Birth & Death
SELECTED POEMS ACCORDING TO THEMES THAT RUN ACROSS PUBLISHED WORKS
Shawl
my sorrow has trailed behind me
crochet shawl in the dusty road
miles and miles of precious quilt
woven with the colours
of my life's moments
I started making it
the day my dad died
in the dusty road
red dust,
his neck luminous lilac
against white church shirt
in the green grass of the roadside
I found him
before anyone moved,
the car wrecked round my mother's wounds,
she waits and sighs
then a passerby brakes the screeching silence
weave the sorrow and the silence
each treasured moment
trailing silently behind
woven since that Sunday when I was nine
it is mine
Sjaal
Translated from English by the poet
Leed is my gehekelde sjaal.
Dit sleep in die stofpad agter my aan --
kilometer-lange, kosbare tjalie
geweef uit die kleure van my belewenisse.
Ek het dit begin maak
die dag toe my pa in die stofpad dood is:
rooi stof
teen ‘n wit kerkhemp,
sy nek glimmend pers.
In die groen gras langs die pad
het ek hom gekry voor iemand kon roer.
Wrak om my ma se wonde.
Sy wag en sug.
Toe breek ‘n verbyganger die skreeuende stilte.
Weef die stilte en die leed.
Elke oomblik sleep
geruisloos agter my aan.
Sedert daardie Sondag toe ek nege was,
het'k gehekel aan hierdie sjaal.
Thin membrane
While a scalpel slides over your mom's belly,
a favourite aunt dies in her sleep today...
As you two slip past each other
through the thin membrane
– bodies wrinkled, eye lids lucid –
eternity distills in an autumn day.
Listen with the deep ear in your chest
(as Rumi would say)
how doors and gateways
open and close
in the infinite maze.
Welcome, Kay.
For Karen and Henning
Chi
I BREATHE
Early autumn morning,
I stroll from the hospital
to the pharmacy.
Waiting to cross in a bubbly crowd
at the intersection of Smith and Grey
(I know they've been changed,
but I'm fond of these names)
whirl winds
from four corners
sweep to the crossing –
sweets wrappers, clothing tags,
Fanta cans, shopping bags
meet and twirl, bounce and leap...
Goosebumps run along my arm.
I rush back to the hospital,
find you
wriggling
with purposeful pain –
you clutch my hand, and breathe...
II CROWN
A folded head
slowly slowly edges through...
skilled hands reach to pull you out –
skull bones slide into place...
coated in white, you sneeze twice –
Chisanga, pleased to meet you.
III CLUTCH
Curled on your side
in the nest of the scale
your eyes track her voice
while she tells me, Chichi,
you're her first delivery.
When this nurse scoops you up,
your fingers and toes
clutch the edge of the rim...
for three seconds
you cling like a monkey.
She laughs –
silver coins of surprise and delight
jingle down a wishing well
this clear autumn morning.
For Bwalya
Bredie for grief
Choose a good cut of marbled meat.
(Beef is my preferred bredie* for grief.)
Trim excess fat, but
leave small bits to nourish her,
hush her cries – the mother
of this young man wrenched from her arms –
his bear shoulders big hands perceptive eyes.
To begin, onion tears. Loads of tomato.
Garlic to ward off burnt sticky fears.
A handful of pears, or quinces, or plums,
which ever summer fruits you find
for boyhood mischief in back yard sun.
Peppercorn, cumin,
cardamom, cloves.
Roast these and grind.
Scatter to preserve
his old soul brow,
slight shy smile.
Spoon of salt,
quality stock,
dash of wine.
Last before the lid goes on
– to exalt his soul –
a pinch of saffron (per weight,
more expensive than gold).
Allow ample time –
until scented steam
fills echoing rooms...
invokes curing and hope
however unimaginable.
Before you serve: add a touch of vanilla
for the fragrant future she deserves.
*Bredie: stew (Afrikaans)
For Susan, in memory of Johann
Bredie vir ‘n gebreekte hart
Translated from English by the poet
Kies ‘n snit
met voldoende net-vet.
Vir ‘n gebreekte hart, is beesvleis
my voorkeur. Sny weg die oortollige vet,
maar laat klein stukkies agter
om haar te koester, te troos –
die ma van hierdie jongman
uit haar arms geskeur –
sy beer-skouers, wetende frons,
groot kinderhande.
Om mee te begin -- uie-trane.
Swetterjoel tamaties. Knoffel
wat aanbrandsels vrees weg kan toor.
‘n Handvol pere, of pruim, of kweper --
watter somervrugte jy ook al kan kry
vir agterplaas-son se seunskind-ondeundheid.
Peperkorrels, koemyn,
naeltjies, muskaat.
Rooster en maal.
Strooi
om sy wyse frons
en effense glimlag
vir altyd te raam.
Die beste aftreksel,
knertsie wyn, lepel sout.
Laaste, voor jy die deksel
opsit -- ‘n knippie saffraan (per gewig,
duurder as goud) want sy siel is ewig.
Gee dit oorgenoeg tyd –
tot weergalmende kamers
opvul met geurige stoom…
tot genesing en hoop
eindelik verskyn,
hoe ondenkbaar dit ook al
eens geblyk het.
En net voor jy hierdie hartbreek-bredie
vir haar voorsit – voeg ‘n sweempie vanilla by
vir die geurige toekoms wat sy verdien.
Koorsboom
Soutbries speel heen en weer
oor Broers in Groen* se rugbygras,
soos ma se hand sy kuif sou streel
voor skooltermyn se eerste dag.
'n Diep gat wag.
Pa se hande strooi die as.
Sleep die boom. Om die beurt
skep vriende en familie grond.
Dorings kopspeel in die wind.
Vinkneste sal wieg, eendag.
Draai die tuinslang wawyd oop.
Verewig kind se borrellag.
* Broers in Groen: Glenwood Boys' High, Durban
Vir Vicki, ter herinnering aan Tristan
Fever tree
Translated from Afrikaans by Karin Schimke
Salt breeze plays back and forth
over Brothers in Green's rugby grass,
the way mom's hand would stroke his fringe
before school term's first day.
A deep hole waits.
Dad's hands sow the ash.
Tow the tree. Taking turns,
family and friends shovel the earth.
Thorns nod in the wind.
Finch nests will sway, one day.
Turn on the garden hose hard.
Undying child's bubble laugh.
* Brothers in Green: Glenwood Boys High, Durban
For Vicki, in memory of Tristan
Moved
Even organ pipes of Bach’s Toccata,
or his slowest Variatio
cannot reach into the question —
why the tip of her brother’s nose
and his eye balls were gone
when she found him —
mentally ill man
moved on an open truck
from Esidimeni (Place of Dignity)
to an unlicensed institution.
She is just one. Many families weep.
We need new music to dig deep.
Onthuis
Translated from English by the poet
Selfs die orrelpype van Bach se Toccata
of sy stadigste Variasie
kan nie in die vraag in reik nie –
waarom die punt van haar broer se neus
en sy oogballe weg was
toe sy hom ontdek het --
verstandelik-gestremde man
op ‘n oop trok vervoer
vanaf Esidimeni (Plek van Waardigheid)
na ‘n ongelisensiëerde instansie.
Sy is slegs een. Baie families ween.
Om diep te grawe, benodig ons nuwe musiek.
Isis says
Let me rub you with oils
until you sleep; keep watch
when Spirit of Thoth
stirs scarlet feathers of your heart
and harsh cries echo down Africa's spine
from Serapeum at Saqqara to Cape Point.
Read the Book of Gates with me,
I'll keep you while you dream.
Leave your fears behind
in the Valley of the Kings.
Hush my Love,
enter Duat now
on ibis wings.
Isis Sê
Translated from English by the poet
Laat ek jou met olie invryf tot jy slaap;
ek sal wagstaan
As Thoth se gees
vee oor skarlaken-vere van jou hart
en klagte kras weerklink,
af teen Afrika se ruggraat
vanaf Serapeum by Saqqara
tot by Kaappunt.
Lees die Boek van Poorte saam,
ek sal jou behoed terwyl jy droom.
Laat jou vrese agter
in die Vallei van Konings.
Stil, my Lief.
Betree Duat nou
op vlerke van Ibis.