Tuesday 31 May 2011

Memories

Memories

I have recently given much thought, no, intensity and energy
to the question of 'memories'. 
Why do they so shadow us,
why are they so seductively exquisite,
so colourful and vital?!
And in particular, why and what do they say to us. 

Even a schoolboy-dissection of the memory phenomenon
makes us alive to the suspicion that there are infinitely more layers to it,
that it is not just a psychologically-explainable fact,
that perhaps memory is universal, a non-cerebral, ancient survival mechanism,
that memories function as the Keepers of Balance in our existence,
particularly in how we perceive ourselves within our lives, our souls.
The young Queen Memory rides our weary souls,
to keep her and our balance (the really important thing in life, balance)
in our patterns of existence.

Given that we all stand, lips apart, in everyday rank pools of green slime,
pools tarted-up by culture and Hollywood as pink dreams and lollipops,
yet populated by the vicious villagers and creatures of Bosch,
is it any wonder that some sort of balancing act is required
to prevent us from sinking even deeper into this smelly pool,
from where our souls may, perchance, never escape. 

Other cultures, other solutions: some cling to religion, even philosophy,
others Californian mumbo-jumbo. 
Yet the only one friend we have, we walkers of the dark road, denizens of the green pools,
are our timid but intoxicating memories, to remind us that
there had been times when the stench was not that bad really,
when the music soothed and rocketed us to a primal life,
whispering of friendlier, lighter and less painful times. 
Times when we believed in smiles, when sentences weren't written upside down,
and courage was not just a hope but seemed so, so possible. 
Perhaps that is why memories are so intense, so subjective, so not real:
to ensure we remember the memory not the grey-blue reality.
Thus the object of that memory is so much more beautiful, believable!
A true balancing act.

Is memory the mother or daughter of hope?
People talk about losing hope as being a sign of the end times,
that we cannot exist without hope - another real-life myth, there being no such thing really,
hope is just another bottle-blonded  illusion, hope will not enable us to keep our lips closed
and we will survive only by way of our memories! 

A good thing our that memories cannot outlive us, are not downloadable by other persons,
imagine if we had to live in a sphere of existence with everyone's false memories
floating about installing themselves on our hard drives in ourselves.

So forza memory, and thank goodness that we have them,
that they can fool and succour us,
our eternal Band-Aids,
keeping us nicely bandaged in our frail skeletons.

30 May 2011

Tuesday 24 May 2011

Jong man met oumanervaring

Ten spyte van : 

die ou kremetartboom wat 
in my jonglyf ingroei,
die indunakleedjie wat
ongemaaklik om my blakende nek hang, 
die vaal-vaal wysheid wat my
so verrineweer, afsuig

het jy, selfs toe daar nie meer plek was nie,
jou anima op my onderbewussyn kom plak.

The Taking of a Red Bed

when I scrambled into my red bed
slipped quietly between the green
camouflaged sheets, my lips bled,
and the crimson sadly tarnished the sheen
of the silk pillows, (one below one of top of my lion-head)
eyes, ink-stained, peering in the glow,
listening to the minueting membranes
of the newly-dead;
it scratched crab-like yet daintily
at the staring windows, at first faintly
then more viciously urgent until
vanquished I slipped out over the marble sill,
looked back and saw its furry head
madly bobbing around in the red bed.

Hollywood-as-life

No, Hollywood has certainly been a failed model of life.
We have all seen the images, understood the concepts,
Whistled along on the rythm of its music,

Even strived for its cinematic moral lessons
But it was all a lie,
A big fat Gypsy-wedding lie.

24 May 2011

Afrikaans-Vlaams gelykenisse

My eerste werklike kennismaking met Vlaanderen was waarskynlik Hugo Claus se 'Het Verdiet van België', 'n meesterwerk wat, onregeverdiglik, nooit gelei het tot 'n Nobelprys nie.Dit was eers later dat ek geleer het dat die titel goed gekose was.

Dit is onherroeplik waar dat 'verdriet' inderdaad diep en breed ,oor en deur, die groen weiden en rooidakke van België vloei. As ek na Vlaamse musiek luister (bv http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SoAarIhFCA) hoor mens hoe knuffel-digby die verlange en verdriet in die skaduwee van elke Vlaming loop. En hulle (Vlaminge en Hollanders) is maar ook soos ons, in elk geval as ek moet oordeel na 'n beluistering van Stef Bos (ooit die mooie duo gehoor wat hy met Johannes Kerkorrel gedoen het?) se weergawe van 'Suikerbossie' - sekerlik die mees ingrypende, vertederende weergawe van daardie o-so-tipiese Afrikaanse liedjie- in elk geval is dit mooier dan enige weegawe wat ek ooit gehoor het, insluitend die van in my laerskooldae! Luister hoe weemoedig, hoe waar, hoe Afrikaans Stef Bos dit sing:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ffL9ePuZ4x0. Luister ook na sy weergawe van 'Hillbrow': http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coDERRy9upU

En is dit anders met Afrikaners? Moeilik, nee gevaarlik, dus om jouself as voorbeeld te stel -maar as ek kyk na al die kommentare op die verskillende fora en webstekke is dit duidelik dat meeste expat Afrikaners ook soos ek voel- daarom sal ek dan maar probeer ons universiële verdrietmantel op my te neem in die volgende paar postings.

Mees Tiperend Afrikaanse lied?

My kommentaar oor Laurika Rauch se 'Stuur Groete aan Mannetjies Roux' :

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoJfwf0xdNg&feature=related

"Eens het ons 'n land gehad in Afrika, met 'n kloppende hart, eens het die riviere in ons gevloei en was die bosveldse sonsondergange mooi in ons oë te sien. Nou sit ons in koue, verre plekke, met alleen die wind as ons maat en verre blikke wat probeer om tot daar, daar ver, tot in ons jeug terug te kyk.Maar ek weet dat my verlanges my tog darem 'n bietjie warm sal hou.

Was daar ooit 'n meer tiperende Afrikaanse lied gewees dan hierdie een?


Saturday 14 May 2011

Peacock Smile

Zik climbed into,
slipped his eel hips through:

their peacock smiles
rattling his salty testes
in a taroted dice game,
with their flip-flop
gangrenous conscience.

Latter Day…?

with wispy hair
beard of milk
distant, confusing eyes,
the similarity was there
but
when they found
he had nailed himself
             rusted,
             relentless
             alone,
             exact
to the floor boards,
the hammer arced
in his mouth,
his face alive with blood
and a million dancing
smiles,
well man, then they knew
where freedom
was still free.

In the flowering Silence

in the flowering silence
of a swaying cathedral
strutting a cosmic Rise,
incense,
lace
pencilled shadows
eroded hopes,
someone naked knelt,
and a slow electric organ
found him her it
not understanding
being
himherit.

Hoop

Prut dit in die osoonborrels,
drome van ’n stoomfontein,
vanuit ’n tarot suite se rinkel-rinkel?

Lê dit in ’n uitgelekde oogkas
van vriend Koki,
tussen die savannes van my maagspiere,
of die Oppenheimer-splitsing se pers droom?

Dalk vanaf die gelapde lippe van ’n chanteuse
wat oberammergauerig in ’n venster
sit en snik-dut
of, daar waar die see so ribbes
maak op Strandfontein se strand?

Van waar?


An old Flemish refrain

(memories of a happy day with 2 children)


a walk:
past a mill and a church

-Your early shyness still showing-
and then through Flanders Fields
of maize & flowers,
the June sun a new ode.

These were the things I saw
today as we Volvoed along Meerlaanstraat:
-Daniel becomes the Rocket Man,
-the Teddy Bear house winks,
-another shy girl trying
to join us on our stumbles and laughter trail
over cobbles , past pains and rougher pavements
-the rabbits, the pigeons, the crows
grey barking dogs and shadows from lofts
-the sweetness of a sip you gave me
from your bottles.

All these now-trite things;
so terrifyingly clear still,
an almost obscene clarity of every
gesture, nuance and smell
of our day of roller-blading
in Meerlaanstraat.


for A & D 1.8.99

For the Dead

Seven unflickering black candles
smouldered steadily,
high in the mountains
where
maroon-robed priests, chanting,
encircled a grey marble sarcophagus
for the mega-star that
realised, too late,
he was a lesser harlequin.

Eensame Vrou, met geld, in manswinkel

Ses-en-twintig maande spaar sy al,
die geld, 
rol sy dit in haar Volkskasspaarrekening in, 
pensioen en disability alles saam,
elke maand die ri1poskantoorritueel;
(teer en liefdevol volbring)
stap sy Adderley en Burg af,
en op, en af-
amper asof : die-1ieven-Heer-dit gegee-het
vi r-haar-soos-Hy-beloof-het-in
haar-uit-Die-Beek,
en sien in Hepworths se platheid
sowaar die regte man:

jong snor, knus skouers, druiperige North Stars

"Nee, ek wi1 nou nie eintlik iets spesifieks koop nie,
nee, rêri g ni e, wi1 net...”(?)
kyk, hier’s R20.00
..ja, wi1 net (skaam) na jou kyk,
jou 1ippe sien dans onder jou snor,
nee, niks nie,
wi1 jy dan nie die geld hê nie (huiwering, palpitasie),
nie genoeg nie?
Ja, ek het R2813.76!” (trots)

Kan ek môre weer inkom,
Vanmiddag dan?
Kyk, as ek betaal mag ek mos maar elke dag inkom,
ek betaal mos?
Ja, vat maar die R20.00, vir 'n tip.

Letter to a real friend - 29 December 2009

You must be thinking that you’re on some sort of hit list of mine, because not only did I send you a letter over Christmas, but now I am also sending you one for New Year!  However, what really happened is that I came across your e-mail of last year, and I read it again and was almost as affected by it this morning as I was then.  In fact, reading it a year ago, was emotionally difficult for me, as it brought back, in a rush, so many fine memories, that I could not read it a second time, but actually had to leave it alone.  Silly! 

This is what happens, I suppose when you turn 60, and all your friends, or certainly the people who understand you, are no longer around.  But to get back to your e-mail of last year: I remember your dogs vividly; in fact, the first ones were a golden retriever and a smaller black type of spaniel (a real difficult little bitch!).  I knew then already how much the dogs meant to you and I can only imagine how strong that bond became over the years, so that the loss of these companions would be almost equal to the loss of the child.  Worst thing is, you can never replace them, but the sensible thing is to in fact to do so. 

You spoke of the golden couples, but what you do not appreciate is that you two were also such a golden couple, just as M and E were.  So you will forgive me when I think back on those days, and I'm fiercely reminded of the lyrics of an old Billy Joel song (I am enclosing the full song as I'm not sure whether you actually know the song, or remember it from the 70s):

Billy Joel - Scenes From An Italian Restaurant
A bottle of white, a bottle of red
Perhaps a bottle of rose instead
We'll get a table near the street
In our old familiar place
You and I--face to face

A bottle of red, a bottle of white
It all depends on your appetite
I'll meet you any time you want
In our Italian Restaurant.

Things are okay with me these days
Got a good job, got a good office
Got a new wife, got a new life
And the family's fine
We lost touch long ago
You lost weight
I did not know
You could ever look so good after
So much time.

I remember those days hanging out
At the village green
Engineer boots, leather jackets
And tight blue jeans
Drop a dime in the box play the
Song about New Orleans
Cold beer, hot lights
My sweet romantic teenage nights

Brenda and Eddie were the popular steadies
And the king and the queen of the prom
Riding around with the car top down and the radio on
Nobody looked any finer
Or was more of a hit at the Parkway Diner
We never knew we could want more than that out of life
Surely Brenda and Eddie would always know how to survive.

Brenda and Eddie were still going steady in the summer of '75
When they decided the marriage would be at the end of July
Everyone said they were crazy
"Brenda you know you're much too lazy
Eddie could never afford to live that kind of life."
But there we were wavin' Brenda and Eddie goodbye.

They got an apartment with deep pile carpet
And a couple of paintings from Sears
A big waterbed that they bought with the bread
They had saved for a couple of years
They started to fight when the money got tight
And they just didn't count on the tears.

They lived for a while in a very nice style
But it's always the same in the end
They got a divorce as a matter of course
And they parted the closest of friends
Then the king and the queen went back to the green
But you can never go back there again.

Brenda and Eddie had had it already
By the summer of '75
From the high to the low
To the end of the show
For the rest of their lives
They couldn't go back to the greasers
The best they could do was pick up the pieces
We always knew they would both find a way to get by
That's all I heard about Brenda and Eddie
Can't tell you more than I told you already
And here we are wavin' Brenda and Eddie goodbye.

A bottle of red, and bottle of white
Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight
I'll meet you anytime you want
In our Italian Restaurant.

So, the golden ones lived beautifully, and everybody loved to be around them, but their beauty was unstable, and ultimately self-imploding, only those with a stable centre survived, most perished, taken by the force of this golden hues (I often think of C, committing suicide and M driving off the cliffs of Rooiels, into the welcoming waves).

I know that we men are not supposed to say such things, but what the hell, I'm 60 years old and can't be bothered too much anymore with the social niceties- too many people have died without having heard the things which they could or should have heard, so I wanted to tell you that of the few friends that I have/had you are the one which I possibly always held dearest.  I think this was because we had such a similar sense of humour and background, we were not true blue or pure specimens of our tribe, but cross-pollinated - and then there was your loyalty and integrity, a big deal to me.  And, like me, although you seemed so confident on the outside, there was always a bit of the uncertainty and vulnerability, visible to those who would care to look. 

Anyway, voordat ek te moffierig begin te klink, I also wanted to ask whether you have remained a good friend to P?  I have been in touch with him quite regularly, also on Facebook, and I think that he's the sort of person who would appreciate your continued friendship, despite it possibly being professionally incorrect for you to do so.  I must tell you that I have the highest possible regard and respect that one could have for any lawyer, for PH, for it was his understanding of the essence of justice, for what is right in the law, his integrity, and most of all his courage, in sticking by his principles in the face of the mockery and desertion of his so-called brothers at the Bar, those who for professional expediency sake, abandoned him. You must remember that I have personal experience of this type of professional banishment, and excommunication.  He continued to hold up the mirror for all those around him to see, but everyone was too intimidated and scared of the ANC and the new powers to be.  Astonishing that the same people who marched and fought and wrote against the oppression and domination of the National Party, could all sit still and remain silent under similar oppression by the ANC, and worse, an oppression that is done in such a ham-fisted, obvious and village-idiot manner.  What is it with all the Liberals in South Africa, are they too busy making money to care about their principles or their future?  Where are the Helen Suzmans today?  Or are they all intimidated by now, so much that none will rise up and speak?!  Yet, in his small way, PH, just a typical Rooinek from the Cape, did - and for that he has my admiration.  I don't hear of any Afrikaners doing anything similar, but that does not surprise me, by now I have learnt to accept that Afrikaners are great opportunists, with their desire for money and social acceptance far outweighing any uncomfortable moral considerations. 

'n Plasie in die Bosveld? I would like to do that, together with one or two friends so that there was not only the joy and the benefits of the bush but that one could do it in the company of true friends.  In fact, this is the only part of Africa that I do miss, and perhaps the Klein Karoo, but there I already have a small interest in the family's farm in Calitzdorp. Either way, we have a timeshare in Umzumbe Chalets on the Natal south coast, from 14 Aug to 1 Sep every year, and I know that this is not holiday time for you both, but should you be interested in using it when we are not, (or joining us at the same time - maybe a short side trip to Hluhluwe?!) you are welcome to do so.

You may have gathered from our Christmas letter that our renovations are going very well so that by June/July next year when you come to visit us, your room will be waiting for you, in perfect order.  We will spend a bit of time in Belgium, then go to Holland, down to the western part of Germany, into France via the Alsace and Burgundy, then to Paris and back to Belgium.


So, get a new dog, (I almost also added: get a new life!) get us a small farm in the Bosveld, get your house finished, liquidate your assets for easy travel, (I even spoke to a friend of mine, who was a member of the Johannesburg Bar, who practices in Mechelen, about you, and there are some, albeit small, possibilities available, and with J's training and experience I think there are many larger opportunities for her in Brussels, but most importantly, come on an exploratory visit next summer! 

I hope that by the time you have finished reading this letter you will not be too depressed, as I suppose it was not a particularly cheerful one! Maar dit was ook 'n bietjie nostalgies (speaking of Billy Joel, do you remember the song: 'Saigon'?  It always represented the Vietnam War and the late 60s so utterly well for me!).

I hope you and J continue with the great success which you have made of your lives! 

Brief aan Die Burger 18 Des 2008




‘Net die woorde van 'Stuur Groete aan Mannetjies Roux' kan die eensaamheid en nou-verstaan-ek-eers-my geboortelandinsigte van 'n uitgestote Afrikaner miskien verwoord - maar dis natuurlik nog erger, want terselfdertyd is daar ook die nare besef dat dit wat vir jou SA was, nie meer is nie en dat dit dan miskien alles net in jou geheue bestaan het, dat jou 'mooi memories' jou dalk 'n verwronge beeld verskaf het.En dat jy stadigaan, met veel pyn, SA kan herken as 'n verwarde (confused), brutale land in 'n nog brutaler kontinent, en as ek na die nuus oor suidelike Afrika kyk, bevolk deur nepotistiese brutale. 

Soos ander van u bloggers dit ook ervaar het, moes ek hier in België kom leer wat familie is, wat werklike, nie geveinsde, eerlikheid is, wat die woord 'vriend' eintlik beteken, wat norme en waardes kan wees. Maar ek was gelukkig want ek kon deur familienavorsing my Europese roots tot in 1550 navors, dus is ek in murg en been Europees, watter invloed 'n kleine 200 jaar in Afrika ook mag hê, die Kaap was maar, en bly steeds, 'n tevergeefse poging om 'n wal te gooi teen die egte Afrikaheid van SA. Dis die grote waan van meeste wit mense in SA: die onsinnige droom dat hulle NIE in Afrika woon nie!’

Desert Birth

with shimmering diamond tones
the sun swept the trembling scree
into orphaned, crossless graves
and shattered the godless serenity


as I wafted across the supple sands
sprinkling myopic incantations
onto the submerged, necrogenic caskets,
a throbbing silver angel erupted
from the pregnant, hot stones
flicking its rayon drosophila wings,
its craven cuticle and bizarre cross
flashing
in the desiccated sun’s
drowning screams……..
I see it rise onto six steel legs,
thrice blessing itself papally,
I see its churning intestines,
the claws in its four eyes.

City Ride (thanks to Gerry Rafferty)


midst striding mellotrons
I see your rayon smile,
I ride the bicycle-chained light orchestra
keyboard-strutting into bus stops, shelters
flexing my lamé smile,
stepping high, wide and handsome
into cruising greyhound buses,
platinum-bound violins
follow my cracked, calypso rhythm
on my pilgrimage
from city to city.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

"happy birthday" said
the gangling skeleton
to the fat man,
the clown,
and spat his
eyes out.


“...at Ten”

when the world whispers:
-such soft whispers-
sweet  promises
of cinnamon and spices

when you expectantly peer into
its leafy green future,
your destiny calling you
to run into its longing arms

as you get carried along
moonlight rivers and seas
surprised at the ease
of the flow, the ride

when you, later, wonder
where and why
the whispers and green promises
flew away
remember: our love was always
there, THERE
unseen and unspoken perhaps
but always
enveloping and eternal,
your truest  rock.


29 July 2001
On Alexandra’s 10th birthday

Poems because of (my) children

AGAIN
to be here
to be alive
almost,
is to have memories of you
fluttering in my fingers,
to be almost alive,
again.
 for Z & D 26.7.99 (Lost children)


From Boston to where I now stand

The jungle-fronded and scented tiger lilies.
hyacinth, frosted ferns,
stone pines slung low on granite steppes
the mists in moist symphony
with the mountain’s sheen:
a someone, a man
from its womb,
treads softly and smiles
upwards and inside, rainbows cascading from his lips white clouds blue clouds velvet clouds
            mingle in his hands.

The carapace of wounds and scars
lifted and flown to the stars
reveal
his soft and fearfully strong skin,
eleven caskets of faith
(string -tied, packed and outward-bound)
and
the frantic smiles that live and beckon
from behind his eyes

a someone, a man
has come.

Aankoms (hello, Raka baby!)

Die seewinde wat hondjiesrig
loop lê het (wetend),
in angs, van Hom,
het geruik aan sy asem.

Gillend word ongebore melodië
vasgekeer in die lig-lig atria
van komponiste se nou-defunkte
harmonie-harsings.

Psigopate tros saam na krummelende
kerke waar altare, lank reeds
deur P.C.'s verorber, is.
'n Lappieskomberskudde beweeg
stofloos, meedoënloos,
eekhorings, dom dassies,
wildevark en anakondas,
seekranse toe,
en stort,
verllg, 'n reënboogwaterval,
die asuurstilte binne.

Orals op die afwagtende vlaktes
verbruin grasse van onder,
voel zantedeschias die slu
vibrasies van sy bewegings,
dáár waar hy snuifend begin roer.
Met die laaste, verwronge aria
wat uitsukkel teen dle Met se
balkonde mure stuif vergulde
pleisterstukkies op oopgraf-gesigte.

Stadigswart kom riviere tot 'n
rillende stilstand, bewe hulle in
kronkelende, diep-V grafte,
en begin te stink.

Loeiende telefone spoeg morsemissies
uit wat rooi drup op
verlate lessenaars.
In 'n versterkde hok in 'n woestyntronk
begin die kraai kekkel en, wetend,
sy vlerke vlap.

Tevergeefs soek hulle na die
kwytskeldende swiep van
die duif.
Stede en bome wat in die verbrokkelende
aarde ingesuig word hoor dle
geruis van sy pels,
dlé wat nog beweeg sien die
droërige slym wat soos grashalms
op sy knoppende rug groei,
hoor die in -uit, in-uit van sy oerasem,
skuins-skuins kom hy uit die moeras,
'n lag en 'n belofte in elke hand.