Rooiborsduif

The poet: Breyten Breytenbach

My beloved . . .I'm sending you a dove with a red chest . . .. .


Allerliefste, ek stuur vir jou 'n rooiborsduif
want niemand sal 'n boodskap wat rooi is skiet nie.
ek gooi my rooiborsduif hoog in die lug en ek
weet al die jagters sal dink dis die son.
Kyk, my duif kom op en my duif gaan onder
en waar hy vlieg daar skitter oseane
en bome word groen
en hy kleur my boodskap so bruin oor jou vel.

Want my liefde reis met jou mee,
my liefde moet soos 'n engel by jou bly,
soos vlerke, wit soos 'n engel.
Jy moet van my liefde bly weet
soos van vlerke waarmee jy nie kan vlieg nie

Breyten Breytenbach (Jan Blom)

Like a bird on a wire

Like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"

Oh like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

Leonard Cohen

Photo: Michelle

Let it be

Let it be

deur Jeanne Goosen

Ek sit op die stoep. Die aand kom af

Die driepootbrak huppel huiswaarts

Christus kom sit aan met sy vuil voete

en geblowavede hare

Hy breek die brood. Ek is moeg, sê hy

en ek bring vir hom ’n skottel water vir sy voete

Hy skop sy sloffies eenkant

Niks is meer heilig nie, sê hy

Hulle ploeg nou atoomafval in mý woestyn

Let it be, sê ek. Let it be en ek skink sy glas vol wyn

Sorry, sê ek, maar Tassenberg is al wat ek het

By the way, jy’s reg niks is meer heilig nie en dit maak my sad

Hoe voel jy, vra die meester. Hoe voel jy regtig?

Ek lag. Wil jy regtig weet

Praat met my, sê hy. Hoe voel jy regtig?

Wat kan ek tog sê. Alles is in sy moer

Dit help nie om ’n woord daaroor te tjank nie

laat staan nog bid. Ek meen

my broer se as is in ’n fles somewhere in Stikland

hy stamel sonder klinkers maar ek kop wat hy probeer sê

Let it be, sê die meester. Let it be al huil jy bloed

Die oordeelsdag kom ook en my pa slaap nie

Ek kop, sê ek. Ek kop alles

maar soms verlang ek na die ou dinge

soos die mooi droewe woorde van jou daddy

Goed soos regverdigheid en ewigheid en geluk

Ja, sê die meester, dis ’n lang wag maar hy sal sy woord hou

Ek maak ons glase weer vol

Sorry weer ’n keer, maar Tassenberg is al wat ek het

en waar dit vandaan kom is daar nog baie

so moenie skaam wees nie

Cheers

Daar’s baie dinge waaroor ’n mens jou ook kan verheug, sê die messias

maar los dit vir eers

Sit daar vir ons ’n song op, vra hy

Ek doen

Somewhere over the rainbow sing Judy Garland

Ek breek ’n stuk brood en voer die meester

’n Mens moet eet ook, sê ek

and that is no bloody maybe

Soms is ek bang vir jou ou dad, sê ek

hy stuur reën maar ook goed soos droogte wat diere laat vrek

Let it be, let it be, sê die messias

Eintlik verdien aardlinge niks. Maar daar is goeie goed ook

Vat nou vir Judy Garland, sy’s tog meer as reën of droogte

Selfs een soos daai ou Patience Strong

wat sy soms tussen die lyne kwytraak

Many a true word is spoken in jest

Maar dis julle klomp, julle wat niks met rus kan laat nie

wat van die wêreld so omgekrapte onheilige plek maak

Dis julle, you must let things be, you must let it be, let it be!

Dis net, sê die meester, dis net . . .

Ag, nou weet ek ook nie meer wat ek wou sê nie

Is daar nog Tassies?

Foto: Naomi Bruwer

". . . . . (sy) Jeanne Goosen, kon nooit in die tradisionele letterkunde ’n tuiste vind nie, en sy het ook nie daarvoor gesoek nie – daarvoor is sy te "ontradisioneel”.

Michael Jackson (1958–2009) Joan Hambidge

A Poem in Afrikaans written after Michael Jackson's death by one of South- Africa's great poets, Joan Hambidge.

(Poem and photo by courtesy of Litnet)

Jy was nie
van hierdie wêreld nie:
jy skep ’n Neverland,
jou kasteel met prinse
in ’n verdroomde feëverhaal
weg van jou bitter jeug.
Hier abdikeer jy nooit
jou posisie as die Koning van Pop:
jy herskep jouself
word ’n Gemmerbroodmannetjie
- spieëltjie, spieëltjie aan die wand,
wie’s die rykste in die land?
Jy moonwalk aantygings
oor die vele Hansies in jou towerland.
Die aaklige heks genaamd die werklikheid
swaai haar verdoemende staf:
verrinneweerde, verfomfaaide zombie
verjaag uit jou domein met hoed en handskoen.
En nou?
Jy’s weg, maar ’n andersoortige sprokie het begin.
Jou skuld opeens vereffen,
Die ryk fee red die hele boksemdaais;
die Gemmerbroodmannetjie
ontmoet vir Alice in Wonderland.
En die kat grynslag steeds.

Bitterfontein - Bill Knight

Bitterfontein is situated right next to the N7 highway between Cape Town (380km) and Namibia. The area is known as the Hardeveld and is part of Namaqualand. See a list of West Coast Towns near Bitterfontein and also a map of the region.

Bitterfontein

Bitterfontein, O Bitterfontein

Niks meer as Brakwater hier

Doer innie Woestyn.

Niks meer as smart, niks meer as Pyn.

O Bitter, O Bitter-fontein.

Gee oor die Hoop, gooi op die Hand

Kom ons trek oor die Gariep vanuit die

ellendige Land.

Wat my oorkom, watook my beland

Lyk my, my Drome mors oor

En verdwyn innie sand.

En Aai Aai hoor jy die Kraai

Hoor jy die kreun assie windpomp draai

Maar daar’s bloed innie water

Ek dink ek moet waai

En wens hiedie plek koebaai.

Bitterfontein, O Bitterfontein

Die Dors wat groei in my Siel

Kry nie einde.

En die put is so diep, en my emmer so klein.

O Bitter, O Bitter-fontein.

Bitterfontein, O Bitterfontein

Duisende grafstene staan

En wag vir die Trein.

Daar’s een daar vir jou, en nog is myne,

O Bitter, O Bitter-fontein.

En Aai Aai..

Bitterfontein, O Bitterfontein

O Bitter, O Bitter-Fontein.

Bill Knight
Singer, Musician, Songwriter & Sound Engineer

Bill was born in Botswana, southern Africa and grew up with the rhythm of African music around him. In 1966 his family moved to the Cape, South Africa and Bill became "n egte Kaapenaar" (a true Capetonian).

(source: www.billknight.co.za)

Read more about Bill Knight

Amakeia - A G visser

Amakeia was a Xhosa woman who fled before the Maxhosas after they have burnt the farm house down and killed the farmer and his wife. It happened during the 6th Xosa war in late 1834. She fled to the Amatola Mountains with the white baby of her "Nonna" on her back. The Maxhosas (Xosa warriors) found her there and killed her. She refused to hand the baby over to them. . ."Over my dead body . ." She was very very brave . .

This is a true story.

Since I was a little girl this poem touched me in a way that I can't forget. Till now, this poem is special to me . . . . .

You can read the English translation here

AMAKEIA

In die skadu van die berge,
bos-beskut aan alle kant,
staan alleen die hartbeeshuisie
op die grens van Kafferland.

Saggies neurie Amakeia
op die wal van Kei-rivier,
tot hy slaap, die tere wiggie
van die blanke pionier:

“Stil maar, stil maar, stil Babani;
kyk hoe blink die awendster.
Niemand sal vir kindjie slaan nie -
stil maar, al is Mammie ver.”

Amakeia had belowe
toe haar nonna sterwend was,
om die hulpelose kindjie
tot hy groot was, op te pas.

Liefd’ryk sorg sy vir die wit kind,
tot vir hom die lewenslig
straal uit aia Amakeia’s
vrind’lik-troue swart gesig.

Onheilspellend sien sy tekens,
oorlog kom daar in die land:
Snel die inval, huis en hawe
uitgemoor en afgebrand.

Selfvergetend, doodveragtend,
met die wit kind op haar rug,
na die Amatola-berge
het sy ylings heen gevlug.

“Stil maar, stil maar, pikanienie;
oor die bergtop rys die maan.
Niemand sal vir ons hier sien nie;
môre sal ons huis toe gaan.”

Ag, dat oë van verspieders
ook haar skuilplaas moes ontdek!
“Spaar hom, hy’s so klein nog,” smeek sy
met die hande uitgestrek.

Woedend tier die wilde bende:
“Sterf of gee die wit kind hier!”
“Oor my lewelose liggaam …”
antwoord Amakeia fier.

waar hy gaan, moet Amakeia
saamgaan om hom op te pas.”

“Is jul lewend nie te skei nie,
bly dan in die dood vereen -
kort proses met haar, Maxosas,
laat die blink asgaaie reën!”
*
In die Amatola-klowe
sing nog net die winterwind
deur die riete in die maanskyn:
“Tula – Tula – stil, my kind!”

A G Visser

Draaikewers

(Picture courtesy of Nikita)

D. J. Opperman

1914 - 1985

One of South Africa's most important poets and literary men
Professor of Afrikaans Literature at
the University of Stellenbosch, 1960 - 1979

Read more about the poet here

The Ship Song

Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around

Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around

We talk about it all night long
We define our moral ground
But when I crawl into your arms
Everything comes tumbling down

Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around

Your face has fallen sad now
For you know the time is nigh
When I must remove your wings
And you, you must try to fly

Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around

Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around

Ocean

Photo by Peter Hollard (Weskus)

 

Is it truly understood
The ocean and the shore.
One with the other always
Together at their core.

The ever changing coastline
Defeating those who chart,
The way they move in concert
A union that is art.

Ripples running up the sand
The sand that tumbles back.
Tides that reach the high mark
Seemingly on attack.

Rocks that accept a pounding
From a sea that rants and raves,
Waiting for the storm to end
And the calming of the waves.

 

When I go to sleep at night
Secure, afraid no more.
I give thanks up above
For my ocean, on your shore.

 

Peter Hollard

Alone Looking at the Mountain

All the birds have flown up and gone;

A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.

We never tire of looking at each other -

Only the mountain and I.

Li Po

(Image via web)

A Solitude Of Space

There is a solitude of space,
A solitude of sea,
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be,
Compared with that profounder site,
That polar privacy,
A Soul admitted to Itself:
Finite Infinity

Emily Dickenson

(Picture by Jaco Roos)

One Acquainted WithThe Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

(Image via web)

Solitude

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

Lord Byron

(Picture by Peter Hollard)

Lone Figure

Lone Figure

Where a lone figure strides
along the wide empty
rim of the sea a gull
holds the sun
like a shell
in its beak
from the sea’s womb
from the tide’s
broken tomb
a hermit crab crawls
into the dropped empty
shell of the sun
and with its huge claw
closes the door.

Written by Charl Cilliers

(Picture by Peter Hollard)

Boer