sommige

(met vae apologie aan ee cummings)

afrikaners is geniepsig en eie wys
hulle glo in christus en totius
(net een leef steeds)
op sondag blink die braaivleis tange
en klap die bottels teen hul tonge

ten minste verkeer hulle vreedsaam
voor die vleis met ertappels en rys
more vlug hulle werk toe op die N1
om iets te verkoop ('n arm of 'n been?)
sodat hulle mag hoop (lotto kaartjie of reen?)

afrikaners is al te gemeen
hulle roep klein groepies byeen
(al leef slegs een)
om die derde mag te bejeen
of te gons oor finansiele droogte (en die reen)

--

Afrikaners are not known for their tendency toward self deprecation.

Ons mors baie tyd
Ons oefen blind-, doof-, stom-wees
Hy vra Heiligheid

You dog-ear books

You dog-ear books so beautifully!
They look like happy Alsatians
read by an afternoon of surprising rabbits
and leaping from fish to fish
in a clear stream.

--

An attempt at image. Rather than framing concepts through the use of a narrative, image strives to evoke an emotive response.

wrist watch slowly ticks
24 shovels tunnel
and find tomorrow

--

The classic structure of a haiku is 5 syllables followed by 7 and then 5 again. More importantly the concepts conveyed should stand alone and form a whole. I enjoy opportunities to stretch the definition at the risk of falling outside the boundaries.

Conversation

I see Leonard waving in the distance,
‘You were older before you got here,’ he smiles,
‘this is the land where they make eyes
from ancient butterfly wings,
where you live in the valley of Forever
and make and find brilliant things.’
He shows me his horse
and he shows me the reigns,
‘these are what’s left
of my triumphs and pains’.
I don’t always understand, I say,
where must I go to find my way?
‘She’s always with you,’ he sighs,
‘and she hides in the lines,
she runs with your heart
through deserts and forests and mines.’
Leonard looks to the future
and shows some marks I’ve made,
‘Go build a life with you wife,
learn to use the chisel and the spade,
be gentle, sharpen and sheath your knife,
when you get offered for your soul,
be careful not to get paid.’
Then he gives me a vial
to fill with my laughter
and shows me the shore
and the way to my daughters.

--

I have been a fan of Leonard Cohen for a few years now and continue to marvel at his genius in the use of image. I enjoy the pursuit of balance between narrative and image apart from my obvious tendency toward 17 syllables at a time. Ultimately the act (of writing) is still the most important aspect of the affliction.

wet shifting sand shores
white hot sunfilled shrieks laughter
night hush tide moves in

I am the poet
God of this scrap of paper
drat! my ink is up

Mosquito mosque
Eerie fairy muezzins pray
Curse my sleep away

Wise men always say
To be or not to be, be
Careful when wishing

From this cage of bones
Butterfly millions burst
Into paper flames

Die Bloeisel (na The Flower van Roy Campbell)

Laat geen mak woord jou swye skend
uiter slegs een rooi vlam
tussen begeerte oud en nuut
'n enkel punt van vuur
die aarsel van 'n ster
tussen skemer en die dag

So ryk die stuifmeel van jou asem
genoeg is dit om stom te wees
wetend soos die oomblik glip
met die skei van ons lippe:
die uur fel 'n roos wat sterwend
al ons dae sal kleur

eyes like morning mist
silver through the day to sky blue
sunset amethyst

rhymes are exquisite
metaforest animals
burning tiger bright

you are one of few
absence forgets boundaries
your silence is loud

The beautiful

The beautiful are happy
And the beautiful are sad
The beautiful are in my life
About the beautiful I am mad

The beautiful shine
The beautiful whither ‘pretty’
They say ‘you are mine’
And ‘you are cute and witty’

The beautiful drink clouds
And the beautiful make rain
The beautiful close their eyes
And breathe pearls from my pain

tread the thin water
where shadows of seabirds swim
feel what faith is like

ev’ry little thing
from her tippy toes to her
nippy nose, hmmmagic

for your guileless love
this simple violin plays
for your guileless heart

To D

Dear Dulcinea,
Windmills remind me of you.
Yours, Don Quixote

in afrikaans..

U skud my los -
murg uit been uit vlees uit asem:
breek die hekke oop,
spoel na buite
oor klippe en harde woorde
nietighede onversamel in die son
blink ek verdof ek droog ek
dunner as 'n wens
'n vlek in plaas van ek

a circus and a zoo

Elephants are home in either,
tigers make their beds in both,
crocs will range no wider,
you'd rarely spot a sloth.

Snakes are restricted (save a boa!),
chimps walk erect and aspire
unlike lions who unlike clowns
will jump through hoops of fire.

Horses, mundane, run round in rings
where rabbits from hats are pulled,
magic canes into doves beat wings
while apprehension by whip is lulled..

Unfit for hoops or balancing on drums
the polar bear to heat succumbs,
sliding into a pool in the midday sun.

Dripping ice cream on opposable thumbs,
hairless apes scream and run
pointing at cages, spewing crumbs
in the sacred sweet name of fun.

Hurling coughs and shrieks and squeals
the jungle hums its broken lullaby,
with digits extended reaching feels
the cold limits of an iron sky.

Always a captive, they fail to remind
of a story, once played, just won't rewind.

First post...

nothing beats a poem:
thoughts still, ablaze forever
in a trembling hand