat staan of laat vlieg...
en tog kies dit meer kere die vlieg
want wie wil die vlerke toevou as
die soete lug aan die skouers gaan bly klou?

ekosisteem

soos klippe op die grond

pak ek my woorde uit

dat wanneer ek hulle

na maande weer gaan optel

‘n hele ekosisteem onder hulle uitbroei

too little or too much confidence

too little or too much confidence

challenge our mortal bones

that without shelter

will not survive

imagine

without sleep

we could not evolve

into the brightly instinctive beings

we are today

- it energises our curiosity

may our ancestors and 
descendants keep the hunger

from our selfish cells

oh the I is so acutely listening to 
all the tongues gathering in the togetherosity

leaving every moment 
to perfect the imperfections

remember not to drown in dutifulness

make time to float on

the cloud

of your well-deserved wisdom

inkrul

inkrul in die teddiebeerhitte kom vind ek paar metafore 
wat my oggendtee sal wees en my tongkop sal verkwik 
ek haal diep asem sodat die suising in my ore sal bedaar 
en ek nie na die dowe toekoms hoef uit te sien nie 

ek hoor tibetaanse bakklanke is 
die beste geweer om tinnitus te keer 
dan begin ek sommer dadelik - nooi die singende bakke -
dit gee my rillingvel 

ek soek voortdurend die rillings 
dit is vir my die salwendste ding 
ril tot in die murgkern 
laat ek tril en ril tot in ewigheid 

maar voor ek agteroor lê moet ek my tongkop trein 
om uit haar hoekigheid te dink 
digter behoort met nugter en onnugterheid 
asemrowendheid te toor 

die dreun van die wiele hier op jeffreysbaai se strate 
wakker die angstigheid aan
rol die aand se reën met waaierende flirtasies oor die teer 
ouma rika, coreen en haar vyfmaande maelan slaap in die hierlangsekamer 

ek probeer om diep te asem en my hoesbors stil te hou 
die vredelike stilte is net te goed om te steur 
watter gedig sal ek hulle hierdie keer skryf? 
ek moet hulle epileptiese kat se naam inkanteer.. dit toor dalk iets op

die alewige wegvlug van rook en hoes
ek wonder hoe gaan ek hierdie gedig aanmekaar weef 
die gare moet jeffreysbaai se reën wees 
en die doek is ouma-grootjie se bonte laslappiekomberse 

die lig wat ek gaan nodig hê om my skryfwerk te sien 
is heldergeverfde leë plêstiek coke-bottels  
vir so bietjie naelbyt gaan krap ek in coreen se stephen king boeke 
om so bietjie ouderdomsbeperkende edge te gee 

wie glo in ouderdomsbeperking?! 
ons is vatbaar vir enige skokeffek tot 
in die lengte van ons dae 
moenie dink mens word ooit oud, wys of onskokbaar nie 

ek gaan snuffel in die koffiepot en 
bespiegel oor die betekenis van die lewe 
alweer gooi julle die deur oop 
daisies en hulle mamsters kan kom intrek

diep

ek het so diep gedink
dat ek aan die vernederende kant 
van vlakheid beland het

murg-werklikheid

ek wil hierdie oomblik
my murg-werklikheid verruil vir 
die liggaamlose vlietendheid van skaduwees
en die stramheid van my rug verkwansel vir
die vryvoetige spore op die sand
maak my rugstring vry van hierdie gewigtigheid
wat haar heeltyd afrem

meer as om 'n vry fokkin vrou te wees
wil ek 'n vry fokkin rug hê

only the syllables of my tongue

i do not need petrol

metals coal

hammers nails

pipes or cement

only the syllables of my tongue

that have shaped over 
centuries and continents

to land right here in my mouth

i do not need anything more

my mouth is my factory and my trading post

the crane of my tongue

the pliable walls of my cheeks

the grinders of my teeth

the exhaust of my throat

the ventilation of my nose

and the proud arch of my palate

that oversees the whole pulsing production line

no greater poet’s joy!

with only this one mouth

i make my world come alive

trekkrag

‘n mens dink dat om te skep 
– woord, beeld, klank –
is om met vloei
en harmonie
te werk

maar die waarlike impuls
– die  dryfkrag vir die skepping –
is om ‘n weerstand te genereer
‘n wrywing, ‘n konflik met realiteit
‘n stoeiery met banaliteit
‘n worsteling met normaliteit
‘n weersin in gryse een-dimensionaliteit

kreatiwiteit gly nie net uit die staanspoor
dit moet trekkrag hê:
vassuigend, vasstekend
vas geanker in ‘n hittige halsstarrigheid 

die tee-gedig

met tee-tyd besluit ek om ‘n tee-gedig te skryf

dit sal die toonaangewer wees vir die res van die dag

daar sal skaars ‘n ander tee-tyd homself aanmeld

vir hierdie geleentheid

moet nie jou tyd met die tee te na kom nie

pluk blaartjies tiemie en gooi dit om jou territoriale grense

die tessitura van jou stem sal verstaan word

en die tannetrekkers sal uit jou pad bly

hierdie tee-tyd is daar nie tyd vir tierlantyntjies nie

die verse sal met terrasdinamiek die energie so dramaties

vasvang dat die toffie-appels die tande sal laat kraak

tevergeefs hou jy die trajek dop

die tierlelies sal blom ondanks ons weer-voorspellinge

ag hoe lekker om ‘n topografies-interessante gedig te skryf

hoog- en laaglande sal baatvind by 
die verskeidenheid temperamente

ek loop tastend deur die tapioca-poeding 
wat hulle opdis by die tee

die teefhond wat by my voete lê jaag 
die kleine toppies uit die druiwe-prieël

ek dink skielik aan tirolie in switserland 
soos wat ek nou hier tussen al die tee-goed staan

die toast met tamaties word op skinkborde 
deur rye honger monde ingehuppel

ek bly neurie op die tonika van c in

die gevoelvolle en gepaste teneramente styl

in die hand van ‘n troebadoer is ‘n tamboeryn 
waarop ‘n tamaai tameletjie ingewals word

aaijaaijaai, die tragikomedie van hierdie soet tye

dinge raak net soeter

nie maerder of beter of gelukkiger

die tarentaal word ingekatrol oor die grondpad

hulle lyk soos spykers wat uit dakke lostrek

hulle tjirre gille breek deur my timpanum

die stof trek opwaarts in ‘n tregterende tornado 
oor toring en trekboer

terwyl die trigonometrie die graad twaalf kind ontwyk
voel die juffrou hoe die dors haar tande styf trek

sy probeer hard om met behulp

van taktiele taktieke

die volgende tee-tyd om tien

nader te roep

The Cross Roads IX

And on the hottest day at the Cross Roads the Loner shows uncharacteristic concern

for the whereabouts of the Anarchist. “It has been three days now that I have not heard or seen that Anarchist” as he wipes the streams of sweat off his brow.

The Loner peers into the trembling shimmering of the plains.

“Today is not the day to be out in this inclement sun” scowls the Cave-Dweller.

“What can he be up to?”

With an explosive vindictiveness the Prehistoric Postal Agent bursts out “I have heard that he is looking for his own cool cave. Seeing that you have appropriated the cave for yourself, no one else has such a refreshing time in these sweltering days as you!”

The Cave-Dweller clearly taken by utter surprise at this new news, replies “This is the first I hear of an interest in my cave. If there was anyone who would have vocalised his desire to share the cave with me, I would have offered. People forget there is language to communicate these desires with.”

As the Prehistoric Postal Agent started retorting, the Carillon sounds a discordant cord that pierces through everyone’s teeth. “Oh no, this heat is making my bells play up! I can not stand these high temperatures anymore!”

The Prehistoric Postal Agent still clinging onto his retort grabs his chance and blurts out “See, now is your chance, Mister Pro-Communicative Cave-Dweller, that you should offer the cool chambers of your cave to Madame Carillon.”

Instead of being provoked, as is usually the case, the Cave-Dweller utters a response that stupefies the Cross Roads into the longest silence it has ever heard. “Please, do move into my Cave, Madame. Mi casa es su casa.” This he pronounced with such unaffected sincerity that even the Carillon could not chime for a good part of that sizzling afternoon.

The Loner has taken off his shirt and shoes and started to climb to the top of the overhang of trees. With such intensity of concentrated eyes, he peers all over the plains. “We have to find the Anarchist – he can not miss out on this opportunity to witness the Cave-Dweller’s uncharacteristic hospitality.”

From under the scant little shadow of the cairn of stones the mumbling of the Wretch could be heard.

“Speak up boy!” the Prehistoric Postal Agent shouts out to the Wretch.

Only more mumbling could be heard, this time with a more throaty quality.

“I fear he might be suffering from sunstroke?” pipes in the Loner. “We should move him into the New Hospitable Atmosphere of the Cave.”

The Prehistoric Postal Agent always deeming himself as the carrier of parcels, thought that the carrying of a person will not be out of place in this new and exciting chain of events. He aimed straight for the cairn of stones.

As the Prehistoric Postal Agent drew closer to the Wretch, the cairn of stones started toppling. “Do not come any closer!” the gruff voice of the Anarchist could be heard from the interior of the cairn. The Wretch, completely debilitated, uttered with great effort “I told you not to worry about me. But you didn’t hear. Three days ago the Anarchist has made his home in the confines of the cairn. He asked me to be his gatekeeper and not to let anyone in.”

The links to the previous eight 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

https://laraafrika.blogspot.co.za/2015/07/the-cross-roads-vii.html

https://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2017/11/the-cross-roads-viii.html

die gekartelde wensdenkery

die gekartelde wensdenkery laat die vel jeuk

van ongeduldige komeet-stert-sparteling

wie het lus om nors te wees as daar soveel druppels

oor die aarde galop?

mense is maar net aspris om die euforie te besmet

met hulle gladdebek verskonings

die kraai verspil sy gesteelde juwele in die wind

oral spring vingers die lug in

en gryp gryp gryp

en met aandete word daar gekloek om die

glibberige vondse wat net nie wil tuisvoel in die hande nie

voel die kastaiing ooit voltooid in sy mildelike

groei van pienk bloeisels?

hoekom vra ons dit van natuur –

om iets te voel?

die kompanjie van ons maplotter-koppe

dink en voel onsself gedurig binne-in die van ander

ag ek moet seker meer simpatiek wees

want is dit nie wat ons soek nie –

meer barmhartigheid?

die gepantserde beslissings smee met akkurate fokus

al die kosbare metale tot een verboureerde leermag

hoekom word hierdie aksies alewig bekroon en nageboots?

ek kan net kners op my tande

en hoop al hierdie sjambolika bedaar

in die harte van die onstuimige kansvatters

deur die glaserige oë van die skilpad sien ek

die heliks van ons tyd

spin en spin en spin

mag die spin sy rigting verander

die ongurigheid uitsif en

die skurwe psige skoon spin

deur dit alles word die reisbiljette

in miljoene kopieë nogsteeds uitgedruk by die drukkers

en wee o wee die vliegtuie probeer hard

om die globalisasie vasgegom te hou

die selekant kom skril uit die donker tonnels van

ons verlede gegil

hoe imposant moet die wêreld vir hom nou lyk

wanneer is dit klaarpraat met die verwaande oortuigings

wat so selfvoldaan oor die landskap slenter?

maar die slange sal bly vervel en  

krul van plesier

sekere ritmes ken nie belemmering en kniehaltering

dit sal bly pols en sis en stoom

al is die bastion van ons taal al so uitgetrap deur

die wilsmoedige tonge

bly praat

sal ons bly praat

en bly skryf

sal ons bly skryf

die strewe om aan ‘n doelgerigte skepping

geboorte te gee

is nie te versmaaie nie