SELECTED POEMS ACCORDING TO THEMES THAT RUN ACROSS PUBLISHED WORKS
Nagmaal on New Year’s Eve.
The whole dorp is here.
I am three.
Bats in the beams, flickering faces,
shadows of wings
brush my skin.
When all hats bow down
I steal a blokkie brood
sip the hanepoot --
bread and wine swirl in my womb,
spiral up my rising arms
and I ascend –
a trembling moth
in stained glass glow
to meet Your dazzling brow.
And I dare to ask
If You will punish me,
If, one day, I leave this fold
prodigal girl
to source Love
straight from the sea.
Ask a tree, consult a dream
instead of Thee?
Will You, my Lord, abandon me?
Instead, this night,
midst floppy hats and penguin suits,
you baptise me, tenderly,
Your night disciple.
So I slip into the mystic cracks
between the pews
of uncertainty and ecstasy.
Translated from English by the poet
Nagmaal op Oujaarsaand.
Die ganse dorp is hier.
Ek is drie.
Vlermuise in die balke,
flikkerende gesigte, skaduvlerke
borsel my vel.
As al die hoofde neerbuig
steel ek ‘n blokkie brood,
slurp die hanepoot –
Brood en wyn kolk in my maag
kronkel op deur my arms
en ek vaar op –
‘n bewende mot
in glaskleurgloed
Om U blink aangesig te ontmoet.
En ek waag om te vra
Of U my sal pynig
as ek (verlore dogter)
eendag hierdie trop sou verlaat
om Liefde te loop haal
uit die see. ‘n Boom vra,
‘n droom konsulteer
in plaas van vir U, Liewe Heer?
Sal U my verlaat?
Maar hierdie nag,
te midde van pikkewynpakke
en slaprandhoede
doop U my teer --
nagdissipel van die Vader.
So glip ek dan
in mistieke krake
tussen die banke van onsekerheid
en ekstase.
Cling peaches plunge me
to the bottom of the blow-up pool
while water melon wrapped in mealie sack
kept cool under the dripping tap.
Somewhere on the periphery
your bent back,
highveld skies
a lawnmower symphony.
Ordinary days,
help compose the sketchy scales of memory
Translated from English by the poet
Met taaipitperskes plons ons
na die opblaas-swembadjie se bodem.
In ‘n mieliesak toegedraai
koel waatlemoen af onder druppende kraan.
Grassnyer-simfonie in hoëveldlug
en êrens op uitweike, die vraagteken van jou rug.
Vlugtige toonlere van my geheue
uit gewone dae gekomponeer
tertia van presidentlaan
met hare soos brigitte bardot
jou ma was ‘n tomboy
jou sussie ‘n filmster
jou gemmerkat slaap op die mat
ons word twaalf met roet-voete
(saartjie dra nie skoene nie)
skryf kysbriewe
bou pouses in die langgras
‘n den vir die bende
snags as jou kwaai pa slaap
steel ons perskes,
lees antjie krog
swem kaal
of luister na die reën
witbank het ‘n steenkoolsee vol skatte
ons drome bult en swel soos
bomevol lukwarte
Translated from Afrikaans by the poet
tertia of president lane
with brigitte bardot’s mane
your mother was a tomboy
your sister a film star
your ginger cat naps on the rug
we turn twelve with soot feet
(saartjie doesn’t wear shoes)
compose letters for boys
build a den in the tall grass
for the gang during breaks
at night when your fierce father sleeps
we steal peaches,
read antjie krog
skinny dip
or listen to rain
witbank has a coal sea
of treasures, our dreams swell
like bulging loquat trees
Dag na dag reguleer hul ons in rye
met roosters en liniale,
ons-vir-jou-suid-afrikas
kiertsregopgespriet
soos vlagpale
beteuel hul ons
swaaiende poniesterte
gladde bene, sproete bruin broeke
skurwe hakskene –
wagtend vir die klok
om die deur uit te skrum
verby grensdrade
na bromponies en sportvelde
wyd…soos die Heer se genade.
Maar één keer op ’n dag in jou klas,
tweede van voor af by die venster,
stuur ek die kraaie van my oë
die blou van onse hemel in
om nuuskierig te sirkel
oor smeulende fabrieke en mynhope –
keer terug met blink skatte
wat ek tussen skelm kosblikke
en skewe rye tasse opgaar
terwyl jy
getrou, jaar na jaar
met lag-oë en jou sagte lyf
ons woord-eiers bewaak.
Vir Antjie, my Afrikaanse onderwyser & netbal-afrigter
te Hoërskool Patriot, Witbank, vanaf 1979-1982.
Translated from Afrikaans by the poet
Regulated day by day:
rows, rosters and rulers.
United we stand, young flag posts,
in South Africa
our land.
They tame
our swinging pony tails,
legs silky-shaved,
freckles brown trousers
red heels --
we wait...for the bell,
scrum through the door
race past border posts --
to scooters and sports fields
spacious as the Lord’s Grace.
But once a day in your class,
at the second desk by the window,
I send the crows of my eyes
into our blue skies
to circle curiously
over mine dumps and smoldering factories –
when they return to me
I stash their sparkling finds
among secret lunch boxes and scrumpled school bags
while you guard our word eggs
-- year after year, faithfully --
with laughing eyes
and soft lines.
For Antjie, my Afrikaans teacher & netball coach
at Hoërskool Patriot, Witbank, from 1978-1982.