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Hallo! and welcome to my English & Afrikaans piece of the poetry pie. I was named after the little girl from the Swiss Alps, married a Cypriot Greek and grew up in "Zulu-land". Thank you and enjoy reading!
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Elf September
Ten bate van die slagofferfonds kyk ouers saam met hulle kinders na die ballet-op-ys; "Die Sneeu-koningin" en in die oggend met die mis soos die eerste afgelewerde koerant oop geblaai oor die baai, die woorde nog vars in hul ink soos die rou krete van die meeue wat klaend kring om die Satue of Liberty want sy is die Sneeukoningin wat die glasskerwe uit die New Yorkers se oë moet haal en bo die pienk geel en blou rose van verligte geboue waaruit parasiete soos wurms peul hang die dagmaan nog soos 'n slee en hoor elke hysbakdeur se klokkie lui "September Eleven" en elke geldkas van vergelding pieng oop met "September eleven“ en New York word 'n hackers-mecka met elke sleutelwoord "September eleven" en swaels is joernaliste in mediakantore wat daagliks 'n stad van oorkruisde lyne oor ses kontinente kwetter “New York is a city of clever puns strung up like bright Chinese lanterns over a tea-garden" maar by Chinatown dryf die sjinese en japanese lanterns volgens tradisie soos spokerige maskers op die water om die "siele" van die slagoffers na die Oorkant te dra en snags lê die inwoners wakker en luister hoe die mishoring onvermoeid die swerwende siele van die dooies bymekaarroep en heelnag lank deur loods oor die miswaters van die baai met die groen en rooi ligte van vragbote wat heelnag brand teen die horison soos nagligte aangelaat vir bang kinders O New York, New York gaandeweg verdoof die boodskappe van die dooies gelaat in die selfoon van elke hart wat kort-kort hulself weer moet herlaai onder 'n sware smart hulle speel almal dieselfde deuntjie; New York, New York Hey big spender we love you but remember, "te veel sake laat die hart versaak" New York, New York Hey Big Spender, we love you only take care, want te veel "state-of–the–art" laat die hart ineenstort soos 'n aandele-mark. |
Op Elf September 1991 het die "kaalvoet boodskapper" Vassulla Ryden, 'n boodskap van Jesus neer geskryf oor torings waarin euwels ingebou is wat daarom ook ander euwels sal aantrek. On September 11 1991, |
September Eleven
In aid of a fund for the victims, those parents and children sat watching the ballet-on-ice "The Snow-Queen" and in the morning with the mist opened up over the bay, like a fresh newspaper the words still fresh from the press ringing out like the raw cawing of the gulls circling the Statue of Liberty, for she is the Snow Queen under the sleigh of the still visible moon, this morning wiping the glass-splinters from the eyes of the New Yorkers only see buildings lit up like roses squirming with worm-like parasites. and the lift of every skyscraper screams open with "September Eleven" each till opens with "September Eleven" every keyword punches in with "September Eleven" and at night they lie awake sleepless while listening to the foghorn tirelessly leading the cold wandering souls of the dead and hosting them over the mist-waters of the bay past the red and green lights of the freight-boats blazing on the horizon like night-lights left on for children scared of the dark and swallows are journalis still twittering a city of crossed lines over six continents and oh New York you are a city of clever puns strung up like bright Chinese lanterns over a tea-garden but in China- town the lanterns are drifting according to the tradition like ghostly masks carrying the Souls of the Dead over to the Other Side oh New York New York the voices of the dead have grown dimmer in the cell-phones of the heart which frequently has to be recharged under the weight of this grief the messages of the dead ring out with one tune Oh New York, New York hey big spender we love you but remember, too much "state-of-the-art" also deadens the heart until it crashes like a stock-market. |
Autumn haiku’s
It is time again for the swallows to come and write their haiku’s against this soulful sky maybe they will write; and suddenly I remember my hair falling like wet autumn-leaves over the glassed in dream of your face or they might write; cold pigeons in squares of sun practising their Latin chant; Ubi caritas Ubi caritas and I am as lost as them as lost as this dream-filled sky with clouds slithering by like giant white squid and the wind losing itself so completely in the trees like a child opening his bright presents, my body hanging the golden thrill and flicker of a poplar in the ice blue wind of your eyes they might even write; this dream-filled sky is a dragonfly with the intense electric blue of this autumn-air a silence hanging on inner wings of turbulent shadows still sparkling watery moments of sun-filled clouds over emerald green banks and purple mountains. |
Die aarde lê verstrooi
Met na-doodse gedagtes van ‘n geliefde, vrugtehoutjies wat jy versigtig optel soos sjinese stokkies om nie een of ander seer ruimte in jou of van die dag te versteur nie, soos mens versigtig om die wonde van sekere dae leef. Soos die seer stilte van ‘n dag geklief deur ‘n karalarm wat soos ‘n voël skree uit die boom van diaboliese vrugte met takke wat eindig in swart nat gesplete hoewe. Maar op hierdie helder winterblou dag is die lug vol wit ligte wolke watte gepak om die seer blou ruimte van Jesus se Heilige Hart. Dis weer tyd vir die swaels
om hulle haikoes te kom skryf teen die herfslug in V- formasie van lettergrepe sal hulle dalk skryf; daar is geen werkvreugde soos die van die houtkapper of vink of mossie nie of miskien; skielik onthou ek weer hoe val my hare soos nat herfsblare teen die teer gedroomde ruit van jou gesig. of dalk blare dryf soos pers harte al verder uit op die water en al losser gelaat van hulle vrese |
Glorious Autumn
We hear the wind walking in the leaves whispering "I AM, I AM" reassuring us before each freezing winter which seems to become colder each year and above we see the swallows writing their haikus in the sky, turning their visors of v-patterns against the golden watch of a late summer-sun, these dark-winged words in their heavy patterns suddenly losing their rhythm and turning into silvery flecks of silence and randomly falling from the sky like grey and bronze autumn-leaves, as the quicksilver of an autumn-sun steadily eats away all the gold of a late summer until it lies in heaps of graves under the trees naked like stone-angels with their stare beyond time or shards of water’s broken mirror and when I dare to ask these swallows who have certainly travelled much, and certainly have seen other worlds, about the future of the earth they suddenly turn into black arrows hitting the bleeding heart of the sun as the arrows of Jonathan hit the golden harp of David’s heart. |
Ons vlieg eers die sirkelgang
Van water vuur grond en lug en trek dan swart pyle van antwoord oor ‘n kwynende aarde deur die waas van ‘n vraende lug tot in die bloeiende hart van die son; soek julle antwoorde in die lawa van die lug met sy smeltende son 'n maelkolk van meegesleurde blare wat lê in die spieëls van waterpoele en die ou aarde wat sukkel met ‘n oorgang van seisoene met sy siek hart ook al lankal vervang deur ‘n vreemde komeet en nou triestig gekoppel aan 'n neonpasaangeër wat met groen grafieklyne van ‘n laaste hoop opvlam soos varings in die son of vlietende vlinders van son-en-skaduwees gelek uit ‘n laaste geluk van goue gespinde lug en die herfsmaan wat wieg 'n engel uit Openbaring se goue sekel tussen die takke 'n magneet wat gewigtig met die swaar eensaamheid van al ons donker drome ons tog nader aan die hemel probeer trek. |
Te veel junk-DNA.
Uitgedryf deur ‘n koue wat elke jaar al vroeër kom sit ons in hierdie herfslug se droomwarm son want herfs is ‘n boom van gedroomde lug waarin ons soos voëls kom sit met wolke wat laag en swaar hang in die takke soos nat donskomberse en tortels wat die lug louwarm mompel soos kinders in hulle slaap en ons beweeg en luister stil en stom in hierdie lug se water van winderige son en kabbelende blare waardeur ons gedagtes met rooi en geel ganspootjies van gewebde blare roei versigtig om nie die blink rimpelende vel van die lug te breek nie en herken in die onsamehangende klanke van opgewonde voëlgeluide die regmaak om op reis te gaan en gaan self ook op reis elkeen 'n herfsboom vol junk-DNA op pad om weer met die Ware Self te versoen en op hierdie herfsoggend verdwaas te land met te veel bagasie iewers op 'n vreemde lughawe of in 'n verkeerde trein elkeen met sy blaretas vol meditasies, medikasies en ook te veel mutasies. (Volgens moderne wetenskaplikes het die algemene telling van genetiese mutasies per persoon gestyg tot 175 mutasies per persoon. Mutasies is meesal negatief van aard wat die ewolusietoerie in die skaduwee stel). |
Requiem van die herfs
Die blou naaldekoker van die lug wieg aan vlerke van skaduwees wat pers berg en turkoois heuwels en goud uit die son flits jy kom haal my soos ‘n herfswind jou blare se purper mirre en goud te ryk vir my weemoed die dag lê en bloei en bloei om die oop donker are van skaduwees rooi herfsblare wat verdor en verkrummel tot bitter kruie gemeng in die wyn van die aand om die pyn van die aarde 'n bietjie te verdoof soos die alchemie van hierdie seisoen so ryk aan kleur en beweging en goue gloed maar so geestelik aan die bloei met geroeste kettings van blare wat swaar soos ons gedagtes sleep en skraap oor die aarde maar uit die wind se ewige onstuimige gewieg van blou naaldekokers in die bome aan vlerke van son en skaduwees en ons gefragmenteerde gedagtes wat dwarrrel en waai soos herfsblare en wat ons probeer bymekaar hark onder pienk wasige wolkies van emosies keer ek terug na ‘n goue stilte en sien weer jou oë sag soos ‘n liefdesgedig ek sien weer hoe hang my lyf die goue ril en flikker van ‘n populier in die warm blou wind van jou oë. |
Jerusalem
What to write about Jerusalem other than that it is "a state of mind " with old synagogues staring blind with faith it's closed up windows with the stubborn burglar-proofing of pigeons and stars and old men in the gardens stroking long white beards like prayer-shawls or little white mountain-clouds of holiness in this Jerusalem with it's ruins and old buildings like old recurring thoughts in which we like to dwell in which we like to 'come apart ' protected by armies of palm-trees with their branches the rusted swords of an old bloodline of kings and flower-markets of humility and the slopes of hills with the barbed wire of olive groves or the green fire columns of cypress trees smoking in the sun and leading paths bomb-free through the public gardens where two teenagers make out on an old grave without letters like a man without teeth and this old grave the unofficial undeclared monument of a holocaust prisoner in the underground of a universal religious mind and yet the sky always seems to have an open mind like the soft toothless smile of an old man and the streets friendly with bodies warm like camel-dung and sometimes dark clouds would pass like lorries full of hostile soldiers blocking off the sun from the city-gates and tourist and trader trying to read each crack each shadow these Hebrew letters on old yellow and white walls like the parched pages of the Torah and camels with their tired displaced faces of unease like the three wise men from the East in this Jerusalem this Ark of the Covenant with it's city-gates at night flooded with light like raised angel-wings with the hammered gold of the sun on it's stonewalls, with church-spires and minarets like incense-burners and golden domes of bowls and scull-caps fired over the blue mosques of shadows and smokestacks like trumpets hanging against the velvet curtain of the sunset and oh Jerusalem your lowly shrubs are the bitter herbs of our sins floating in the wine of our evenings making us thirst for more of the Evensong the joy of your heady hours poured from the upturned domes with crosses like Holy Grails and the scull-caps of synagogues and the Turkish coffee-pots of minarets until we see the unleavened breads of your hills glowing golden in the green olive-oil of the sun these hills full of women and men nursing the national plant of their hurt pride a bloodline of dark sullen roots like Hebrew letters learning to adapt in a desert with the cheerless weight of too much light and feeling again the ‘phantom-pains ‘ of a former desert-life waiting in these towns where gray and white mules of the clouds still turn the old mill of the earth here where they await there Messiah like rain where they await the Messiah to calm the bushy restless eyebrows of their leaders like bits of tangled palm-branch their eyes with pockets staring like dark desert-wells and young soldiers taking bullets to their flesh with the ease and arrogance of a second skin and their second breaths dark tired trains clinging to the tracks of their women's bodies hurtling and clinging along the bodies when they pass the treacherous hills and valleys of their dreams reaching out for the warm brown clay jars the high cheekbones of their women hidden amongst the salt-pillars in the Dead Sea of their dreams hanging on the shifty prefabricated walls of peace-talks and oranges in the kibbutz-orchards are nightlights left on for children scared of the dark in this Jerusalem where there history remains a valley of dry bones soon to heal and to grow into olive-groves and vine-yards of ancestral understanding in this Jerusalem where we still hear the wind of our “Second Comings “ in the rams-horns of crooked olive-branches and pasted over the bullet-holes in the synagogue we still hear the heroic vibrant Hebrew song of brightly colored children's art. |
Ou Jerusalem
Ou Jerusalem, ek loop vanaand tot by jou stadspoort waar die maan soos ‘n sabel hang en dreig om jou in te neem, jou goud en grys en blou ou Jerusalem die groen palm van my hart staan vol roes en kla vanaand by jou poort soos ‘n seersiek bedelaar leen my ‘n muil, ou Jerusalem dat ek deur jou kan ry verby elke ou muur vol krake soos reëls op die geel bladsye van die Torah dat ek deur jou kan ry jou bouvalle soos ou vergete gedagtes waarin ek so graag weer verval, die ou Jerusalem beskerm deur ‘n weermag van palmbome met takke die geroeste swaarde van ‘n ou bloedlyn van konings, bo blommemarke van nederigheid of die doringdraad van olyfbome en paadjies wat bomvry loop verby elke sipres se groen rokende vuurkolom in die bouvalle waar twee tieners vry op ‘n graf sonder letters soos ‘n man sonder tande (die oningewyde monument vir krygsgevangenes) waar die maan ‘n sabel hang oor die sinagoges wat in blinde geloof staar met die diefwering van duiwe en sterre leen my ‘n muil ou Jerusalem dat ek uit jou skaduwees kan ry wat ‘n mosaiek van blou teëls gooi teen die goue koepel van die skemer verby die stinkstroompies en die lug, wat ruik na warm soet kameelmis in die basaar met koper koffiepotte van minnarette en die gehammerde goud van die son op jou steenmure, die oop stadspoorte saans verlig soos die goue engelvlerke van die Ark voor die fluweel voorhangsel van die skemer leen my ‘n muil of ‘n kombi of ‘n kameel dat ek kan ry verby jou skandmuur wat soos ‘n aardbewing deur jou trek en die Richterskaal van haat al hoër laat kerf, ou Jerusalem dat ek kan ry verby die doringkroon van lemmetjiesdraad om die koepel van ‘n kerk waaraan die bebloede vlerke van die aand hulle note sny om ons met ‘n Nuwe Lied van Liefde te bevry leen my ‘n muil dat ek kan reis tot waar die skape wei tussen kamele soos ou wyse manne en die wind herois uit die skewe ramshorings van olyfbome sing by Betlehem en Nasareth en van Tiberias na Sharon met elke huis ‘n wit gedekte altaar geborduur met blomme vir die Tweede Pinkster se feesmaal dat ek kan ry langs raserige luidsprekers en videokameras en die vredesduiwe van ons slagspreke tot by Tiberias Beerseba en Hebron waar die grys esels van die wolke nog die watermeul van die aarde draai dat ek uit jou kan ry na die vrede van Capernaum en Galilea waar die vars skoon wind die roes dryf uit die groen palm van my hart en die stilte lê ‘n berg met wolke aan die mas en die swaar nette van vrede wat saans nog skeur met vermeerdering van die sterre leen my ‘n muil of ‘n kombi of ‘n kameel dat ek weer terug kan ry tot waar sy ,Olga Kirsch , sit en aanbid in die ou openbare tuin met sipresse wat donker tossels teen die bededoek van die hemel hang, die skemer kapel omgewe met wierook van plante en struike voor sy haar huis binnegaan en gou reg trek die skewe portret van ou Generaal Bengurion soos haar rok en haar voete rustig raak onder die tafel soos duiwe want sy skryf die nuwe ou Jerusalem van ons drome die bouvalle soos ou vergete gedagtes waar in ons so graag verval en die berge om die ou stad toegeprewel met wolkies van heiligheid soos wit lang baarde van rabbis en priesters op bankies in tuine voor moderne swart grafmarmer van geboue en beelde en vensters wat vlamvat met brandende bosse van die son maar ou Jerusalem ek hoor nog herois elke helder herout uit die koeëlbeskerwe muur van ‘n sinagoge toegeplak met die vreugdevolle hebreeuse lied van ‘n muurvol kinderkuns. |
CHRISTMAS-BLUES
Port St. Johns, Transkei 1978. The Christmas-balls have broken on the journey over the mountain trailing the caravan around bends with goats tumbling from it like huge rocks we have soon replaced them with coulored snooker-balls challenging the local kids to a game in a homeland hotel and the local youth bringing out their donkeys and spotted and patched mules and horses like their rustic blankets, for us to ride for a few coppers or dimes in the mornings we ran out early to swim in the brown foamy Coca-cola-waves of the new sun breaking day over the rocks like bread cheeks cheerfully burnt to pink bubble-gum saltwater and sea-wind teasing sticky unknown lusts out of our brown teenage bodies before the on-take of the inevitable yearly Christmas-blues children from the orphan-camp singing their hallelujahs in the “silent holy night “ of fireworks and candle-light the candles drifting over to us like fire on the dark water until the bright insomniac sadness flares up in us my weak legs shivering like yellow bent reeds in the water, the canoe of my body hollow and rigid with tiredness battering against the dreamy pier of your body in the morning when I hear in the still dark of the lagoon the rain-bird still calling from the gilded cage of the moon at one o’clock the transistor explodes into another Jerusalem-attack of words lying shiny black olives of pain on my plate the red Chinese bridge of your body arched over my sudden heavy sobs and two little boys gaping at my swollen eyes like the little red fish they are trying to catch in their brand-new nets in the rustic bungalow of your arms I am the rain-bird in the afternoon calling from the gilded cage of the moon calling the rain of the new-year on old-year’s eve until I see the warning of a storm in the colour of the sea dark-blue like the flower of the wild-banana-tree at daybreak the rainbow of the berg-rain hangs like a web in the mist with little dark things still caught up in it a cock cries like a local child and under the mountain already smoking out it’s blue aloes of breakfast-fires, another year washes out it’s dirty pink lagoon into the sea. Freedom - by Heidi Papadopoulos
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