Between the visible and invisible riches of detail… …one can find treasures of living secrets… …waiting patiently, oh so patiently, for the crack of dawn.
Introspeksie
Is dit verregaande, of vreemd, dat mens,
deur agteruit te kyk,
nuwe visie, en dalk hoop,
vir die pad vorentoe kan kry,
wanneer jy jou jakkalsdraaie styf vas knoop?
Of is dit beter om nét vorentoe te kyk,
in die wit mis van die toekoms
en voor te probeer berei
vir ‘n afdraand, of opdraand,
wat dalk net… ‘n dowwe draai pad bly?
Is wat die wysheid leer,
met enige balanseertoertjie,
op die lewenslange tou,
dat daar een luukse truuk is,
van Waarop mens sy blik kan hou –
ja almal se paaie meander…
en alles bly konstant verander…
so wat mens deurlopend staande
kan laat bly… is om mens se sig
te hou op waar Die voete trap
– vandag, nou?
Light Macro
Even in the light, all things soft and beautiful… …can bud forth abundant flower and seed… …but can only wait expectant and hopeful… …for externalities to cross-pollinate their communal need.
Katjieklein Pitte
Die pennesteek van koue kennis,
prikkel die ballonne van hoop,
geloof en liefde. Dit beroof dit,
wat die harte aan mekaar wil knoop.
Vader skil daardie harde groen
doppe, sodat die kners van harde streep
koppe, sal vervang word met die deel
van soetsmaaklike vleespienk harte.
En die katjieklein pitte,
in sagte grond sal val,
om die Boom van die Lewe,
met sy genesende blare,
aan te vrug te stel.
Onpenbare Gedig
Met ‘n amper onhoorbare
gekners van flukse vlamme
sny die Skepper se latente lig
die stowwe diep binne drie berge.
Fluitend week en wasem,
die kole in die binnegrond balsem,
soos dit die rook uitdruklik uitasem,
en Sy karakter intiem inasem.
Dit is agter die woes en waansin,
waar Sy hande beitelend begin,
om Sy goue woorde in hul te ontgin –
elk ‘n ander gedig om te begryp en besin!
Maar Sý gedig is byna onpenbaar – valk-vlink!
Dit spring reg verby die bietjie dof en baie blink,
vinnger as wat enige oë se waterige idee-ink
die volle aktua’ daarvan identiek kan laat insink.
Gelukkig in vandag se tik en tyd,
sal die berge se (an)atomiese klokke ontploffend ontsluit,
en deur die warboel waarskynlikheid
dele van Hom onthul – en Sy gedigte bruid!
Daar is nou vier wat in die bergvuur-waarheid wandel,
geeneen kreun, of dra ‘n langgerekte letsel,
en die voorkoms van die vierde skyn warempel
‘n godeglans van die bonatuurlike Skepsel.
Die Skepsel skryf met Sy vlam-vinger op die harte se sand,
“Julle is duidelike briewe van Christus in die land,
geskrywe nie met ink nie, maar deur my ‘hand’;
die Gees van die lewendige God wat in jul brand.”
Hy het die sterk Suid-ooster en die ou bakoond beveel,
om die as van vervalle kliptafels vaarwel te vee,
en die vlammende vleestafels ‘n galery gee,
sodat Sy briewe kan betoon word aan elke sout see.
Ja die see kyk dalk ‘n berg se rollende kaalvoet klip,
sy balanserende bome en sy lopende lip
heeltemal mis, maar kan nie die kabbelende kus,
en wat in die sand se hart geskryf is met enige marge mis.
The Chamber – Part 2
<Continued from Part 1>
The soft sound of my breathing floated and settled like cold dew on the floor around me. The only other discernible sound was a faint wheeze as the wind tried to crawl through the room’s cracks… oh the sorely familiar whine of death’s breathing.
But… it felt different.
I felt (and could almost taste) the honey of life’s florescent buzz as it caressed my skin. But as gentle as it seemed, the flood of perfect white raged outside my eyelids; it was like a strong gust that forced my windowpane-like eyes shut every time I tried to open them. I obediently kept my eyes shut as I waited.
I waited… but… for what?
Out of the blue a rabid thought, with its blood hungry intent and foaming mouth snapped me from out of nowhere – this must be another ungodly dream! I demanded that the embrace die off quickly. This broken dream has fooled me for too long already! But, against my moral thought, the bleaching luminance continued its warm embrace… It settled over my body like graceful feathers poured from a sun-baked pillow.
The closed ecosystem of species spread over my limbs suffered in dismay from the drenching limelight. I felt scattered tingles as small things drilled as far back into my body as they possibly can. It was somewhere between the multitude of sharp and painful needle pricks that I distinctly heard a rusty screw, or some tainted marble, start to roll across the rutted planks of the forgotten floor. Its wailing started from where the door was at earlier. It continued with a smooth and lonely sob around the room for a while, then it seemed to bump into other things, which also started a few other tickers and moans. The miserable slow clap the screw started soon turned to an agitated avalanche.
The turmoil of what sounded like objects flying around me soon stirred up a slight breeze. I felt thin layers of dust being sliced off of me.
Could it be?
I still couldn’t see anything! Why was the anger pulsing through my veins not enough to wake me!?
It was no longer simply dust being scraped off of my rock-like body. Small pieces of flying objects started ticking me. The ticks grew into larger, louder tocks. I could feel small cracks form on my hard skin.
“What the h-” I started to scream, but the surrounding noise overwhelmed my excuse for a voice.
Small pieces broke off of me and crumbled off to feed the gnashing teeth of hungry floor.
I was getting nailed in my coffin by everything that made it mine. It was awfully, fiercely painful.
“Please… just take me…” I sobbed, inaudibly – then everything stopped – the inferno around me hushed into the softest floats of ash.
I could… move? I had forgotten how to! Phantom chains held my limbs in place. I could only sit stiffly on the heap of rubble that had always been a part of me; the remnants of the tomb that endured me all these eons.
I could finally open my eyes, which immediately welled up with tears.
There it was…
In the blur in front of me, I recognized the outlines of the love from my youth.
<Continued in Part 3>
Raw
Remembrance in the times of abundance… …remembrance when things look bleak…
…remembrance when the rain has fallen…
…for without it, the soul stays weak.
Tussen Grom en Blom
Hardhandig klap die golwe skuit,
fluitend skeur die orkaan seil,
huilend kners balke laste,
vastend ly honger muise,
en hul tuiste byna skipbreuk.
Uitputtend bly rotte jag,
nag en dag tussen grom en blom,
kom en gaan van stink reus asem,
bestem om kos te vind.
Aarselend poog ploeg baie husse,
tussen allerhande skyn knopieslandjies,
bandjies wat tussen reuse vingers pleit.
Uiteenlopend sal ons bly gryp…
buiten binne die stoorkamer van eenvoudigheid:
die regte Fokus.
Ek Sien
Die moegheid klem soos ‘n droë lap my sinne vas,
my gedagtes stoei teen die rek wat elke nou en dan my oë toe trek.
Dis moeilik om by U uit te kom Vader,
waarom steun U vreugde my nie?
Ek soek soos ‘n bruinbevlekte en droëlip skaap na U waters, daar waar ek U stem hoor.
Waarom is U riviere so vêr so vroeg in die môre?
My hart is om in U getuienis van my te wandel wanneer die son die aarde bak,
Maar hoekom dra ek steeds slaafs aan ‘n juk wanneer ek voor U aangesig kom kniel?
Die vlees is swak, maar die Gees is gewillig.
Wat mis ek Abba? Haas tog en wys my asseblief die geslote sluis in my siel!
Ek sien…
Vandag werp U die lig op die verwronge gedagtes,
sodat ek anders kan dink,
en môre kan sien hoe ek anderste is.
Die Tydlose Druppel van Hoop
In die begin is selfs die snik van die muur se klok onhoorbaar sag so
tussen deur die gedreun van die murmurerende maan
en al die sterre wat so vassteek in die wol van winterwolke.
In die begin gee my ore hulle lawwe probeerslae om enigeiets te help hoor
maar die swiep van rowende roetines
verdoof en bind my sinne vas met klomp klein tengerige toutjies.
So bietjie later breek die gloeilamp met sy gretige gons
die stilte soos my vingers soekend soos remmerige ratte
die hipotetiese stof op die knoppe van ‘n verhulde sleutelbord slaat.
So bietjie later hoor ek hoe die tydlose druppel van hoop homself plat plak
teen die droë bodem van die emmer wat ek al vir koninklike kere
gebruik om die afvallighede van my woning te was.
Maar nou lê ek net met die bede dat ek môre meer soos vannag vandag
kan stap met ‘n emmer wat omtrent oorloop
sodat ek die onsaligheid van my siel met ‘n messelaarshand kan weg was.