Tankwa Reflex

Tankwa Reflex - Performance piece and art installation at AfrikaBurn 2012



photo: Gary van Wyk

photo: Conrad Lattimer

 

photo: Henry Fagan

 Here is a selection of poems that formed part of my performance piece "Tankwa Reflex" I performed at AfrikaBurn this year. I printed and laminated over 40 different poems to drift on water being contained in 30 green enamel bowls. Granny Smith apples were placed in a star-shape around the bowls. The piece served as an installation art work, as well as a setting for the performance poetry piece I presented on the Friday and Saturday of the festival. 
I really enjoyed the way the piece was received. I do not like to impose a definite interpretation on the piece. When people came up to me and asked "does the star-shape signify anything?" or "what do the apples mean?" or "why all this water?" then I would answer "what does it all mean to YOU?" Sometimes an art work need not be explained, but simply experienced. There was so much poetry within this specific piece - the glistening light falling on the water and the mirror-mosaic, the colour and taste of the apples, the wonderment and curiosity on the viewers' faces. "Tankwa Reflex" is simply an open-ended reflective interaction with art and performance. Within the piece there were definite ingredients giving it a shape and feel, yet what the piece stood for was as varied as the people who experienced the piece.

I should add that the incredible rain and flash hail-storm that broke through the skies on the day before the first performance made me experience the piece and the poetry in a different light. The Tankwa Karoo, where the festival is hosted each year, is known for its desert climate. If you want water there, you have to bring it yourself. No taps, no rivers. Thus, for the first time in the fest's 6-year history the rain and hail did come as a surprise and a challenge to many. Some of the art works and theme camps were "re-shaped" and "re-distributed" by the winds and rain, yet the festival-goers and artists retained their sense of humour and AfrikaBurn spirit and most of us rose to the occasion and came out the better.

A special thank you to Andreas and Chantell who made the mirror mosaic.
A big thank you to the apple seller in Paarl who gifted me the 700 apples and a hearty thank you to all the photographers who shared their photographs so generously with me.

photo: Tim Honey

Entrance of the Waters

Beloved of the rivers, beset

By green growth and transparent drops,

Like a tree of veins your spectre

Of dark goddess biting apples:

And then awakening naked

To be tattoed by the rivers,

And in the wet heights your head

Filled the world with new dew.

Water rises to your waist,

You are made of wellsprings

And lakes shine on your forehead.

From your sources of density you draw

Water like vital tears

You pull the sands of ancient riverbeds

across celestial nights,

Crossing rough, dilated stone,

Breaking down on the way

All the salt of geology,

Cutting through forests of compact walls

Dislodging the muscles of quartz.

Make way for the entrance of the Waters!

- Pablo Neruda

photo: Tim Honey

 Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.

- Louise Erdrich

photo: Tim Honey

 your wild and green veins have grown to this rocky outpost of my thirsting heart

i trust that sustenance will be found even in the most bare and dry season

it is the tip-ends of your tenacious roots that beat fiercest with craving life

and it'll grope and push through this wild darkness till it finds that rarest and sweetest of water

- Lara Kirsten

photo: Tim Honey

Climb

into

the present,

step

by step,

press your feet

onto the resinous wood

of this moment,

going up,

going up,

not very high,

Don't go all the way to heaven.

Reach

for apples,

not the clouds.

You

are

your present,

your own apple.

Pick it from

your tree.

Raise it

in your hand.

It's gleaming,

rich with stars.

Claim it.

Take a luxurious bite

out of the present,

and whistle along the road

of your destiny.

From "Ode to the present" by Pablo Neruda

photo: Conrad Lattimer

 stand in your own water!

only from your own spring

can you come to life

only from your own deep well of water

can you reach the heights of your being

stand tall in your fountain

stand strong in your rich cellular potential

grow wild and far

turn this handful of water into a wave

and turn this wave

into

your

ocean

~

- Lara Kirsten

photo: Gilles Chevalier

 Be wild as water

write, erase and rewrite

your purpose and direction.

Feast

on your seasonal moods

of fertility, fragmentation

self ruin and silence.

Be faithful

to the fire in your heart.

Strike the earth!

Split the sky!

Be true

to your shifting essence

of ice, mist and flow

and your curving bow

of liquid colour.

- Ian McCallum

photo: Conrad Lattimer

in die holte van my hand

hou ek die water van die land

en prewel 'n soete inkantasie

smekend dat ek van water kan leer

hoe om vlugtig deur jou vingers te vloei

en aarde toe te val sonder weerstand

in the hollow of my hand

i hold the water of the land

and murmur a sweet incantation

begging to learn from water how to

flow flightily through your fingers

and fall to the earth without resistance

- Lara Kirsten



photo: Gilles Chevalier

i look deep into the water

try to find its voice to teach me the rhythm of its flow

ah, i hear you water

i feel you water

i smell you water

i taste you water

i see you water

what will become

of me

without you?

- Lara Kirsten

photo: Gilles Chevalier

in touch with water

i am me

i am

uttterly

me

in touch with water

you are you

utterly

you

-

cup the water of life in your own hands

and bring to your mouth

swallow

and be blessed

- Lara Kirsten

Wit

in wit wil ek wees

in wit wil ek myself skilder

geen skaamte op my wang laat bloos nie

in geen vrees my vlerke laat val nie

in wit skone wit wil ek wees

skim

spook

'n denkbeeldigheid

kan dit dalk op eerste sig lyk

maar wit so waaragtig as wit sal ek wees

ek wil nie meer wegkruip agter kleur en

fladder en spier en spring en vlieg nie

ek wil hier

wees

net

hier

wees

en in wit sal dit moet wees

kleur my hele lyf wit in

laat geen ander kleur deurskyn

net wit

altyd wit

in wit wil ek praat 

in wit wil ek sing

in wit wil ek dig

in wit wil ek slaap

laat ek alle kleure verwit

laat wit my hele wese oorneem

elke spier

elke gedagte

elke tree

elke asem

laat dit in wit wees

kleur verlei

kleur maak deurmekaar

gee

my

eerder
die
eenvoud
van

wit

Gode van die Vurige Vrees

photographer David Cushing

photographer Gilles Chevalier

A very striking and memorable art installation at this year's AfrikaBurn Festival, The Fear Gods by artists Kim Goodwin & Elisabeth Balcomb inspired me to write this Afrikaans poem>

gode van die vurige vrees

die gode loop angstig al om my enkels

wag vir net die regte tyd om hulle tande in te sink

soos wilde oerdiere wag hulle met die aarde se tyd

lank groei hulle ledemate met hierdie wag

en nog langer groei hulle lus met elke nag

die gode loop onverskrokke oor die aarde

kyk nie links of regs

loop ongedeerd deur die lug en oor die klippe

hulle rugstringe buig met die wind

hulle knieë knak met die stof-blitse

hulle oë styg en sak met die son

nooit sal jy hulle uit die oog kan verloor

soos vrees sit hulle om jou keel

herinner jou aan die rigting waarheen jy moet trap

soontoe, soontoe

van daardie middag toe die gode oor my pad stap

was niks anders dieselfde daarna

met skouers, arms, borste, boude en bene

het die landskap gegil van

dierlikheid

'n wilde dierlikheid

gefokus, stil, onstuitbaar

is hulle voete-pas vasgenael in die grond

met soveel oortuiging is hulle god

is hulle dier

is hulle mens

uit hulle oogholtes broei die donker wolke

kolk die lug in een heilspellende inkarnasie

wat god-weet enige oomblik los kan skeur

maar staan, staan hulle in die oog van die storm

vlug nie, lag nie,

geen histerie

net 'n kreun wat saggies deur die linker bo-been breek

staan, staan hulle

op die vlaktes

die gode van die Vurige Vrees –

julle hou die lug,
die hart 
en die aarde
wakker!

The Burn of the Fear Gods
photographer Ed Franc Loverock Babb

The Voices of the Ancestors - Performance Piece for the burning of Temple Solace at AfrikaBurn 2012

(photo by Nick Barnett)

During the AfrikaBurn festival I had the honour to create and be part of a performance piece, The Voices of the Ancestors for the burning of Temple Solace (artist: Simon Max Bannister) To find out more of the vision behind the temple, visit the site www.solaceafrikaburn.info

The elements on planet earth continuously challenge me; somehow they seem to be begging to be touched, and at the same time be enigmatic and powerful beyond our human grasp.  Since taking part in AfrikaBurn 2010, fire has been a very prominent element in my poetic work. Simon approached me and offered me an opportunity to take his visionary structure and conceptualize a performance piece around the ultimate burn of it.

I took various elements from three previous strong poems of mine (Voices in Song, Uit die Resonante Holtes and The Pulse of Fire), added verses here and there and refashioned it into the poem, The Voices of the Ancestors, which I eventually performed at the burning of Temple Solace.

Why Voices ?

Simply because I love the human voice and what it represents - communication, community, reconciliation, creativity and expression. Indeed, if applied with heart, voices can be a great bringer of hope and solace.

Why The Ancestors ?

The main effigy at AfrikaBurn, the San Clan  (representing our forefathers, the first peoples known to have tread upon this earth) is fashioned into a figure with many heads and legs joined into one body, symbolizing the spirit of an Ubuntu-community . Temple Solace was situated on the outskirts of the playa (the main AfrikaBurn play-and-art ground) behind and in line with the San Clan. I find it significant and necessary to dialogue on primal, mythical and symbolic levels at an art festival that is so rooted in the primal, mythical and the symbolic. A strong tradition that has been passed onto AfrikaBurn from the original mother-festival in the USA - Burning Man (hosted yearly in the Nevada desert) is that of commemorating friends and family who have passed away. Temples, pyramides and shrines are built to serve as places for release, closure, remembering and honouring the Dead. Many people write messages, poems, confessions, letters, quotations and random thoughts on the walls, knowing that when the structure is set alight, the messages will too be ignited, rise and "be sent" to whatever place the living wishes it to find rest.

What is of particular value for me is the reverence, introspection and gratitude these "temples" inspire. These structures are not affiliated with any defined religion or spirituality. Anyone is free to come with any intention, emotion or simply "just be" in the space. The prominent feel in and around the temple is that of quiet meditation - a much needed space amidst the wild revelry of the festival.

Six of my good AfrikaBurn friends, Tristan, Berna, Andreas, Jurie-Jan, Lachlan and Bronya portrayed the Six Ancestors. Each one of them wore paperclay masks (made especially for this piece by sculptor Coenie Strydom) and their bodies covered in black. Their movements were simple, and such that they mostly moved slowly in accordance with the weighted feel of the music (Dead Can Dance's The Host of the Seraphim). Small tilts of the head, small arm and hand movements. The Six Ancestors didn't move synchronised – each one moved in their own style, within the framework of the general choreography as indicated below in the text of the poem.

The Voice (Lara) dressed with golden ruff around neck and wrists, face-painted with gold, gold spray-painted hair and a long golden robe. The Voice do not move around too much – performed the poem with headmic and a strong soundsystem as supplied by the MASH-ed team.

Voices of the Ancestors

First the Six Ancestors walk out of the portal of Temple Solace, followed by The Voice

Let the Voices of the Ancestors

shake the Walls of our Temples

Let their Voices strike Deep into the Heart of our Beings

and sing the Harmonies of Solace into our Souls

Here the Six Ancestors and The Voice are standing in front of the portal – all in a line, The Voice in the middle with 3 Ancestors on her left, and 3 Ancestors on her right

Let the Voices of the Ancestors

break open over the Plains

and sing over the entire Earth

the Song that sounds in our Dreams

and pushes through the Cracks

and goes and sit in the Marrow

until it transforms our Bodies

into one Transcendental Wave

Here the Six Ancestors start slowly circling The Voice, making more pronounced movements with their arms

Let the Voices of the Ancestors

be Fire in our Souls

Let them Sing into the Agelessness of Time

and make us believe We are Beauty

We are Sun We are River

We are Stone We are Air

We are that which gives us Life

Here the Six Ancestors still circles The Voice but in the opposite direction. The Ancestors' movements become faster, slightly twitchy and erratic.

Let the Voices 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

Yes, let the Voices of the Ancestors burn with the Desire

to have the Flaming Power be lead through our Veins

and free our Soular Potential

Here a slight pause in the poem - the Six Ancestors walk back through the portal of the Temple and exit at the back end. The Voice remains in front of the temple. Here the Temple-Builders set the Temple alight. The Six Ancestors scatter themselves in order to surround the burning Temple  – spacing themselves quite evenly from each other. The Voice moves forward further away from the flames.

Let the Voice of Fire

show us the Road to Sacred Togetherness

Let the Finger of Fire point the Way to Utter Release

Let the Eye of Fire light the Paths of Transformation

Fire sings in One Language

that all Clay and Skin fathom without Cerebrality

It is the Unrest of Fire

that challenges our Sense of Peace

It is the Embrace of Fire

that teaches us to stand Together and Love

Here the Six Ancestors, still spaced around the burning Temple, starts moving in bigger gestures – more from the torso and making exaggerated wavy lines with their arms

Let the Voices of the Ancestors rise

like the Wind rises

rise like the Tide rises

like the Flame rises

Let their Voices vibrate

Let their Voices cascade through our Souls

and let us live livelier than ever before

We the Living also have Voices that sing

Voices that weep

We are Voices that come alive as soon as

Breath and Soul is Born

Let our Voices 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

The Vast Space begs to be filled

with that sweeping Line of Voice

that colours Space with that Wondrous Harmony

that is so strongly at Home in our Souls

I want to be there where the Soul sings

because of this Life’s Blessedness

Let us give Love through our Voices

Let us share this Voice we have had from Birth

Thank you Sun, Thank you Fire for bringing Solace

in the Dark, Cold and Lonely Days

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

with your Warmth we can believe in our Dreams

By this verse The Six Ancestors need to have moved from their positions around the fire to where The Voice is still standing. They form yet again a straight line with The Voice – 3 Ancestors to her left and 3 Ancestors to her right, all taking hands

The Voice of Fire

The Voices of the Ancestors

The Voices of the Living

Let us all resonate together

in one Brilliant Harmony

Let no Voice be silenced!

We all can Sing

We all want to Sing

We all need to Sing

We all can Burn

We all want to Burn

We all need to Burn

Here all still holding each other's hands,  raising it high to the SKY!

If we Raise our Voices, let it be in Song!

If we Light a Fire, let it be in our Hearts!

- - -

I am very grateful for all the varied elements and people who played their respective roles in such a way as to give rise to one great and moving burn.

I want to ride my Bicycle

photo taken by Michael Melck during the World Naked Bike Ride, Cape Town, 10 March, 2012

Here my re-working of the Queen song, "Bicycle Race" > Pardon me Freddie, I am sure you don't mind me taking these liberties (-;

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride it naked just as i like

You say clothes I say nude

You say damn I say prude

You say rules I say no man

Laws were never my scene

And I don't like Bra Wars

You say Freak I say Show

You say I step on your toe

You say Flip I say Fuck

I don't believe in Goldilocks

Riding Hood and her Red Frocks

All I wanna do is

Bicycle bicycle bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle

i want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride my...

The Naked Ride is coming your way

So forget all your clothes Oh Yeah!

Bare bottomed girls They'll be riding today

So look out for those cheeks Oh Yeah

On your marks get set streak!

You say cog I say chain

You say mad I say sane

Lady Godiva will rise again

She doesn't wanna be asleep in Slaapstad

You say Nuts I say What?!

Breathe I say please

Open your mind, come on try

I don't wanna be a clothe-ling

in this balmy time of Spring

Cause all I want to do is

Bicycle bicycle bicycle

I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle

i want to ride my bike

I want to ride my bicycle

I want to ride it naked just as I like!



die djellie-trip

My pa, Louis skrik nie vir kook, bak en brou nie. Hy is passievol oor proe en eet en smul. En natuurlik probeer hy dikwels nuwe resepte uit! As ek vir hom vra, kan ons dit of dat byvoeg dan sal hy antwoord: "Moer by!"  Een gereg - komkommer jellie - het hy my eendag oortuig om saam met hom te maak ...

die resep maak my lag, die uie maak my tjank
aaarrrrgh, die geraspe van die iengliesh q'cumber vat te lank!
die suurlemoen spat in my oog
o god, dis alles 'n toets vir my kook-geloof.


fok dit! ek gryp die sitroensuur
plug die electric grater in,
sit my sonbril op
 - vir wat sal 'n komkommer,  su'lemoen en ui
my dan nou so onder kry?


ek klits met 'n nuwe lus
niks gaan nou my vuur blus!
dis net poeier van gelatien waar jy kyk,
heuning wat blink tenie mure en oppie lippe pryk.


toe, toe!! paas die dagga en die dill
dis nie nou die tyd om vir groen te gril!
(wat se^ Louix: sommer moerbye ook -
dit sal als die lus bly stook)


hokaai nou! moenie te veel proe en lek!
laat die djellie eers ordentlik stol en set.
binnekrt sal ons die tonge indip
en ons smaakkliere en ingewandes heen vat op die djellie-trip!

die son
skiet
teen
die kranse
breek die klippe
in
honderd
splinters
lig
laat my kop
tuimel
oor die die beurende klip
vryf my gesig met
die grond
van hierdie aarde
maak ek 'n masker
dat
die voorvaders
my kan herken
trap ek diep spore
dat die voormoeders
die trots in my treë kan aanskou
en weet dit is hier waar ek styf aan die lewe wil bly klou

Dankie Liesel Kershoff vir die foto!

http://www.lieselkershoff.com/

Afrika-Dig

(photo by photographer Liesel Kershoff < http://www.lieselkershoff.com/)

this is one of my favourite performance poems that my audience and i have enjoyed since i conceived it in 2009. i have never performed it in English. it is one of those poems that comes to its full right in my mothertongue. Yet for the sake of my English readers, a translation follows.

afrika-dig

ek wil 'n gedig skryf wat soos afrika ruik

wat soos die berge van afrika

onder my voete pols

'n gedig wat soos afrika jou laat voel

dat jy tuis gekom het

'n gedig wat afrika-vas is op my tong

wat gloei soos die afrika-son op my rug

my tong is warm afrika-klip waarop die son vurig neerpyl

en die sonbesies teen die boombas van my keel sing

sing sing sing

die afrika lug en doringbome en krieke

en woestyn-stilte

sing sing sing

afrika uit die woude van my afrika-tong

my gedig wil soos aalwyne die lug steek en

met bloedklanke die ondergaan van my sonswoord

tot stilte en vrede roep

my woorde wil jou roep soos die skaars watergate

in die dorre landskap en die klanke wil dorstig

opgelek word deur die tonge van skugter koedoes

met hierdie gedig wil ek nie sin maak met woord

ek wil my tong soos 'n rotsblok laat tuimel

met die steil kranse af

en met die val wil

ek leer om weer aarde-taal te praat

afrika-aarde taal

africa poem

i want to write a poem that smells like africa

that pulses under my feet

like the mountains of africa

a poem that like africa makes you feel

that you have reached home

a poem that is africa-steady on my tongue

that glows like the africa sun on my back

my tongue is warm africa-stone on which the sun fiery arrows

and the cicadas sing against the bark of my throat

sing sing sing

the africa sky and thorntrees and crickets

and desert-silence

sing sing sing

africa from the forests of my africa tongue

my poem wants to pierce the sky like aloes and

with bloodsounds the setting of my sunword

calls to silence and peace

my words want to call you like the scarce waterholes

in the bare and dry landscape and the sounds want to be

thirstily lapped up by the tongues of shy kudus

with this poem i do not want to make sense with word

i want my tongue to tumble like rock

from the steep kranse

and with the fall

i want to learn again

to speak with the tongue of the earth

africa-earth tongue

dit is soos dit is

A week ago, I cycled through the main road of Hogsback and down the Hogsback pass, in the nude.
4 people wanted to lay charges against me for indecent exposure/public indecency. Thanks to the village's Police Forum the charges were withdrawn. I got phonecalls from various journalists over the past week to hear my side of the story. As far as I know the story featured on the front page of Die Burger, News 24, Die Volksblad and The Weekend Post. I never thought this brief and rather innocent and impulsive moment of fun would cause such a stir. More than criticism I have had support and a real show of interest.
I can write so much on why I do what I do, but I think this poem that I wrote 2 years ago and performed in the nude must speak for me (an English translation follows at the end).

10 years later (2023) I discover this poem by Yeats. I like to include it as the epigraph to the poem

I made my song a coat 

Covered with embroideries 

Out of old mythologies 

From heel to throat; 

But the fools caught it, 

Wore it in the world’s eyes 

As though they’d wrought it. 

Song, let them take it

For there’s more enterprise 

In walking naked.

 - W. B Yeats

dit is soos dit is

- hierdie gedig kom tot sy reg as dit in die naakte liggaam voorgedra word -

dit is soos dit is

in die vlees van my siel

is dit waar die woorde broei

en wat lug soek in die eter van die

naakte siele soos wat hulle saam uit die velle

van mense gebore word

ek kan

nòg meer vel

nòg meer vlees wees

veel meer

as wat ek hier voorgee

dit is soos dit is

die vlees in die naakte warmte van sweet

wat deur skadu van kostuum in 'n hel van klugspel

bedek word

word verwring tot 'n ongenaakbare

banale maskerade

wat is dit wat ek wil bedek met

die weefselkleed van die skaamte

wat die skone vel van sonsoen en

reënval wil weerhou

wil weerhou van die wonderwêreld van sensasie

wat so direk tot die sielshuid spreek?

dit is die waarheid

 die naakte waarheid 

waarin ek vasgevang word om my self uit te druk

soos net die naakte waarheid kan

in die holte van my selfheid

klou ek vas aan die wande van my vel

slegs aan my vel

hang ek vir my lewe

this is how it is

- this poem comes truly to life when it is performed in the nude –

this is how it is

in the flesh of my soul

is where the words breed

where it searches for air in the ether of the

naked souls as they are born together

from the skin of people

i can

be more skin

more flesh

much more

than you are seeing

this is how it is

the flesh in the naked warmth of sweat

that's covered

by shadow of costume in a hell of deceit

becomes contorted in a merciless

banal masquerade

what is it that i want to cover with

the cloth of shame

that shields pure skin

from sun-kiss and rainfall

that shields pulsing skin from the wonder-world of sensation

that speaks so directly so the soul-skin?

it is the truth

the naked truth

in which i am enclosed to express myself

as only the naked truth can

in the hollow of my selfhood

do i cling onto the edges of my skin

only from my skin

do i hang for my life

(The Afrikaans version was published in Ecca 2011 and the South African Literary Journal, New Contrast, 2010)

Ode to Sea-sand

i do not need a second invite
to roll around you, Sea-sand
fly go my clothes
just skin on sand -
what pure seduction
wind and waves
have tasted you
the spaces between every grain
pulse with the memory of the tides
ah, the thrill of you
filling every crevice
of my body
let me never wash!
i can step unfalteringly
over your golden breast
even your bite
when a wind whips
against my ankles
is delight
i do not know
where you come from
yet i would like
to fly with you
on the wind
teach me your
swiftness and
the wisdom of your age

i sing to you,
Sand of the Seas
granules of
finely chiselled Time
men keep their
machinery and gadgets
clean from
you
but oh, come
chafe and sculpt
me
with
your
immeasurable
imagination

Ode to your hands

for Simon

in your hands
lie
a harvest of visions
blessing the earth
and its stones
with their abundant richness
from your palms
rises
the
sun
from between your fingers
shoot
lightning
what divine sculptor's chisel
has webbed them with
such strength
and
such gentleness?
they have touched upon
the
sacred
arrow
kneaded
the
bread
of
life
cupped
water
for
thirst
with them you fly to far horizons and touch the faces of stars
they have carried
heavy
yet they remain
light

two wings in flight

they hold the expansiveness of the constellations
they grasp the
smallness
of
the
trembling leaf
i wish for them
to lie
on
my breast
and to feel
your
heart's
wild
pulse
beating through them
ah, the joy
when you open your hands over me
it is like stepping into
the twilight of the forests
take away food from me
but do not take away your hands

Ode to my feet

ode to my feet

you are by far my favourite part of me

on tar on stone on sand in water

you have burnt blistered bled and bounced

you have carried me through cities forests and grasslands

over coastlines deserts and mountains

shoes have tried to contain you

but your wild spirit keeps kicking them off

you feel the harshness and the smoothness of the land

you set in motion my muscular exploration of space

through you i feel the lightning of life

you are the first to touch the ground every morning i climb into day

i have fallen in love with you

of all my parts you are the least fearful

you show courage - sometime even more than my heart

there are times you tiptoe and sneak silently around corners

yet you do not flinch blush or hesitate

if i prayed i would not pray with my hands

 i would pray with you

my feet

you are the direct route to my soul

Poet, poet speaking bright

This poem finds inspiration in William Blake's poem Tiger, tiger burning bright.


Poet, poet speaking bright
taking words into flight
what human mind or heart
could fathom the extent of thy art?

In what vision or dream
did she find life's stream?
On what wind does she fly
to reach such a high?

Who will listen to her song?
Who will accept her when she goes wrong?
Her eyes are open to see all -
this will make her rise and fall

What rhythm? What verse?
What blessing? What curse
will be unleashed by her pen
to make her passion be felt again?

When the sun sets on her tongue
know that the quest has only begun.
She will need the dark rest
to become her utmost best.

Poet, poet speaking bright
taking words into flight,
what human mind or heart
dare fathom the extent of thy art?