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.

A modern faith

I wore my faith

levi-style:

tight and frayed at the ends,

strange to see it

almost as sad as me

It clutched at my throat,

went for my eyes,

strummed my life-line.

I dared not touch it,

could not see it

it was there, always,

not leering,

not crying,

just knowingly smiling.

Selection of poems from the 70's and 80's

A MAN IN HIS HOUSE, ONE NIGHT

We see :

it is a terracotta lekker-landscape of splashed washing lines

genuflecting in a turbo-wind of crimson carelessness

the Joel-man sings, garlic burps, black feathers

with itty-bitty round whitey spots

cracked ersatz-ming cups

a drip-drip tap weeping shyly

into its Twyfords vitreous china-womb,

sings his songs "oh J+B, true pleasure is rare"

indeed so rare;

and hobbling through his stone housey house

the little piggy man goes,

his soiled laundry clutched Linus-like

to his frail gorilla chest,

aimlessly floating, lost, his eyes

ping-ponging off his crap-culture-cave;

he seeks a place, a place to place

his now-sanctified bundle,

he stares at it mystified, it swirls it swirls;

a gaga, pink baby boy-child, blue eyes,

a terribly-used condom

growing from its soft cheek.

(Relates to a Jungian-like dream about an impossible,  failed relationship- probably written in Hoekwil in about 1985/6)

..in die Groot Ope Hart van die Klein Karoo...

beste Mnr Venter,

Jammer dat ek so voor-op-die-prem is om sommer direk kontak op te neem. 

Dis nie dat ek as mede-vlugteling (ek woon 10 jaar al in Vlaanderen, naby Gent) jou artiekel in die Burger vandag  ('..land van melk en moord..') per se verstaan het nie, en dan, 'verstaan' is dan ook weer die verkeerde woord, te veel regsfilisofies-agtig. 

Dis ook nie alleen omdat ek in die foodie/slow food-wereld (wyneducatie) verzuil (seker 'n Nederlandse woord, maar tog so beskrywend he !?) geraak het nie, nee dis eerder te make met 'n germaanse heimwee en weltschmerz wat vasgeknewel is in meeste Afrikaners van ons ouderdom. Iets wat die Vlaminge ook goed ken, dink maar aan Hugo Claus. Alles wat mooi was, bly mooi, vir altyd. 

En dan die belangrikste: die feit dat Afrika, of altans daardie spesiale vrouensdeel daarvan, mens nimmerste nooit sal vrylaat, die bloureen, die weerlig, die stowwerige donkiepaaie, hou ons ten einde dagen aan haar bors op 'n tedere manier vas, maar let wel, vas!

Dit is dus in hierdie konteks dat jou beskrywing van daardie kafee in die Langkloof, en die geure en sfeer wat gekreeer is, my so geruk het vanuit my: hier-sit-ek-lekker-veilig-in-boring Europa om met drakenvlerke heel snel weer te land in die Klein Karoo. Om te besef, nie te weet, dat 'n deel van my, my enigste sakrale deel, steeds in die Karoo is/was. 

Dankie daarvoor.
En moenie ophou skryf nie, daar sal 'n tyd kom waarin dit chic en ubercool sal wees om die tye van ons jeug weer in herinnering te neem. 

en stuur tog maar weer groete aan Mannetjies Roux,

Derek Koch

17maart 2009

Terug na die land van melk en moorde

EBEN VENTER 13/03/2009 04:24:28 PM - (SA) 

Die Burger

Om by die huis te kom, moet ek deur die Langkloof en oor die Swartberge ry. Daar is appelsmouse langs die pad wat melerige Jonathans reg voor jou karruit indruk en teen die kloof se hange rooi en wit proteakelke, bitterlik mooi. Die lug is ’n silwerblou en die son is warm en soet en heldergeel. Ek trek af by ’n kafee in Uniondale en stap binne om ’n bottel water te koop, maar toe ek binne is, besluit ek op ’n Fanta.

Die kafee – ek gaan nie sy naam noem nie, anders murmureer die eienaars net weer – ruik na daardie mini-pakkies Surf wat pas uit ’n kartonboks op die

rakke gepak is, na bruin brood en wit brood in dun plastieksakkies en na die drie skywe polonie en een snysel hopeloos te geel cheddarkaas wat ’n man in ’n blou overall vir sy middagete kom koop, en na die roserige deodorant van die jong, tammerige vrou wat jou kleingeld in jou handpalm uitkeer, en na die trossie Calitzdorpse hanepoot in ’n piering wat net daar onder haar hand lê.

Ek hang so ’n bietjie rond: Daar kom ’n blou polisieman in en ’n gekreukelde antie met drie kinders en nog een op die heup en Duitse rooiwang-toeriste en twee Indiërmans, reisende verkoopsmanne, wat Cokes en ’n pakkie Stuyvesant kom koop, en ’n boer met ’n kakiehemp en ’n kollie wat buite op sy bakkie wag en twee seuns wat ’n Will Smith-DVD kom haal en nog baie ander soorte mense wat almal op presies dieselfde manier deur die vrou agter die toonbank bedien word.

En oor die nie-versteekte luidsprekers ’n liedjie wat ek al lankal wou vergeet het: “Ha ha said the clown.”

Dit maak nie saak of jy al baie gereis of jou hele lewe lank in dieselfde dorp gewoon het nie: Jy weet sommer dat dié soort kafee net in Suid-Afrika bestaan. En op haar tydsame, net-verdraagsame manier het die jong, tammerige vrou haar eie, inklusiewe mardi gras geskep in daardie kafee wat heel waarskynlik nie eens aan haar behoort nie.

Ek gaan staan op die stoep en proe die nagemaakte lemoen­smaak van die Fanta en die borreltjies, sieksoet, ook nog by en ek bevind myself in ’n ander, tydlose wêreld as die een waarvandaan ek nou net kom.

Die kafee met sy kafee-reuke en sy kafee-beligting en klanke en smake en voorrade – blykbaar het niks daarvan oor die jare verander nie. En so verwelkom die kafee jou en ook weer nie, want oorvriendelik is hy nie, daarvoor is hy te lank in die land.

Die gruwelland wat Breytenbach ver verby moedeloos maak, die verkragtings en kapings en herhaaldelike huisinbrake en OTM’s wat opgeblaas word – ware stories waarop jou mense en vriende jou trakteer kort nadat jy aangekom het; wel, natuurlik kan dit nie weggepraat of goed gemaak word deur sentimentaliteit oor of idealisering van ’n plattelandse kafee nie.

Maar ek weet nie watter ander lewensvatbare manier daar bestaan om sonder sinisme in Suid-Afrika voort te lewe nie.

Dus: stap Fanta in die hand uit op die stofstoep van die kafee en onthou maar: oor daardie ruggens van die Swartberge begin die Groot Karoo, asvaal en gedaan van oudgeid.

Daar bly mense so lank as ’n mens kan onthou en dit is ook joune, maak nie saak wat daar gesê word nie. En daar mag jy gaan áánlewe.

Memories of a South African kid who grew up a long time ago

Remember those days ....?

Close your eyes.....And go back in time....

Before the Internet or the Apple Mac....
Before semi-automatics and crack  cocaine ....
Before SEGA or Super Nintendo...
Before Playstation............

Way back....
I'm talking  about:

-Hide and seek in the park
-The cafe down the road,
-Hopscotch, Donkey, skipping, handstands,
-Backyard cricket with a tomato box, Dandy & Beano annuals,
-Twinkle and Roly Poly, Hula Hoops,
-Jumping the stream
-Building a swing from a piece of rope tied to a tree,
-Tennis on the street,
-The smell of the sun and fresh cut grass
-Wicks bubble gum for a cent,
-An ice cream cone from the kombi that plays a tune
-Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry or maybe Neaopolitan

Wait.....

-When around the corner seemed far away
-And going into town seemed like going somewhere
-A million mosquito bites
-Sticky fingers and mud all over you
-Cops and Robbers, Rounders, King Stinger, Foefie slides & Climbing trees
-Walking to school, no matter what the weather
-Running till you were out of breath
-Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt
-Jumping on the bed. Pillow fights
-Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for giggles
 -Being tired from playing...

Remember that?
-The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team
-Paper Water Bombs were the ultimate weapon
-A piece of card in the spokes held by a clothes peg transformed any bike into a motorcycle.
 
I'm not finished just yet...

-Eating raw jelly, ice pops made from cold drink
-Making sherbet from sugar and ENO

Remember when...
-There were two types of takkies - white, girls and boys and the only time you wore them at school, was for "P.T"

-It wasn't odd to have two or three "best" friends
-When nobody owned a pedigree dog
-When 25 cents was decent pocket money
-When you'd reach into a muddy gutter for a cent
-When nearly everyone's mum was at home when the kids got there
-It was magic when dad would "remove" his thumb, or make 10 cents appear from behind your ear
-When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at a real restaurant or a roadhouse with your parents
-When any parent could discipline any kid, or feed him, or use him to carry groceries and nobody, not even the kid, thought a thing of it
-When being sent to the head master's office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited a misbehaving student at home

Basically, we were in fear for our lives but it wasn't because of muggings, drugs, gangs, etc. Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat!

Didn't that feel good. just to go back and say,
Yeah, I   remember that!
 
Remember when....
-Decisions were made by going "eeny-   meeny- miney-mo."
-Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, "Nix!"
-A "race issue" meant arguing about who ran the fastest
-Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in "Monopoly"
-The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was germs
-Having a weapon in school, meant being caught with a BIC pen pea shooter
-Nobody was prettier than your Mom
-Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better
-Taking drugs meant orange-flavoured chewable vitamin C
-Ice cream was considered a basic food group
-Abilities were discovered because of a dare
-Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors

If you can remember most or all of these, then you have LIVED!!!!

Pass this on to anyone who may need a break from their "grown up"
life...
 

(Anonymous)

Sinterklaas, some Flemish cultural snippets, and Nederlands

20 November 2010

I am often asked by my South African friends and family how the culture in Europe (Belgium at least) differs from that of South Africa.

Today would be a good day to describe some of the differences as I am reminded of St Martin's day, which we've celebrated recently.  Firstly, one must remember that Flanders is a Catholic country, although Protestantism was very strong in the region that I live, just outside Ghent, and the Spanish, who were ruling in Belgium at the time, drove the Protestants from the northern part of Flanders, and as a result most of the intelligentsia, expertise and capital fled from cities such as Ghent and Antwerp to Holland. 

To get back to St Martin's Day: this is a day, which is celebrated in certain parts of Europe, and in the small region where I live, and the tradition is that the ‘Sint’ comes to Aalst and meets all the children and hands out gifts and presents. Essentially, it is an alms feast, that is a feast which is linked to the poor people and the children will go around knocking on doors and ask for cookies and gifts. 

On the other hand, the rest of Flanders mostly support and celebrate Sinterklaas who comes to Flanders early in December, whereas St Martin always comes on the 11th of November.  Sinterklaas usually arrives by boat, supposedly from Spain, whereas apparently St Martin' lives in heaven.  So Sinterklaas is celebrated on 3 December usually, and it is only since the last 10 years or so that the anglicized version of Santa Claus or Father Christmas has made any impact, and only because of the media and American advertising.  Previously the English Santa Claus was unknown, and not celebrated here.

The celebration which I find quite touching and which almost everyone here supports is, what would be called, all Saints Day in English.  It is the day when everyone remembers their departed loved ones.  Days in advance, the family go to the cemeteries and tidy up and clean the graves of their departed ones, it is quite striking to see even small children helping out and cleaning the grave of a departed grandmother.  By the way, family bonds are much stronger here it seems than in South Africa, especially that between grandparents and grandchildren.  Anyway, on that day, the tradition is that everyone takes a bunch of chrysanthemum flowers to the grave, and it is quite a sight to see a cemetery looking so colourful and joyful being bedecked by (usually yellow) chrysanthemums.  A touching sight and sunny, which one can only wonder at.  What a difference to the way to our dead are treated in South Africa!  I remember going to do see the graves of my parents and grandparents on my last trip to South Africa and it was a gloomy sight indeed.

Belgium suffered tremendously during the First World War, and one of the wonderful traditions that they maintain here is that for many years, probably since the First World War, at sunset, they have a lone bugler playing the Last Post at the Menen Gate in Ypres.  This has become so well known that one usually finds scores of tourists from the Anglo-Saxon world standing there, listening to it being played, often with tears running down their cheeks, a stark and poignant reminder of the carnage that World War I was.

And lastly, a note about books, and reading, here. Dutch is the language spoken by the Flemish, and they number about 6 million in total (plus another 10 m or so in Holland).  Which is why I think it is so impressive that they have more than 90 literary awards for the Dutch language!  And imagine such a small country has a book fair, which usually attracts about 200,000 visitors every year- often schools will close for the day to take their pupils to this book fair in Antwerp.  Another major difference with that of South Africa. 

Of course, one of the less positive things about the language here is that the Flemish are allowing the English language to gradually take over their language, especially amongst young people.