NKOSI SIKELEL i-AFRIKA - H.A.

FAGAN
Uit duisende monde word die lied gedra.
Ek sluit my o; soos n serafskoor
val daardie stemme strelend op my oor:
Nkosi sikelel i-Afrika
ons vra U sen, o Heer, vir Afrika.
Ek kyk, en sien die skare voor my staan:
Zoeloe en Xhosa, Sotho en Sjangaan,
en ek, n Blanke vele volkere, ja
almal verenigd om Gods sen te vra
op net een tuiste, net een vaderland,
want die Alwyse het ons saam geplant
en saam laat wortel in Suid-Afrika.
Nkosi sikelel i-Afrika
sen Heer, die land wat vele volkre dra.

H.A. Fagan was n politikus wat vanaf 1938 tot 1939 minister in die Hertzogkabinet
was. Hy is later as regter aangestel en het gevorder tot hoofregter. Sy posie word
gekenmerk deur eenvoud en egtheid.
Wanneer n mens in ag neem dat die bundel waarin hierdie gedig verskyn het, reeds in
1949 gepubliseer is, is hierdie gedig uit n historiese oogpunt gesien, geweldig
interessant. Dit klink amper of hy in 1994/95 kon verskyn het.

Waterval van mos en son - Ingrid Jonker

Moswaterval
kantelson
ek
het
jou
lief
moswaterval
kantelson
hartedief
dief
moswaterval
kantelson
val
val
val
vinnig
vinnig
vin
in die poeletjie
klippie
kringetjies
klaarte
Jy
my eie
gesig

n Ballade van n koningsdogter - I..D. du Plessis

O bly het die koning se lippe gelag
En hoog het die bokale gewaai:
Kom ledig die beker se fonkelende prag
En bring hier my dogter so fraai!
Met n fa, la, falalala en die sang van n silwer-basuin
Het die koning se bode die lelie gaan haal
Wat pryk in die koning se tuin.
O bly het die koning se dogter gespeel,
Die mooiste blom in die tuin;
Toe hoor sy n stem wat nog liefliker streel
As die sang van n silwer-basuin.
Met n fa, la, falalala en o so sag en so bruin
Het die koning se bode die lelie gaan haal
Wat pryk in die koning se tuin.
Die koning laat vra of sy dogter sal kom;
Sy majesteit vier fees;
En soeter nog is die wyn vir hom
As sy dogter daar kan wees.
Met n tra, la, tralalala en die gloed van sy stem in haar hart
Het die koning se dogter die bode gevolg
En vry was sy hart van smart
En teer het die o wat haar verbly
Die lelie aangekyk;
Sy was die bloeisel so rein en hy
Die stingel in die slyk.
Met n tra, la, tralalala en die gloed van sy stem in haar hart
Het die koning se dogter haar minaar gevolg,
En vry was sy hart van smart.
En gou het die koning opgespring
Om sy dogter te begroet,
En die prinses na die troon te bring,
Met die bode aan haar voet.

Met n ra, ta, ratattatta en die swaai van n rooi banier

Het n ho besoeker daar aangekom
Om met hul fees te vier.
Trots het die koning opgestaan,
En almal luister nou:
O howelinge, hoor my aan!
Die blom van my huis gaan trou!
Met n ra, ta, ratattatta en die swaai van n rooi banier
Het die ho besoeker uitgeskree:
O Koning, ek is hier!
En bleek het die koning se dogter geword,
En wild was haar o nou:
My laaste druppel bloed sal ek stort
Eer ek met die ridder trou!
Met n fa, la, falalala en die sang van n silwer-basuin
Het die koning se bode gaan staan by sy blom
Gepluk uit die koning se tuin.
O wreed het die koning se o gevlam
En hoog het die sabel geblink;
Soos die kruin van n wilker, gesny van sy stam,
Het die bode neergesink.
Met n tra, la, tralalala en n stilte wat kruip oor haar hart
Het die koning se dogter gesing en gelag,
Gesing en gelag deur die lang, donker nag,
Met die singende stem van die smart.
Uit: Mens en ster (1980)

DIE SAGTE SPRONG - Sheila Cussons

Dit kom wanneer dit nie verwag
word nie: n aanraking van die verstand
lig soos n veer, vlugtig maar presies
en jy dink as sy ligtheid so is, so potent
dat die aandag nog lank daarna
die indruk behou, hoe moet sy vasvat wees?
: Dit kom wanneer dit nie verwag
word nie: iets wat die bewussyn tot
in die lewe tref, iets soos n sagte sprong
vreugde, verbasing, vreugde, herkenning:
hoe moet u vasvat wees?

KLEIN VREDE - ANTJIE KROG

Vanmiddag wag sy vir hom in n klein homuurhuisie
half toe-oog ingekruip agter n straatstoepie
5.12 hang hy sy hoed aan die hak
trek sy baadjie uit en gooi kookwater deur die koffiesak
vee haar hande aan die geblomde voorskoot en wag darem
dat hy haar eers teen hom vasdruk, so skuinserig met die een arm
voor sy hom die dag se nusies vertel
die gat in die heining, die hond, Anna-jannie het gebel
Na ete haal sy die Bybel uit die boonste laai
en hy lees vir hulle van Israel se afgode teen die berg Sina
haar hande vou n stopskulp in syne as sy bid:
Onse Vader wat hoog bo die aarde in die hemel sit...
Die maan rys soos n koringmeelbrood bokant die dak
sy was skottelgoed met lifebuoy en n omgesoomde meelsak
hy luister nuus op die treetjie by die agterdeur
oor dinge wat met ander mense in die wreld gebeur
Later as die luggie begin trek
die windpomp klap-klap in die dam in lek
sit hy die sproeier af, maak die hoenderhokke toe
sit die kat uit en kom langsaam kamer toe.
In die na-nag as die wind uit die noorde begin
skuif die maan oor hul bed dieper die kamer in
tot op die woorde geraam in krulle:
My vrede gee Ek julle.
Uit: Mannin (Human & Rousseau)

Prediker 12 - T.T. Cloete

ek het daar geen
behae in nie dat die son en die lig van die maan
en die sterre verduister
word en die wolke weggaan
en eers weer terugkom na die ren
dat die deure en vensters na die straat gesluit
word sodat die geruis
van die motors verswak en ek ophou luister
in my le huis
opstaan as die voltjies begin tuit
in die perskeboom wat in bloei staan
maar al die tone van die lied
dof word en ek getrapte sprinkaan
my dungevelde gekraakte gebeente met verdriet
en moeite voortsleep my lus reeds vergaan
en ek nou al met wrewel aan my draers
dink wat my teen my sin help gaan
na n ander skrikwekkender huis die klokke wat slaan
loop vol geliefde rouklaers
en verblywende misbaarmakers ... ek sien iets skeefs
kantel ek hoor n aardbewing in n wal
kraak ek hoor hoe val
n kruik n kan n wiel almal
apokalipties agter my aan in n put skreeuend tevergeefs
tevergeefs
Uit: Jukstaposisie (1982)
Hierdie gedig handel oor Prediker. Die mens se geskarrel op aarde is tevergeefs; dit kom
tot niks. Die boodskap van die boek Prediker: dien God en gehoorsaam sy gebooie dit
is wat van die mens op aarde gevra word. Vind God terwyl jy nog jonk is, want met die
ouderdom raak mens sinies en negatief. Hierdie gedig kom uit die bundel
Jukstaposisie wat beteken om naas mekaar geplaas te wees.

Psalm 121 - Hans du Plessis

Ek slat my twee oge op
my kyk vang die verste kop:
waavanaf sal my hulp nou kom?
My hulp is vannie Jirre, van Hom:
Hyt nou die jimmel an Prieska gekom maak
Sonner lat jou voete klipperse raak,
is Hy skoene agterrie skaap.
Hy dink nooit nie eers oor slaap.
Sontyd is Hy hoed op jou kop,
innie nag hou Hy gevaarlikeit dop.
Hys mos nou da om jou op te pas:
jou siel hou Hy tissen jou ribbes vas.
Gan jy nou in of gan jy nou yt:
Hys oor jou vi ewig an vi altyd.
Uit: Ses Griekwapsalms

Staat - Niel van Tonder

jare nou al
sit roerloos wit
n krap in die gaterige wal
roer n steeltjiesoog
met tye
waaksaam omhoog
niemand sal ooit
met sekerheid kan s
of n dro dood ook in hom l
maar wanneer en hoe
het die swart mierbataljon
di parate pantser binnegekom?

Papa - Stef Bos

Ik heb dezelfde ogen
En ek krijg jouw trekken om mijn mond
Vroeger was ik driftig
Vroeger was jij driftig
Maar we hebben onze rust gevonden
En we zitten naast elkaar
En we zeggen niet zoveel
Voor alles wat jij doet
Heb ik dezelfde ritueel
Papa, ik lijk steeds meer op jou
Ik heb dezelfde handen
En ik krijg jouw rimpels in mijn huid
Jij hebt jouw ideen
Ik heb mijn ideen
En we zwerven in gedachten
Maar we komen altijd thuis
De waarheid die je zocht
En die je nooit hebt gevonden
Ik zoek haar ook
En tevergeefs
Zolang ik Leef
Want papa, ik lijk steeds meer op jou
Vroeger kon je streng zijn
En ik heb je soms gehaat
Maar jouw woorden
Ze liggen op mijn lippen
En ik praat nu
Zoals jij vroeger praatte
Ik heb een goddeloos geloof
En ik hou van elke vrouw
En misschien ben ek geworden
Wat jij helemaal niet wou
Maar papa, ek lijk steeds meer op jou
Jij gelooft in God
Dus jij gaat naar de hemel
En ik geloof in niks
Dus we komen elkaar na de dood
Na de dood nooit meer tegen
Maar papa
Ik hou steeds meer van jou
Uit: Tekst en muziek

TERRITORIUM - Lina Spies

Geef mij den tijd, geef mij den tijd
om u te behooren
aan dezezijde der zekerheid.
Gerris Achterberg
Ek is oor alles wat ek het
vandag byna so volledig bly
dat ek verbaas oor di nuwe sekerheid
binne my eie wreld kom en gaan.
Dit was jou eis, my lief, nie waar?
Dat ek oor jou nie sou bly staar
en in n monoloog met jou die vrae stel
en self ook weer die antwoorde verskaf.
Dis dodelik, het jy ges, dis moord,
jy sou daarmee nie saam kon leef
terwyl jy tog van my onvermydelik
meesal geskei of ver moet wees.
Maar nou, aan di kant van die wrede grens,
geluk dit my om kop te hou;
laat ek hul tel my seninge, een-een,
totdat ek weer oortree op jou gebied,
dit ons sn word opnuut tot n bewoonde heerlikheid
al staan daaroor die tyd geskryf
en daarmee saam die tydelikheid;
o, omdat ek jou
tot in die laaste vesel lief kon h, kan ek uiteindelik oor niks verle
regop en stil my niemandsland betree.

KOPPE - T.T. Cloete

... maar hulle is tog mense.
Die koerantredakteur sit en bid en begeer
in die gewyde oggendstilte van sy kantoor:
Gee dat n minnares weer
haar konkurrent vermoor
met n priem. Vrede en in die mens n welbehae ek weet
maar hoe kan ek anders aan my brood
kom as in my aanskyn se sweet
skrywende van terreur van seks van verkragting van dood ...
Ek sal ook tevrede wees
met n verkluimepisode; as dit vir die naastes wreed
is, fotos laat ls
lesers en my fotograwe staan gereed
my taai manne wat weerbaar afgerig
is om graftonele met lense naby te bring
die mooi kind se gruwelik gepynigde gesig
die geplooide hol speeksellose mamond wat sing
diktong by die graf. Here, ek stik, die renons
maak my walgensnaar
dat u die las gel het op ons
koerantmanne om te openbaar.
U beskikking wil dat die een se dood
en n ander se bietjie pyne
n hele maand en langer se brood
is vir n enorme bedryf soos myne ...
o byna het ek ondankbaar vergeet
van die vrolike variasie: tussen moorde ad infinitium deur
kan ons die volle vlesige lewe darem breed uitmeet
met nou en dan skamele seksfotos in kale kleur.
Uit: Angelliera (Tafelberg)

FIN DE PARTIE - George Weideman

(Kersfees-Nuwejaar 1975-76)
Ons maak ons klaar om kersfees te vier:
die klein kunsden is vrolik geadverteer
met linte, laggende kersvader en al;
n sneeubedekte landskap, n wiegelende beer.
Ons tooi die huis met blomme: krismisrose
en vurige vuurpyle, hang silwerballe op;
kerspresente word gekoop: n fopgeweer
vir Boet, vir Sus n rooikruispop
Ons klink glasies, skiet linksregs klappers af
en steek wierookstokkies brand;
dan kyk ons hoe die anabome vlam
en sien n vuurren uitsak oor die land.
Iemand begin speel, ons sing met oorgawe:
kom herwaarts getroues; die Heiland is gebore
Om di wat vlug, sing die koels n ander deun,
begelei stalin-orrels vreemde kore.
Terwyl ons feeskalotte skewer sak
en kersboomkersies een-een verdof,
leer seuns, melktand-mitrailleurs,
die kunsies van kalasjnikof
en kaersvader lag van oor tot oor
en ruk sy wattebaarde af voor die kersboom begin ballerinas draai
en daar spoeg meteens vuur uit Josef se staf.
*

Dis Desember en orals begin vuurpyle blom.

Maar dan dans die beer
en die lug skif toe en die fratssneeu kom.

AFSKEID - E.W.S. Hammond

Ons staan in die herfsseer
van afgevalle blare
met niks meer om te s nie,
die arms kaal en uitgestrek.
As ek net my hand
op jou hand kon l
en met my mond
teen joune kon s
iets soos wind
deur blare syfer.
Maar die blare
het geval
en die wind gryp
deur die kaal takke.

MAN WAT BLIND WORD - PETER BLUM

Daardie kontoer moet ek my diep inprent
daardie beweging honderdkeer repeteer
daardie skakering volmaak memoriseer
daardie gesig wat vaag is of onbekend
nou in my insuig, my hele los talent
op di geheuetoertjies streng konsentreer
tot ek ls wat ek gesien het en geleer,
sonder sig vir my ops konsekwent
alles verinnerlik. My geleentheid
is nou terwyl my netvlies op die natuur
nog reageer. Ek moet met vernuf en vlyt
dit alles opgaar as brandstof vir die vuur
wat my lewend moet hou teen my bevrore tyd
en duursaam vlam in my duister wat sal duur.

Lied van die fietsers - Antjie Krog

vyf fietsers
vyf bolanders
van Salisbury na Malmesbury
Riebeeckkasteel
die geritsel van fietswiele
en die stralende son op grandpa vests
vreemd soos sigeuners met n swartlandse bry
met skewe mamre-pette
met rugsakke wat klou soos ape
deur Lumpani
deur Jafuta
Lundi
oor Matetsi
die vyfde een
die bruin een
die dromende een
verstrik in die wolke
het lank na die ander hier aangekom
met mooi voete en blou jeans
met konakwaberge al langs sy rug af
met baaie in sy hande
Bamboesbaai
Doringbaai
Jacobsbaai
met pampanos in sy swart o
en n roeispaan in sy lag
die bruin een
die mooi een
het ek liefgekry in n paar uur
het ek verloor
ook in n paar uur
sy skaduwee oor sy peugeotfiets en dunlopbande
oor die meganisme
delikaat soos n web
soos n alarm om juwele
sy skaduwee ontbind in die verte
en ek verloor hom
nog steeds...

Varkleerbaadjie en klinknaelbroek - Boerneef (Prof. I.W. van der Merwe)

Varkleerbaadjie en klinknaelbroek
ek is Baaiplek se skorriekoning
styfspanblous en nog stywerspanbroek
sys my morrie my morriedoring
dis sy en ek en ek en sy
wat die mouterbaik so heluitry
ons is een van Baaiplek se baie pare
raasbekskorrieenmorriesnare
maar ek is ammal se skorriekoning
en sys my lekkerdingmorriedoring
blits in die fles en blits innie lyf
wisenwragtag dan neuk dit styf
gee pad daar voor hier kom die koning
styf handommie lyf sit my lekkerdingdoring

Kiekies - Lucas Maree

My kiekies is verwysings, my lewensinventaris
die ensiklopedie van my bestaan
My kiekies is bewyse vir die feit dat ek ook daar was
n prentjiekommentaar wat my beaam
Daar is komedie in my kiekies, n skaterlag betraan
deur die afstand tussen destyds en vanaand
Daar is ritme in my kiekies, n patroon wat hom herhaal
in die kom en gaan en wegbly van gesigte
Ek verdwaal deesdae so dikwels in die blaaie van my boek
soek die sleutel van my hart onder die stof
In my pelgrimstog na gister blaai my wisselstroom gemoed
deur die ou bekende name in my boek
My kiekies bring vertroosting as die toekoms my kom soek
in my halfgeboude droomkasteel vanaand
maar daars net een probleem met kiekies,
en die gom van plakdriehoekies,
want die gapings tussen die kiekies
maak my bang...

Hippie - Wilma Stockenstrm

Hy groei
plantaardig uit n stoel voor n kafee,
n pers flap, na binne luisterend, na
voetstappe in die kelk, musieksag,
geslote gemoeid met reis om homself.
Hy slaan
n pap handsak oor sy fraiingskouer.
Om huise se kombuise binne te val
sommer saam met die son en die vlie.
Om gestrand te raak op die rand
van n stoep, voete in die malvas.
Tot ontsetting van die tuinspinnekop.
Hy onthou
die sinkomheinde werf waar uitgepofte
hoenders slaap om n verbitterde bloekom.
Baie oumense dut daar. Hulle kraak.
Hulle o gaan oop soos kwaste in hout,
en sien nie die hobbeltjie kind wat die pad
vat wat wip oor die blindewit duine
en krink om die pofadder se juwelehuis
van sewejaartjies: kleislang in n kindertuin.
En voort
duimgooi hy na miskien n genommerde
kamer met n Gideonsbybel, miskien die ru
bouval van n malman op n afgrond, of
die binnevlerksagtheid van n woud.
En hy skiet
ghrieskleurige hare uit n apostelgesig
en loop om die tyd in te haal
wat hom vergeet het.
Uit: Spiel van Water, Human en Rousseau.

Tersiene - Elizabeth Eybers

Reeds oor die drumpel het my seun, wat hyg,
skool toe, van haastigheid, weer vasgesteek:
Bestel dit tog vandag van die apteek
Sy stem, nou skor dan skraal, het yl gestyg:
die roulynolie vir my krieketkolf!
Onthou! roep hy, maar hoe kan ek vergeet?
Eggo-deurtrek, al grom die honger wolf
van onvoltooide take, sing die kreet
om roulynolie vir my krieketkolf . . .
Roerloos sit ek voor my geslote boek:
as soveel ongesogte harmonie
gesluit word in n simpele versoek,
wat baat beoefening van prosodie?
Geen lettergrepe wat om voorrang stoei
in weersydse verset en kompromie
het ooit in gouer, gladder stroom gevloei
as roulynolie, klinkerryk; geen knal
was nog so klaar as krieketkolf. Hoe sal
my vers ooit weer volwasse word? Daar golf
geen skoner jambes in my moedertaal
as roulynolie vir my krieketkolf!

Preludes - T.S. Eliot

I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steak in passageways.
Six oclock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the beds edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six oclock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Prayer Before Birth - Louis Macneice

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
clubfooted ghoul come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths toll me.
I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.
I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.
I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.
I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.
I am not yet born; O fill me
With strenght against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

- Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words have forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Last Lesson of the Afternoon - D.H. Lawrence

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds! I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No longer now can I endure the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks; a full threescore
Of several insults of blotted pages, and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and what on earth is the good of it all?
What good to them or me, I cannot see!
So, shall I take
My last dear fuel of life to heap on my soul
And kindle my will to a flame that shall consume
Their dross of indifference; and take the toll
Of their insults in punishment? I will not!
I will not waste my soul and my strenght for this.
What do I care for all that they do amiss!
What is the point of this teaching of mine, and of this
Learning of theirs? It all goes down the same abyss.
What does it matter to me, if they can write
A description of a dog, or if they cant?
What is the point? To us both, it is all my aunt!
And yet Im supposed to care, with all my might.
I do not, and will not; they wont and they dont; and thats all!
I shall keep my strenght for myself; they can keep theirs as well.
Why should we beat our heads against the wall
Of each other? I shall sit and wait for the bell.

The Gamblers - Anthony Delius

The Coloured long-shore fishermen unfurl
Their nets beside the chilly and unrested sea,
and in their heads the little dawn-winds whirl
some scraps of gambling, drink and lechery.
Barefoot on withered kelp and broken shell,
they toss big baskets on the brittle turf,
then with a gamblers bitter patience still
slap down their wagering boat upon the surf.
Day flips a golden coin but they mock it.
With calloused, careless hands they reach
deep down into the seas capacious pocker
and pile their silver chips upon the beach.

Dover Beach - Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;- on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanchd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earths shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furld.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Gods Grandeur - Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears mans smudge and shares mans smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

The Wild Doves at Louis Trichart - W. Plomer

Morning is busy with long files
Of ants and men, all bearing loads.
The suns gong beats, and sweat runs down.
A mason-hornet shapes his hanging house.
In a wide flood of flowers
Two crested cranes are bowing to their food.
From the north today there is ominous news.
Midday, the mad cicada-time.
Sizzling from every open valve
Of the overheated earth
The stridulators din it in
Intensive and continuing praise
Of the white-hot zenith, shrilling on
Toward a note too high to bear.
Oven of afternoon, silence of heat.
In shadow, or in shaded rooms,
This face is hiddn in folded arms,
That face is now a sightless mask,
Tree-shadow just includes those legs.
The people have all lain down, and sleep
In attituds of the sick, the shot, the dead.
And now in the grove the wild doves begin,
Whose neat silk heads are never still,
Bubbling their coolest colloquies.
The formulae they liquidly pronounce
In secret tents of leaves imply
(Clearer than man-made music could)
Men being absent, Africa is good.

Musiek - Ernst van Heerden

Aan hierdie hart se tenger kelk
het U getik en fyn
uitdeinend sing die glas
sy melodie van pyn
U l n vinger op die rand
wat skrynend, weerloos tril,
en skielik word my hart
se fyne smartsang stil.
Ernst van Heerden het n groot bydrae gelewer tot die literre skat in Afrikaans. Hy het
geskryf oor sy eie gevoelens en belangstellings. In sy jong jare was hy n goeie sportman
en sy gedigte oor verskeie sportsoorte en die belewing van die beoefenaar daarvan, is
baie bekend. Hy het later jare ernstige gesondheidsprobleme ontwikkel, sodat albei bene
geamputeer moes word. Ten spyte daarvan het hy nog steeds klas gegee by die
Universiteit van die Witwatersrand. Hy is in 1997 oorlede. (1916-1997)
In hiedie gedig word metafories beskryf hoe God die spreker beproef, hom pyn laat
verduur, maar besef dan dat net God weer pyn laat verdwyn.

BUSRIT IN DIE AAND - Elizabeth Eybers

Elk langs sy yl weerkaatsing in die ruit
sit hulle suf met monde moeg gesluit,
die werkers van die stad wat huis toe gaan.
Skaduwee-skimme gly verby ... Dis laat
en lang ligvaandels wapper oor die straat
soos oor n dam die blinkpad na die maan.
Ons ploeg deur stormsee met ons kaperskuit:
die stuurman aan die wiel, die passasiers die buit
wat ons as slawe huis toe bring vanaand ...
Die vaartuig waggel afdraand, om die draai,
met skril gekeners en skommelende swaai,
en hyg en skok en snork en swoeg opdraand
terwyl ons, soos twee kinders opgeto,
mekaar toelag met glinterende o ...
Asof hul jammerlik hul lot kan raai
sit hulle suf, met monde moeg gesluit,
elk langs sy yl weerkaatsing in die ruit,
die werkers van die stad wat huis toe gaan.

LIED VAN DIE KINDERS - Lina Spies

Laat die kindertjies na My toe kom
Die Joodse seuntjie
wat sy armpies in die lug steek
voor die SS,
sy o wyd gerek,
op sy mou die groot, geel Dawidster.
Laat die kindertjies na My toe kom
Die Vitnamese dogtertjie
oumens-krom aan haar stok geklem
op die slagveld heen en weer
terwyl oor haar bors
n kruisie hang.
Laat die kindertjies na My toe kom
Die klein vergete Ier
op n sypaadjie in Belfast
tussen die bloed en die bomme
wat opnuut sy land vrymaak.
Laat die kindertjies van Israel na My kom
gevang in die kruisvuur by Maalot
bang hasies in n bos wat brand.
Laat hulle kom, die gevreesde koningskinders van my volk
wat die Romeine doodgesteek het
toe in n stal se stank van mis en bloed,
ek self die Kind van Betlehem was.
Verhinder hulle nie
Herodes
dissipels
soldate
grootmense
Hulle hoort in my koninkryk:
hulle weet van wonde
sonder om te twyfel of te vra.
Laat hulle kom
kinders van Dachau
kinders van Korea
kinders van Saigon
Ek sal hulle teen my vasdruk
en my hand op hulle l.
Uit: Dagreis (Human & Rousseau)

BALLADE VIR DIE ONWAARSKYNLIKE SEUN - A. Krog

as ek eendag n seun het
sal ek hom ronsard noem
omdat die naam alreeds n groot blonde man vermoed
n man met die ruimte van twee stede in sy ligte o
met die teerheid van dae wat grysrooi oor die vlakte breek
n man met hande wat my gesig omskulp
saans as hy kom groet.
as ek eendag n seun het
sal ek hom ronsard noem
want ronsard suggereer alreeds sy bruin lag
soos van feeste op tropiese eilande
sy blonde baard
en die sekerheid van sy rug
wat dag na dag die son oor die aarde abba
as ek eendag n seun het
sal ek hom ronsard noem
en sy naam skryf saans as die vols watertrek
en ek alleen in die skemer sit
wagtend dat sy gestalte my deurkosyne vul.

Sea Fever - John Masefield (1878-1967)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheels kick and the winds song and the white sails
shaking,
And a grey mist on the seas face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wide call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gulls way and the whales way where the winds like a
whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long tricks over.

How do I love thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and the breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every days
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhoods faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Muse - Elisabeth Eybers

Die doel van sy gedrag word nou en dan
waarneembaar; uit die rommel en afbraak
van elke dag wat hy deursif herwin
hy stukkies glas en splinters kwarts en tin
om n flikkerende mosaik te maak
met urelange martelende getuur,
n kop wat klop en o soos klodders vuur.
O hierdie hardepad geen sterfling kan
by sy verstand die selfbedagte taak,
die langsaam blootl, kies en konstrueer
volvoer; was daar nie iewers n oerplan
wat sy geheue nog steeds hipnotiseer,
wat hy nie meer uit sy breinkronkels ban ...
Die staat versorg intussen sy gesin.

Futility - Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds, Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved still warm too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earths sleep at all?

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on March 18, 1893. He was on the Continent
teaching until he visited a hospital for the wounded and then decided, in September,
1915, to return to England and enlist. I came out in order to help these boys directly
by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that I
may speak of them as well as a pleader can. I have done the first. (October, 1918).
Owen was injured in March 1917 and sent home; he was fit for duty in August, 1918,
and returned to the front. November 4, just seven days before the Armistice, he was
caught in a German machine gun attack and killed. He was twenty-five when he died.
The bells were ringing on November 11, 1918, in Shrewsbury to celebrate the Armistice
when the doorbell rang at his parents home, bringing them the telegram telling them
their son was dead.

Mending Wall - Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Something there is that doesnt love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
Stay where you are until our backs are turned!
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, Good fences make good neighbours.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
Why do they make good neighbours? Isnt it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall Id ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesnt love a wall,
That wants it down. I could say Elves to him,
But its not elves exactly, and Id rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his fathers saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, Good fences make good neighbours.

BITTERBESSIE DAGBREEK - Ingrid Jonker

Bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
n spiel het gebreek
tussen my en hom
Soek ek na die grootpad
om daarlangs te draf
oral draai die paadjies
van sy woorde af
Dennebos herinnering
dennebos vergeet
het ek ook verdwaal
trap ek in my leed
Papegaai-bont eggo
kierang kierang my
totdat ek bedro
weer die koggel kry
Eggo is geen antwoord
antwoord hy alom
bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
Uit: Versamelde werk (Perskor)

STAD IN DIE MIS - D.J. Opperman

Met gespanne spier
loop ek deur die mis
want om my sluip n dier
onder wit duisternis;
ek hoor hom knor en in oop mote
waggel sy pilare-pote
en sy kantelende rug metaal;
op hoeke van die strate blink
sy o bloedbelope,
en met sy hap sluit staal op staal.
Uit: Heilige beeste (Tafelberg)

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost (1874-1963). Mountain interval. 1920.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Taal - Wilhelm Jordaan

jy is part en deel van my
gestel in elke senuwee en sel.
Kom, o, Beminde
Kom l teen my aan
dat ek jou diepste
dieper in
verstaan.
Ek wil jou roering voel
jou asemhaal.
Maak jy jou o oop
dat ek myself in jou kan ledig
en stroop.

SKAATSPLANKRYER - Petra Muller

swaartekrag het vir hom geen swaarte:
hy knoop die afdraandpad n lus vir die vaart
van sy liggaam vleg deur, ontknoop,
maak arms oop, en gier bevry:
blou-denim-windswael van die aarde

KOMPERKOS - William Roland

my naam is n nommer
sy sedes n syfer
my adres n getal
dit is my demokratiese reg
om te lewe in n lys
of n ler
met die status van statistiek
o magtige rekenkundiges
julle wat regeer in die koningskantoor
skryf versigtig aan julle programme
want n fout kan lei
tot n fout
tot n fout
TOT N FOUT

LIGGAAMSOEFENINGE - Breyten Breytenbach

laat ons langs die strate hardloop
my beminde
want dis skemer en hittig en
daar is blommetjies in die bome
dis waar, die vooraande word steeds
uitgebleikter en die motoriste blyer en
ek het so n geweldige lus om
met vlerkende jaspante verby die teiereenbeen
gloeikop lamppale te snel
so en totdat die kreukels
van die brein uitgestryk blink en
boepens kan bot soos huisies kneukels want
daar is goetertjies in die bome
en dis teeskemer en vrouwarm
my beminde kom
laat ons langs die strate hardloop

My Parents Kept Me from Children Who Where Rough

My parents kept me from children who were rough
And who threw words like stones and who wore torn clothes.
Their thighs showed through rags. They ran in the street
And climbed cliffs and stripped by the country streams.
I feared more than tigers their muscles like iron
And their jerking hands and their knees tight on my arms.
I feared the salt coarse pointing of those boys
Who copied my lisp behind me on the road.
They were lithe, they sprang out behind hedges
Like dogs to bark at our world. They threw mud
And I looked another way, pretending to smile.
I longed to forgive them, yet they never smiled.

The Seven Ages of Man - William Shakespeare

All the worlds a stage,
And all the men and women, merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling, and puking in the nurses arms.
Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the canons mouth. And then, the justice
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Autumn - Roy Campbell

I love to see, when leaves depart,
The clear anatomy arrive,
Winter, the paragon of art,
That kills all forms of life and feeling
Save what is pure and will survive.
Already now the clanging chains
Of geese are harnessed to the moon:
Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes:
And the dark pines, their own revealing,
Let in the needles of the noon.
Strained by the gale the olives whiten
Like hoary wrestlers bent with toil
And, with the vines, their branches lighten
To brim our vats where summer lingers
In the red froth and sun-gold oil.
Soon on our hearths evening pyre
Their rotted stems will crumble up:
And like a ruby, panting fire,
The grape will redden on your fingers
Through the lit crystal of the cup.

Pappa en Seuntjie stap - William Rowland

drie vere
sewe dennepitte
en n tor
in n seuntjie se sak
in n pappa se hart
wat simbole bewaar
vir my voete is hierdie stukkie
aarde glibberig en steil
soos die hele wreld
in n dwergiedroom
en wit kierie in die hand
dwaal ek deur die strate en gedagtes
eensaam tussen baie klanke
die wind is n singende meisie wat ek liefhet
en die geur van haar stem is blomme
in koel hande wat ek soen
hierdie gebarste muur groet ek as vriend van my voetstappe
want ek verlang na die geselskap van ou mans
wat sluimer op banke langs die see
hierdie boom ontmoet ek in prewering en skaduwee
baie stemme donker musiek
en ek streel die groen
ruik die groen
kou die groen
tot die lewe vrank word op die tong
dan
onthou
ek
die tekens van n seuntjie se soek
want
die vere is verganklikheid
die dennepitte krale van ons abakus
en die tor ons laaste ronde slaap
Frankie
trillende liggaampie
hitte en bloed
hierdie voel-hoor-ruik-proe-wreld
versamel jy renboog
liedjie en lente
help my om die stap te sien
handjievol kyk
handjievol bre
seuntjiegenot

troetelwoorde vi ogilvie douglas - Marlene Van Niekerk

(n bosbouer van n nedersetting by Grabouw het op n rendag met sy mongoolkind op
sy skoot gesit)
kyk oggeliefie druppeldou
jakkals trou met wolf se vrou
ag die stomme wreld wou
dat jy my kind sou wees
my kind hier in ons eie dorp
agter die bosrug van grabouw
my droomoogkind
met jou oophangmond
wat kwyl
soos heuningdruppelsdou
kyk daars druppels op jou mou
kyk daars druppels teen die ruit
o oggeliefie douglas
elek druppel is n sonnetrou
dit ren
jou pa kan nie vandag
sy boom gaan kap
o nooit volprese God
wat ook oor wurms
wag moet hou
sen die oggeliefiekind van my
en my sy pa
en daar sy maltrapma
o oggeliefie druppeldou
o jakkals trou met wolf se vrou
Uit: Sprokkelste (1997)

die hemel help ons - Prevot van der Merwe

hello god
as jy nog wakker is
dit is maar alleen hier by die rekenaar
so laat in die nag
askies ook dat ek so casual met jou praat
dis net
ek weet nog nie hoe om
HOOFLETTERS TE TIK NIE
wag nou kan ek u U
vertel, van my liefde vir my vrou en seuntjies
groter liefde, as vir U meestal, as ek nou moet eerlik wees
so askies tog
liewe God
en as my nommertjie opkom
op die Hemel se IBM-compatible
onthou tog om te
SAVE
voor U
DELETE of
QUIT

Vlier
Vir jou gee ek die tou
om die Suiderkruis
mee
vas
te
hou
Wilhelm Jordaan

The Surfer - Judith Wright

He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
climbed through, slid under those long banks of foam
(hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face stinging).
How his brown strenght drove through the hollow and coil
of green-through weirs water!
Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water;
and swimming so, went out of sight.
where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling
in air as he in water, with delight.
Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.
Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.
Take the big rollers shoulder, speed and swerve;
Come to the long beach home like a gull diving.
For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies snarling,
cold twilight wind splits the waves hair and shows
the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows
and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;
drops there and snaches again, drops and again snatches
its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.

Gentling a Wildcat - D. Livingstone

Not much wild life, roared Mine leonine Host
from the fringe of a forest of crackles
round an old dome-headed steam radio,
between hotel and river a mile of bush
except for the wildcats and jackals.
And he, of these parts for years, was right.
That evening I ventured with no trepidations
and a torch, towed by the faculty
I cannot understand, that has got me
into too many situations.
Under a tree, in filtered moonlight,
a ragged heap of dusty leaves stopped moving.
A cat lay there, open from chin to loins;
lower viscera missing; truncated tubes
and bitten-off things protruding.
Little blood there was, but a mess of
damaged lungs; straining to hold its breath
for quiet; claws fixed curved and jutting,
jammed open in a stench of jackal meat;
it tried to raise its head hating the mystery, death.
The big spade-skull with its lynx-fat cheeks
aggressive still, raging eyes hooked in me, game;
nostrils pulling at a tight mask of anger
and fear; then I remembered hearing
they are quite impossible to tame.
Closely, in a bowl of unmoving roots,
an untouched carcass, unlicked, swaddled and wrapped
in trappings of birth, the first of a litter stretched.
Rooted out in mid-confinement: a time
when jackals have courage enough for a wildcat.
In some things too, I am a coward,
and could not here punch down with braced thumb,
lift the nullifying stone or stiff-edged hand
to axe with mercy the nape of her spine.

Besides, I convinced myself, she was numb.

And oppressively, something felt wrong:
not her approaching melting with earth,
but in lifetimes of claws, kaleidoscopes:
moon-claws, sun-claws, teeth after death,
certainly both at mating and birth.
So I sat and gentled her with my hand,
not moving much but saying things, using my voice;
and she became gentle, affording herself
the influent luxury of breathing
untrammelled, bubbly, safe in its noise.
Later, calmed, despite her tides of pain,
she let me ease her claws, the ends of the battle,
pulling off the trapped and rancid flesh.
Her miniature limbs of iron relaxed.
She died with hardly a rattle.
I placed her peaceful ungrinning corpse
and that of her firstborn in the topgallants
of a young tree, out of ground reach, to grow: restart
a cycle of maybe something more pastoral,
commencing with beetles, then maggots, then ants.

Die kameelperd - A.G. Visser

Die ou langenekker op-en-af,
Met sy alkant-selfkant-draf,
Met sy klein verdwaalde koppie
In die hoogste boom se toppie,
Is ou
Veertienvoetvanseerkeelashykeelseerkrygiraf.

KAROO-DORP: SOMERAAND - N.P. VAN WYK LOUW (1906-1970)

Die laat-middag het room geword
en treine wat ver fluit
en n wit-bont klaas-skawagter
wat wag-hou op n kluit
en rook uit die lokasie rook
en by die dorpsdam sing
en mense in tennisbroekies loop
die koper skemer in
doer op die nasionale pad
loop motortjies onhoorbaar, hoog;
Oum Appie Slagkraal se ou fiets
kom staan, vanself, moeg, voor die oog:
Tant-Tolie-met-die-kanker kom
sit op die bordienghuis se stoep:
vanaand gaan hoor ons nog hoe sy
die Here en die uile roep.
Uit: Tristia (Human en Rousseau)

ELEGIE VIR MY TOEKOMSTIGE VROU - Andr Letoit

ek sal nooit die dag vergeet toe ek jou
ontmoet het nie (net soos in die
populre liedjies)
: dit was op die skaatsbaan
of op die sessiondansvloer
of dalk by die biduur
(hoewel die soort
wat jy by bidure ontmoet
gewoonlik nie lank
hou nie)
ek het jou uitgeneem
op my motorfiets (boksburgmeer
of milky lane in hillbrow of
daai hippiekolonie in berea ek
had altyd n voorliefde vir
hippiekolonies) en jy het
verlief geraak op my
toe jy my profiel in die
- nee wag - toe ek
in jou oor fluister
ek smaak jou (jou hare
het effens na kougom geruik oh baby
daarna het ek jou ouers ontmoet
hulle het my uit die huis gejaag
(vermoedelik vanwe my lang hare en baard
uit die mode sedert jan van riebeeck en oom paul se tyd
my tydsberekening is altyd verkeerd)
maar uiteindelik
het ons tog getrou; jy was
so bly; niemand het opgedaag by die kerk nie
behalwe die dominee
en n paar assuransieagente
onder andere my pa, saam met sy
vrou: gawe mense, darem,
as jy hulle leer ken; (ongelukkig
ken ek hulle
nie so goed nie)

daarna het ons, soos altyd, saam

geleef (leef?) soos al die ander
mense (mense?) en
nie meer toptwintig
geluister nie:
ek het altyd gedog
ek was verlief op jou (hahaha!)
maar toe eers, toe vang ek
die hele triek:
alles gaan om skreeuende bybies
en kombuiskaste wat piep
en die huwelik is n duur prys om te betaal
vir n lewe vol platoniese dogmatiek

Treursang vir Van der Merwe

(met die nuusberig, by die ontbyttafel, van n onbekende se dood) - Uys Krige)
Ek merk
mnr. Honor Sint Marnix van der Merwe
het voorverlede awend in die kerk
gestik, gestuiptrek en skielik toe gesterwe.
Die krantberig se taalgebruik is ietwat stroef-verhewe
in die tempel van God gisteraand presies om kwart-oor-sewe
het hy die Ewigheid aanvaar in ruil vir hierdie tranedal, die
beslommernisse van hierdie lewe
Ek hoop
sy familiebetrekking gedra hulle, is nie so gemeen
om reeds te stribbel oor iwe sy kis sal koop,
en dat sy weduwee n tyd lank eerbiediglik sal ween;
dat om sy graf sal dring n bonte skare
om hom vaarwel te roep, hy so oud, so sat van jare, maar wat die
Dood betref so jonk, so onervare:
vriende en maats en kennisse, sy vyande en selfs sy skuldenare
Ek meen
hy het n goeie slag geslaan: hys ryk, hy het gerf
die lang, lang Nag oneindig om hom heen.
Vrede en rus en stilte, oplaas verlossing van sy naam het hy verwerf
Wie het ooit gedink dat hy doodgewoon moet sterwe
om die Nameloosheid van al sy voorouers, die Groot Vergetelheid te erwe,
Wyle mnr. Honor Sint Marnix van der Merwe?

Die Here het gaskommel - Adam Small

Lat die wreld ma praat pllie los en vas
n sigaretjie en n kannetjie Oem Tas
en dis allright pllie dis allright
ons kannie worry nie
n sigaretjie en n kannetjie Oem Tas
en n lekker meid en lekker anner dinge
oe!
Lat die wreld ma praat pllie los en vas
wat daarvan
wat daarvan
wat maak dit saak
soes die Engelsman s it cuts no ice
die Here het gaskommel
en die dice het verkeerd gaval vi ons
daais maar al
so lat hulle ma s skollie pllie
nevermind
daars mos kinners van Gam en daars kinners van Kain
so dis allright pllie dis allright
ons moenie worry nie
Uit: ADAM SMALL

ALLE GRAPPIES OP N STOKKIE - T.T. Cloete

Die ektoplasma maak mislik.
Alle vlae hang stigtelik
by alle teaters halfmas.
Peter Sellers is vandag veras
by Golders Green. Wat mens afkerig maak
is dat die dooie vertrek en nder moet ontslae raak
van sy lyk. Die diens vir die lastige rou
en konvensie is deur John Hester gehou,
Peter se vriend, n kanunnik.
Maak dit vrolik
om van die walglike oorlas
verlos te word. Slegs vriende uit die vermaak, kollegas
uit The Goon Show,
sy eerste, sy derde en vierde vrou
mog die diens bywoon: Britt Ekland die seksbom
het ongenooid daar aangekom,
syt vermetel met Spike Milligan opgedaag.
Sy is kywend weggejaag
deur Michael. Vir die groot
mededinging met die lastige dood
was Lynn Frederick
heel paslik
gekelee in n rok wat inderhaas
spesiaal ontwerp is deur die modebaas
Yves St. Laurent. Terwyl hulle die lyk veras
- vrolike musiek pas
immers by die toneel
is Glen Miller se In The Mood gespeel
op Peter se versoek. n Lyk is darem n verle ding.
Laat die poppe speel, laat hulle hom wegsing.
Toe het iets vreemds gebeur:
n donderstorm wat ineens losbars versteur
en oorstem in The Mood. Dis nes Peter dit sou wou h,
dit pas by sy humor, het die kanunnik vroom ges.
Wat pla
bedink agterna
in terme van toneelspel: is dit deus ex machina
of is die grap bygedra
deur die baaslykverbrander?
To steal ones thunder
pas by die toneel. Behoort die oorskot
aan die duiwel, aan God?
behoort die donder
aan God, aan die duiwel? I wonder . . .
Uit: Jukstaposisie

(Ongemotiveerde toevalligheid)

HAWK ROOSTING - Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees!
The airs buoyancy and the suns ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earths face upwards for my inspection.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot
Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads
The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN

FIVE SHORT CHAPTERS

From Theres a Hole in My Sidewalk
by Portia Nelson

I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost ... I am helpless.
It isnt my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.
II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I dont see it.
I fall in again.
I cant believe I am in the same place.
But, it isnt my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in. Its a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault. I get out immediately.
IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
V
I walk down another street.

O Captain! My Captain! - Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weatherd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbond wreaths for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
Youve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will;
The ship is anchord safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
- From: Leaves of Grass. 1900

An Exerpt from Walden

by Henry David Thoreau
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential
facts of life, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die,
discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear;
nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep
and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartanlike as to put to rout all
that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and
reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then get the whole and
genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to
know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For
most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the
devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man
here to glorify God and enjoy him forever.
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed
into men; like pygmies we fight cranes; it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and
our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is
frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten
fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity,
simplicity, simplicity!

I went to the woods because I

wanted to live deliberately . . .
I wanted to live deep and suck
out all the marrow of life!
To put to rout all that was not
life . . .
And not, when I came to die,
discover
that I had not lived . . .

KOM ONS SING! - Mari Grov

n Mens wat nie sing nie,
is soos n lente sonder bloeisels,
n wreld sonder volsang,
n dag sonder sonskyn.
n Dankbare mens
is n singende mens.
En n singende mens
is n gelukkige mens!

UNVOLLENDET - George Weideman

Ek sukkel om dinge af te rond:
Dit het ek van Pa gerf.
Orals staan of l halfklaar maaksels
Gestapel oor die werf:
n bakoond onafgepleister onafgewit
n buitekamer sans plafon
n gemak wat alte ongemaklik sit
n stoepdeur half geverf;
onklaar stories, gedigte sonder slot
n drama of twee onafgewerk
n roman wat net nie wil vlot
so skep jy n eie ystydperk.
Daar is natuurlik grotes: Buchner,
Schubert, Pope en ander oor wie
ons altyd sal wonder.
En God se onklaar simfonie.

NAGMAAL - Philip Naud

Die heiligdom is stil vandag
Stil gebede dryf na Bo
Die kransduif op die nok
kreun saam uit sy krop
Dis die teken van
brood en wyn
van bloed en pyn
vir almal hier
byeen
Groot vergifnis
vir sonde en misdade ...
Lewensare l soos padkaarte
op die gryskop se hande spore deur
verdriet en verlang
lag en traan
Maar Here
kyk in haar hand
l U liggaam n klein korsie
vir vergifnis
gebreek
net vir U

Horende Dowes - Anna Baird

Stil
hang die maan
bokant die Jakarandastad
In die kerk verdof die lig
Die elektroniese bord verlig
Simbole vertel
die verhaal
In die bovertrek
flikker die lamp
Metafore van liggaam en bloed
Gebreek, gedrink
Woordeloos
Vingers stil in gebaar
soos nagwind deur olyfboomblaar
En iewers in die stad
l n kruis en wag
op n nuwe dag