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?!