Madeliefies in Namakwaland by Ingrid Jonker

"Ingrid Jonker is a South African icon often compared to Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf and Anne Sexton, due to the intensity of her writing and the tragic course of her life."

"Today we look for something fragile and precious, something that can be broken, or lost, or — since that is her metaphor — not heard. We find it in "Madeliefies in Namakwaland".

Letter from Athol Fugard — The Classic (2.1): 78-1966, from Historical Papers, Cullen Library: A 2696 NAKASA, Nathaniel

Foto: Charl Cilliers

Waarom luister ons nog
na de antwoorde van die madeliefies
op die wind op die son
wat het geword van die kokkewietjies

Agter die geslote voorkop
waar miskien nog ’n takkie tuimel
van ’n verdrinkte lente
Agter my gesneuwelde woord
Agter ons verdeelde huis
Agter die hart gesluit teen homself
Agter draadheinings, kampe, lokasies
Agter die stilte waar onbekende tale
val soos klokke by ’n begrafenis
Agter ons verskeurde land

sit die groen hotnotsgot van die veld
en ons hoor nog verdwaasd
klein blou Namakwaland-madeliefie
iets antwoord, iets glo, iets weet.

Ingrid Jonker

The Last Leave of Fall

Image by Stephen Craig Rowe

I was there

with the sun upon my face

and the cold winds.

Hugging trees,

rustling brush

as my boots lace laughter

in personal poetry

for those who care and are.

Of a love,

of a feeling,

a knowing and a being

so close and so far away

that my arms cry to touch you

and to be held in clean sheets,

quiet streets and an empty sink.

The last leaf fell

as I drew upon time,

and there

I did not Fall

For you.

For you

are forever.

Stephen Craig Rowe

On Pain - Kahil Gibran

Image via web

AND a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart may stand in the sun, so must
you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder
at the daily miracles of your life, your pain
would not seem less wondrous than your
joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your
heart, even as you have always accepted
the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity
through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the phy-
sician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink
his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is
guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn
your lips, has been fashioned of the clay
which the Potter has moistened with His
own sacred tears.

---

from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran

Mis

Image: Gordon Richardson

Mis

Die mis kom aan

op fyn katvoetjies.

Dit sit en kyk

oor hawe en stad

op stil hurke

en beweeg dan verder.

Carl Sandburg

Vertaling deur: Johann de Lange

A Flower for the night

Image by Justin Haaheim

Where I lived for a childhood

the night grass was as magical as the moon;

coolly white and soft, like new snow beautiful,

and deeply piled by the monsoons.

There was a flower (I never learnt its name)

that bloomed one night a year,

following, with its delicate bluish face,

the arc that the full moon steered.

There was a garden of small temples,

a shrine to the wind and other deities,

where tea was served to guests in porcelain shells

carried over bridges of red-painted filigree.

On the low, carved tables scattered about

black pots stood etched with cloud-shaped trees;

each pot held a bud, each had its silent knot

from the waiting throng of, mostly, Chinese.

And then the moon rose fat-faced and yellow.

The few lanterns appeared to fade in the silver air.

In minutes, as in a spell, all the buds opened.

There were so many quiet people there.

Douglas Livingstone