The Cross Roads VI

On a moonless night the Loner awakens by some stirring 

in his stomach and decides to go strolling around the Cross Roads. 

As he walks he mumbles to himself. All of a sudden he stumbles 

over something. It is the sleeping body of the Wretch.

He grumbles and turns around to continue his sleep. 

“I never knew this is where the Wretch sleeps. 

Isn’t the poor fool freezing out on these plains?”

Not too fussed about the comfort of the Wretch, the Loner

walks back to the Cross Roads. As the sun is rising he reaches

his pile of rocks. He fumbles through his little heap of earthly goods. 

“What do I have to do to get something to eat? I’m so tired of 

this hunger. I don’t know how the others stay alive.”

As the sun is revealing its full splendour the Carillon

commences her jolly morning song.

“Oh shut up, you blingy belly thing!” shouts the groggy Cave-Dweller.

“Can’t we just for once sleep the day away?”

“Argh, shut your own trap!” the Prehistoric Postal Agent hits back.

The Cave-Dweller clearly in a scurrilous mood reveals

what everyone has been thinking about:

“We have been here for time immemorial and we have

depleted all our food. There are no more roots, bulbs, fruit,

seeds, nuts and grasshoppers to be found.

I have lost all my energy and lust for life.”

“Thank Godot someone else is also thinking about their stomachs!”

the Loner vociferates.

Up until now no-one knew that the Loner has been rationing

his last piece of guava since last Winter’s harvest.

He takes it out from under his pile of rocks and lovingly rolls

the pink fruit in his palms. As salivation starts forming on

everyone’s lips, the Wretch comes plodding over the plains from

his cold and exposed sleeping spot and eyes the feeding proceedings

with great interest.

Unlike his non-sharing nature, the Loner cuts the remnant of the

guava into four miniscule pieces and hands it out to the

four other denizens of the Cross Roads.

“Oh, someone is in a generous mood.” the Anarchist glibly sputters out.

The Loner, stung to the quick, snatches the guava piece from

the Anarchist’s hand.

“You don’t deserve my giving spirit!” the Loner cries out.

“I want that piece!” screams out the Wretch. “I have been here

for much longer than any of you.”

The Carillon chimes in “What about me?

No one ever thinks of my alimentary needs!”

The links to the previous five 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

vat ek hierdie veranderende gesig van my vas

hierdie gesig wat van dag tot dag 

haar eie wispelturigheid volg

ek het geen houvas op dit wat 

die hoeke en kontoere en lyne 

van hierdie gesig bepaal nie

geen kamera spieël waterpoel of venster-weerkaatsing

stem ooreen met die gevoel 

van hierdie gesig nie

ek dink, nóú, gaan ek hierdie veranderende gesig van my vasvat

dan glip sy deur my vingers

en lag sy vir my narcissistiese wil om skoonheidsbeheer!

staan

in die nie-aanvaarding van 'n sit-lewe 

staan

ek 

en 

skryf 

hierdie 

gedig 

nou kan ek waarlik sê 

ek dink op my voete

die soeke

heen en weer spring my oë in die soeke

na waarde en ‘n opregte klank van lewe

ek kyk in die boomtoppe

teen die rand van die berg

op die donker vlek van my skaduwee

ek spits my aandag op

die krake in die muur en holtes in die grond

iewers skuil en broei dit fungus-stil

ek soek in die heuningpot se taai deksel
in altwee my broekspype

in al die deure se sleutelgate

dalk sit dit in die stof wat geruisloos in hoeke vergader

waar kan dit wees?

ek klim op die dak en kyk vandaar die vertes in

en roep met luide sillabes na die vreemde werkinge van vrede

en die geheimenisse van kreatiewe drange

om hulself uit hulle esoterika te ruk

en hulle helder verskyning te maak

moenie te ver kyk

dit sit moontlik hier reg op my voorkop

op die gehardheid van my sternum

tussen die riffels van my verhemelte

dalk net duskant my tempels

of in die heilspellende holte van my hand

ek soek dit in die lig in mense se oë

probeer dit vind in die toesprake van helde

in die voetsole van die ontdekkingsreisigers

in die asem van die Buddha
by die oprig van brûe

dalk is dit daar by die geboorte van babas

of tussen die vere van die digter se kopkussing

ek hardloop met ‘n oop mond die wind in

die soeke sal nooit stop

ek vou my hande so styf in mekaar

dat die kneukels wit staan soos sampioene

toegewyd sal ek bly in hierdie soeke

Groot Gees

sit al die ligte af

brand mpepho en salie

roep die geeste van die Woord op

onttrek myself van enige drink of eet

ek uiter geen woord

is stil en oop vir

die manifestasie van

‘n rustige ongretigheid

vanself begin my lyf draai in ‘n kolk om en om

word ek dronk op die suiwerende oomblik van

die letterlike loutering

trek die walms van die brandende kruie

diep in my longe

sien hoe die woordgeeste

vorm begin aanneem in

hierdie rare aardse verskyning

die rillings breek uit oor my hele lyf 

o die oomblik kom nader

die arrivering van die Groot Gees van die Digkuns

het aangebreek

sy asem hang soos dik stoom in die vertrek

ek ruik sy woorde in die diep donkerte van die stilte

die letters drup soos warm kerswas op my hoof

moenie probeer om dit af te vee

laat dit drup drup drup in my skoot en

kwiksilwerig uitdartel op die ouija bord

ah ah aaaaah

dis onmoontlik om weg te kyk

die hipnotika is sterk in hierdie oomblik

in die mees heilsame asemrowing

hoor ek hoe die lettergrepe in die mond van

die Groot Gees die

mees magiese gedig uitspel ...

ek wil

ek wil so 

hoog die lug 

in kreun dat 

die cumulus wolke 

in 

honderd 

nuwe

verbeeldings 

breek

I will face the City

i stand waiting for The City to come to rest

waiting for the sun to fall down west

and when the darkness comes

i refuse to leave

i will face The City

hear her cry

hear her lullaby

i must resist my need to turn my back on her

however her breath smells

i will face The City

whatever dress she wears

i will face her

face her tears

hear her song

look her in the eye

do not lose sight of her

who can be more full of willful life than her -

she who can breathe through steel and concrete

i will not delay my greeting her with my breath and body

for she keeps on nourishing from her sooty breasts

i will suckle now because feeding season is fleeting

and hold my peace a little longer in this momentary meeting

and so i can only keep running

and so i can only keep running on with all that i am

through labyrinths of letter and sound

through blood dances and filtrated information

through frames of technologica and self-images

blinding fears, genetica and freedoms

through sorrow and flowers

through choirs of wild voices

through african soil and mirrors

and always through love

i run and push my way through

how can i stop when such a path lies under my feet?
i search incessantly for satiation in this mercurial organica

how rich are the depths that my feet feel in that

sprinting splitting moment

i thrust through with my whole being

with winds chanting around my calves

words boiling and insurgent in my jowls

i weave my way through dark and light

sometimes seeing, sometimes blind

i can not but quake with this tenacious willpower

to tread over the uncertainties of skin and mind

stitching together the scattered remnants of ecstasy still found

in the pristine crevices of the heart

laat ons terugkeer hiernatoe

met die arrivering van die winter-seisoen

staan ek gereed met vlamme wat warm oor my skeen flits

ek sien ver voor uit in 

die onvreedsaamheid van die wêreld

as ek sou bid dan is dit nou

want iets skort in die lewe

die harmonie van saamleef en skep

en mekaar die vryheid van grond en atmosfeer gun

in die uithoeke van ons bestaan sal daar

nog humor moet vasklou om ons siele te red

want as ons eers ons waardigheid verloor het met

die uitwissing van liefde en vrede

gaan ons nie veel hê om aan vas te hou

laat die basuinende klanke van visionêre stemme diep in

die holtes van ons ore vibreer – helder stemme wat 

ons uit ons hibernasie sal pluk

en ons bloed die rigting sal wys

en asseblief, herinner ons om te skep in plek van ruineer

en dat dit ook okay is 

om te observeer eerder as om te reageer

leef met oop gemoedere en juig uitbundig oor

al die passievolle mooi wat 

pols en groei uit hande en monde

laat ons nooit ophou leer

laat ons bly kyk na die groei van

die sade in en om ons

laat ons sonder voorbehoud wortel en blaar spruit

wat van lig en son

skadu en vorm sal maak

laat ons terugkeer hiernatoe:

die eenvoud van skep

laat vaar die kompleksiteite en hoogdrawendhede

stroop die skeppingsdaad tot iets

so vaartbelyn en ongerep

dat ‘n enkele resonans die iris van die hartsoog

sal laat oopblom en tot verligting ruk

forgery

no photographs are allowed because 

this interminable cornucopia of images 

only exhibits our fear of forgetting 

our uproarious forgery of smirks!

gaping

as the scrounging billboards saunter into your eyes

and scrape all your gullibility into your gaping mouth

the moles dive deeper into the earth

kleef

die lewe kleef met al sy indringerigheid

al om my asemhaling

ek hardloop my lam

deur soet, taai en steek woude

die adrenalien jaag deur my are

ek draai al om en om

wonderend of die rigting waarin ek invlieg

die regte ene is

my hart wil nie ophou klop

dit probeer met al sy spierkrag

al die smart uit my hart te pomp

maar niks wil werk nie

al wat uitkom is die hoes uit my bors

wat die newelrigheid van my bewolkte siel vertolk

ek knoop my tong so styf as wat ek kan

waarvan die hart vol is

moet my mond nie van oorloop

nothing will stop the sinking II

the despotic salt pricks the wound

and causes the sluggish tintinnabulation

to ring interminably throughout the cavities of my head

my spit enquiringly herds all the crayons together

this also prevents

my mouth from forlorn gaping

we forget that the hispanic goat

can predict the future

aloof he crows into the night, or is it bleating?

my feet’s blithe shuffle folds meekly over

the worlds’ flushed helter-skelter

if i could but dive my awkwardness away

the billboards rush past our fanatical eyes

our pens can not keep up with

investigating the truth

the pronounced poles blink in the evening traffic

the cornucopia just keeps on increasing

and no clinging interdict will stop the cheating

the mottled wool gives a ferocious smirk

while the girl unknots it to knit a jersey for the fledgling

oh how i would like to photograph this moment

i look from a steadfast angle into the blowing wind

luckily i am snug and warm whilst my feet saunter

firmly like a ballast through the hostile exhibition called human nature

in an uproarious scraping she unearths the mole

and begs it to resume its onomatopoeic scrubbing of the flax seed

this precocious offence makes the poor mole squint even more

the methuselan droplets point in the direction of

the murky conquest

after the incandescent flare-up the wax scrounges for its last meal

she scratches her mosquito bites with an emphatic whisper

and tries hard to answer life’s questions as

the sullen enemy keeps on spreading its cold metallic forgery

please pass me a serviette

i want to wipe these scuffling nouns 

from my elliptical mouth

nothing will stop the sinking

the despotic goat saunters into the room

and watches the flushed mole investigating

how the steadfast droplets squint their eyes

the hispanic whisper forgets that

the fanatical shuffle exhibits

the herding of such pronounced tintinnabulations

the clinging salt smirks as

the mottled poles scrounge

at the foot of the bleating billboard

the interminable gaping spreads

whilst the precocious nouns blink abnormally

at the sluggish enemy spitting in their eyes

the emphatic interdict pricks

the awkward angle which tries hard to answer

the uproarious crayons’ forgery

the sullen serviette blows its nose

when it hears the aloof crow increasing

its ferocious scraping on the tin roof

the blithe wool predicts

that the metallic offence will scratch our palates

and no pointing to the incandescent cornucopia will help

the murky helter-skelter sounds like

the onomatopoeic waxy scuffles

of the methuselan pen

the enquiring fledgling snugly folds its claws over

the forlorn flaxseed and can not understand

that such a hostile conquest rushes into the photographed future past

not even the stability and weight of a ballast

will stop the sinking of

this fridge and its elliptic magnets

poetry always wants to be

poetry always wants to be

re-created
and

re-invented

it is never the last word for poetry

yet it always finds a way to have the last say

you wake up in the morning

with poetry foaming in your jowls

you go to bed

with poetry licking your bedposts

and tugging your eyelashes

it always wants to be felt

and sung and screamed out loud
it always escapes you when you want to pin it down

poetry does not relent

it is that primal pulse that once it has

knocked in your throat

will keep on knocking 

poetry has a way of grazing your shins

and letting the scar itch throughout your life

like falling stones it ricochets off

the cliffs of my sanity

embedding its shrapnel deep
inside my flesh

die Groot Gedig hy is oppad

die Groot Gedig hy is oppad

hy is al lankal oppad

dit is net jammer dat hy nog nie gearriveer het nie

ek hoor hom aankom al vir jare lank

maar hy kom net nie nader nie

die Groot Gedig is definitief oppad in my rigting

ek sien hom sidderend op die horison

hy is aan’t beweeg

maar hoekom is hy nog so ver?

hy is luid en vol self-vertroue – dit kan ek hoor

hy tril met dawerende geskal

hy is nie skaam vir die atmosfeer en wêreldtoestand

sy treë is groot en kordaat

maar hoekom wil hy net nie nader kom?!

sy stem is helder soos ‘n klok

maar geen woord hoor ek van hom

die Groot Gedig hy is oppad

ek voel sy warm asem teen my hakskeen

my lyf is reg vir hom 

trots en fier loop ek deur elke dag

hoop sterk dat hy my sal raaksien

die Groot Gedig weet van my

ek weet dit

ek voel dit

ek dink die grootsheid van die Groot Gedig

hou hom terug

keer hom om te vinnig

sy verskyning te maak

ek vermoed dit is een moerse Groot Gedig

want hy vat regtig sy tyd

hoe kan ek nou krom staan en moed verloor?

vandag is dalk die dag waarop hy sy verskyning gaan maak

en my dan gaan mis kyk

Lara, moenie opgee 

staan gereed 

vir die Groot Gedig

 - hy is oppad

moet ek?

moet ek die hele antropologiese geskiedenis en

die nuutste omgewingssake ken om poësie te kan skryf?

moet ek allerhande intertekstuele foefies inwerk

om my lesers te oortuig dat wat ek skryf digkuns is?

moet ek ‘n graad en pryse vir kreatiewe skryfwerk hê

om poësie vir die publiek op te dis?

moet ek ‘n dik, hoogdrawende aura om my hang

om myself ‘n digter te noem?

moet ek alewig melankolies tuur die afstand in

om daai versadigende metafoor vas te vang?

moet ek skryf waarvan die intelligentsia hou

om my digkuns op die rakke te kry?

moet ek gedurig wonder dat wat ek skryf

goed genoeg is vir die kritici wat soos aasvoëls

om die af-reuke hang?

moet ek die poësie ‘n afgod maak

voor wie se voete ek myself in alle ootmoed neerwerp

en my siel verkoop vir die verbetering en verskerping van my sinne?

soos wat ek hulle glansende velle bewonder gaan die krag af

ek hoop dat hoe meer ek skryf

hoe beter sal my digkuns

én my handskrif word

dus sit ek hier in il postino

met my skryfboek en pen

om te kom skryf

deur die swaaideure sien ek mtv

flikker inaniteite binne

die vertrek met geen oë

die gegiste stroop van die hunter’s gold 
gly met my keelgat af

my vingerpunte ruik na roosmaryn

die italiaanse pizzeria se kombuis-personeel

is almal zoeloes

dis die uur voor aand-ete-skof begin

lag en klets en knie die deeg

die donker bek van

die pizza-oond lyk grot-stil

maar gou begin 

die vlamme skarrel en spring 

soos ape in ‘n hok

die sagte sillabes van die nguni-taal

motreën sag 

my oor in

sibilante esse en ooohs en sh sh sh

tla tla tla en oehm oehm oehm

eish eish eish

blink skyn die zoeloes se wange en soos wat ek 

hulle glansende vellle bewonder gaan die krag af

loadshedding hoor ek

ek verkies die donker

net kerslig wat die spoor van my inkpunt

verlig en ‘n lange pen-skaduwee oor die papier gooi

meer en meer mense kom binne

die donker skrik mense af maar nie 

as hulle honger is en weet die pizzas word in 'n vuuroond gemaak

rooi en wit blokkiesdoek

rimpel onder my vingerpunte

ek glimlag hoe die dae deesdae uitdraai

ek verkies as die ligte af is

die donker het so baie holtes

vir wegkruip in die middel van die hordes

The Cross Roads V

On an unusually bright and sunny morning the Wretch is whistling

whilst fixing his two marionette puppets.

“Be careful you don’t get the strings intertwined” the Anarchist shouts from the top of a cairn of stones.

“Be careful you don’t slip and fall from your haughty height!”

shouts back the Wretch.

The Anarchist ignores the spiteful warning of the Wretch as he

dislodges the guava pips of last season’s pudding from his teeth.

The Loner, as is his predisposition, keeps clear of this prickly conversation and waters the artichokes that have just started to show signs of growth.

From a distance the Prehistoric Postal Agent can be heard bellowing

“Hats, hats, hats for everyone!” as he swings a colourful array of headgear in magniloquent circles above his head.

“Thank Godot for this! The sun would have fried any last sense of humour out of our skulls” cried the Wretch.

The Cross Roads is such a merciless place.

“Why has the Carillon not announced my auspicious arrival?”

inquires the Prehistoric Postal Agent with a semi-dejected frown.

The Cave-Dweller who is not used to so much sun

sluggishly drags himself to the latest activities at the Cross Roads

and answers “The Carillon is still suffering from the humiliation of

her broken bell.”

“I know what I will do” pipes in the Wretch. “I will get my two marionettes to give us all a delightful divertissement. That is sure to distract the Carillon from her most sorry state.”

As the mood seems to lighten over the Cross Roads, the Anarchist had to ruin the moment with his insurrectionist attitude “Marionettes are just a show of deplorable hierarchy and control.”

The Loner, still tending his bed of artichokes, peers into the harsh rays of the sun and tries to wave the heat away with his new hat.

The Wretch lets out a heartrending howl and pounces on the Anarchist

"You are just jealous that I have found a way to soften the harshness of these indomitable plains! I will go forth with my puppets to our beloved Carillon. She will be too happy that I have found an antidote for her affliction."

The Prehistoric Postal Agent always wanting the last say, squeezes in an exclamation "Don't forget to take your hat!"

The links to the previous four 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

Babel-aas

Tussendeur die skryf van nuwe gedigte, her-besoek ek so dan en wan die gedigte wat uit my pen gevloei het van jare terug. Hier is een wat ek altyd geniet om te lees - uit die jaar 2008 <

en wat sal gebeur

met my tong as ek in tien tale praat?

knoop verdwaal verdronk

sal my tong word?

woord is stuk aas wat ek aan die visstokpunt

van my tong haak

gooi ek my tong in

die waters van tientalle tale

vang ek

afrikaans sotho

xhosa engels

frans duits

italiaans zoeloe

hollands spaans

skree brei bid smeek lek rol

ek elk lettergreep

en word

my tong

Babel-aas

pay attention

we are so indifferent and

lackadaisical in our daily existence

if our senses were open enough

we would give more feeling and respect to

the unwavering wonder workings of 

our cerebrospinal fluid 

if we really paid closer attention to

the miraculous life energy

we wouldn’t be so lethargic

so apathetic

so disinterested

toward a wholesome and hearty survival

kern van versuiming

in die wolke

berge en

wind van die kaapse dae

vertrek die drome in my rug op vlugte van

ongegrendelde uitbuiting

van my sanity

wat is die afrikaanse woord vir sanity?

saniteit?

onmalheid?

gesondheid-van-verstand-en-gees?

hoekom is daar nie ‘n ordentlike kragtige en

direkte antoniem vir malheid in afrikaans nie?

ons afrikaanstaliges ken seker ook die teenoorgestelde van malheid?

of nie?

ek gee nie om om van my verstand te wees

en mal genoem te word nie

een malheid wat ek wel nie kan verduur nie

is wanneer mense my van my kop af praat met hulle

verbale diarree

oneindige babbelsug

ongeeweneaarde praatsiekte

albei my oë raak wasig

my ore verstar en

my borskas verstrak

in die waakloosheid van hulle monde gaan hulle

op trips en rollercoasters van hulle

bewussynlose en briljant monopoliserende monoloë

mense wil gehoor word

so moenie die hel in word nie lara

hulle het stories om te vertel

maar jirre kan hulle nie vir paar asemsblikke net stil wees

stilte is wonderlik vir die brein

die siel

die spasie

en

vir my ore

ek smeek vir ‘n bietjie stilte

waarin ek net kan staar tot in die kern van versuiming

breine en monde is hele-mal te ooraktief

ek smeek

ek smeek

maak hulle stil

maak hulle stil