Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Monday, 13 January 2014

Om 'n "ma" te verloor

Om 'n ma te verloor is nie maklik nie. Dit is nietemin deel van die natuurlike gang van ons gebroke wêreld. Om 'n ouer te verloor is vir 'n kind soos om 'n god te verloor. 'n Kind se hele wese, se heel gevoel van bestaansreg draai om hulle ouers, wat aan al hulle basiese behoeftes voldoen.

Ek het hieroor 'n gedig geskryf verlede jaar. In die gedig spreek die verteller die Dood aan, en bekla die feit dat moeders sterf sodat kinders kan "onderskei / tussen God en mens / tussen Hom en klei".


Ek het ook op 'n tyd 'n moeder gehad

ek het ook
op 'n tyd   
lank gelede
toe wolke nog diere en skepe was
'n moeder gehad

'n ma

'n mamma

wat soos 'n god
my lank lank gelede
gesoog en versorg en verknog het
wat in my die potensiaal gesien het
wat slegs God en moeders kan sien
wat die eerste vrou in my lewe was
die templaat vir al wat vrou is
van Eva tot nou is

ek het ook op 'n tyd 'n moeder gehad

en soos alle moeders het sy ook
onder jou koue lem beland
jou rypvingers het haar om die keel gegryp
en God het staan en toekyk
want dis die lot van alle moeders
dat hulle kinders kan onderskei
tussen God en mens
tussen Hom en klei

op 'n tyd het ek ook 'n God gehad
soos 'n moeder


My mooi ma
My ma was vir jare lank siek gewees en toe sy uiteindelik sterf was dit nie 'n skok nie. In 'n sekere opsig was dit 'n verligting. 'n Verligting dat haar leiding tot 'n einde gekom het. Die laaste keer wat ek my ma gesien het, het sy feitlik niks van haar vorige glorie oor gehad nie. Sy was eens 'n dinamiese, selfversekerde, sterk, pragtige vrou. Maar op haar sterfbed het sy in 'n patetiese bondeldjie verander -- 'n kindjie, sonder 'n moeder om haar te vertroos. Dit is vir my moeilik om terug te dink aan my moeder en nie gelyktydig terug te dink nie aan haar geweldige verval van die koningin wat sy op tyd was, tot daardie bewende prewelde bondeltjie op 'n bedjie in 'n tehuis vir elendiges.

Sedert my ma se afsterwe is ek geseënd met ander "moeders" wat my onder hulle vlerke geneem het. Een van hulle het ook onlangs gesterf na 'n tyd van siekte.

Ek het die volgende op Facebook met my bloedfamilie en hartfamilie (hegte vriende) gedeel:

Tannie Jenny en ek
'n “Ma” en dierbare vriendin van my, Tannie Jenny Streaton, is die middag voor Oukersaand (24 Desember 2013) oorlede nadat sy vir 'n paar jaar reeds met kanker gewroeg het. Alhoewel sy uiteindelik aan die siekte omgekom het, het sy as 'n vegter, 'n heldin in my gemoed, gesterf. Sy was 'n besonderse mens gewees vir wie ek baie lief is en wie baie lief vir my was—en my lewe is ryker daarom. Sy het my moed ingepraat (“pet talks” soos sy dit genoem het) wanneer ek mismoedig was, en sy het selfs op 'n groot mate finansiëel bygedra to my meestersgraad. Ek weet nie of ek my meestersgraad sou kon voltooi het sonder haar liefde en bystand nie, en ek twyfel of ek sou wees waar ek vandag is (besig met 'n doktorsgraad) was dit nie vir haar en die Streaton-familie wat my “aangeneem” het nie. Hulle het my op soveel direkte en indirekte maniere gehelp, dat dit te lank sal neem om hier te hervertel. Sowat drie jaar gelede het ek en Tannie Jenny lank gekuier en het ons kans gehad om formeel totsiens te sê. Iets wat sy geïnisieer het. Ons het diep gesels oor die dood, en hoe sy daaroor voel. Sy het prontuit en eerlik met my haar gevoelens gedeel—insluitende dat sy vrede het met die feit dat sy sou sterf. Sy het ook met my van haar bekommernisse gedeel en dit is 'n voorreg vir my dat ek na haar kon luister. Ek weet die dinge wat sy op haar hart gedra het, en koester dit, en sy het geweet die liefde wat ek vir haar, vir Oom Mike en haar kinders, Margie en Michael het. Sy het vir my gesê dat sy my lief het en dat ek vir haar soos 'n eie seun is. Twee jaar gelede het ek haar weer gesien en ons was bly dat ons nog so 'n geleentheid gegun is. En onlangs, enkele weke voor haar dood kon ek darem 'n kort rukkie met haar op die foon gesels en kon ek vir haar sê dat ek lief vir haar is en ander dinge wat ons gedeel het. Ek is jammer dat ek haar nie weer kon sien voor sy gesterf het nie, maar daar is niks ongesê tussen ons nie. Die wêreld was 'n beter plek met haar in dit—en sy het op haar eie, nederige manier mense se lewens aangeraak. Sy is 'n fundamentele pilaar in die konstruksie van my lewe. Dankie Tannie Jenny. As ek, 'n “aangenome seun” so aangeraak kon wees in die bietjie meer as 'n dekade wat ek haar geken het, kan ek my skaars indink hoe pynlik die verlies vir haar familie moet wees. My innige meegevoel vir julle verlies. Ek weet daar is nie woorde nie, en wil maar net dankie sê dat julle my altyd tuis laat voel het.

Baie liefde,

S

Friday, 24 August 2012

On Writing Poetry (in English)

Image Source
I usually write poems in Afrikaans. The reason is simply that I find Afrikaans to be innately more poetic in its compilation and collocations. Take the word "hartstog" for example, which means passion. Directly translated, "hartstog" is heart's journey. In other words, one's passion is the thing that takes your heart on a journey. That is a poem by itself. (I have in fact actually used it as the theme for an Afrikaans poem once.) Or the word "versoen" which means reconcile and directly translates as to kiss. The Afrikaans word for reconciling is this intimate image of kissing. (This had also been the inspiration for a poem before.) With such innate rich and colourful imagery it is no wonder that I prefer Afrikaans as my poetic medium. This doesn't mean that I don't write poetry in English or that I'm not inspired in English. Actually, as far as reading poetry goes, I read mostly English poems and quite often too. In fact, I often have some anthology of poetry in my bag with me, and it is usually an English anthology. For instance at this very moment I have Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" in my one backpack and a translation into English of a selection of Tomas Tranströmer's poetry in my other backpack, and I always leave home with one of these two backpacks.

True, I do write much less poetry in English, but sometimes an English poem wants to be written. Like last night. I was walking home listening to the soundtrack of Spring Awakening when the phrase "good riddance" lodged itself in my mind and just begged to be used in a poem. When I got home I sat down and wrote it in one sitting. (Which of course means that it could probably benefited from more time and editing before I posted it.) Often poems I write in English feel like they want to be translated into Afrikaans, or sometimes an Afrikaans poem calls for an English translation. The "Good Riddance"-poem, which you can read on my poetry blog, has no such ambitions. It is a happy, thoroughly English poem. Well, mostly. It is not a happy-themed poem, so it is not happy in that sense. I mean that the poem is happy to be an exclusively English poem. Also, one of the words I used is quite questionable. It is not a properly established word in the English language, well not in the sense that I use it. It is the word "palateless", meaning "lacking in delicacy of taste", which, upon searching online, I could only find it used in this sense in Merriam-Webster's dictionary, and noted as one of their "unabridged words"; i.e. a very uncommon word. Palateless has become a slightly more common word to describe dentures as palate-less; that is, dentures that do not have an artificial palate (roof of the mouth) part -- not the variation of the word I had in mind.

In July I translated two of my Afrikaans poems into English: a homo-erotic / bisexually themed poem "and I wonder why" and "Percieve", a poem of romantic longing. The latter I also translated into Korean and is currently being edited by a Korean friend. In July I also translated an English poem, A. E. Houseman's "I did not lose my heart on a summer's even" into Afrikaans, and in May I translated those beautiful English lines (189-202) from the final scene of Beaumont and Fletcher's play “Philaster” into Afrikaans.

But since it has been so long for me to write an exclusively English poem I thought it worth announcing here on my main blog. And so it starts, as an angry confession: "If I should lose you, / I say: 'good riddance!' / I've already lost my heart, / what more is there to lose?" But turns into a sad revelation of unrequited love, and how life loses all its wonder and pleasures when one finds oneself in such a state.

Friday, 11 November 2011

11.11.11

November 11 (11.11) is Pepero Day in South Korea. A Pepero 빼빼로 is a "cookie [stick] dipped in chocolate", a favourite snack in South Korea and Japan, where it is known as Pocky. Pepero Day is somewhat similar to Valentine's Day, but instead of chocolates, roses or other typical Valentine's Day gifts, the gift of choice is Peperos.

This year, however, November 11th is extra special in Korea as children born will have identity numbers that start with "111111". To ensure that their children have a sestet of ones in their identity numbers many pregnant mothers have gone out of their way to get c-section surgeries scheduled for today. According to Reuters, c-sections scheduled for 11 November 2011 is up by 20% from usual. (I'm obliged to a South African friend for sending me the link to the news article.)

Speaking of South Africa, annually on the weekend closest to 11 November, South Africa celebrates Poppy Day. It is in remembrance of those that died and fought in battle during World War I, World War II and other wars. World War I ended at the eleventh hour on 11 November 1918 when Germany signed the armistice. In South Africa it is known as Poppy Day because poppy flowers are traditionally sold as part of fundraising initiatives by the South African Legion to help veterans of war. The poppy was chosen because it grew on the battlefields of Flanders (Western Front), where many soldiers died. A poem written by Colonel John McCrae (a Canadian medic) brought wider attention to the poppie connection.

In Flanders Fields -- John McCrae
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place;wait and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead, short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields!
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields!

The red poppie became the symbolic flower of remembrance.

In South Africa Poppy Day remembrance ceremonies are held on the Saturday nearest 11 November and some services are also held on the adjacent Sunday. It is not a national holiday, so I'm not sure how many people actually observe it, but it's function is similar to Remembrance Day or Armistice Day celebrated by countries of the Common Wealth and Veterans Day in the United States which is also celebrated on November 11th. South African's typically use Poppy Day to remember South African soldiers who died in WWI, WWII, the Korean War and Border War, as well as surviving veterans of war. Ceremonies are typically held in Cape Town and Pretoria.

November 11 is also Nigel Tufnel Day kept by the cult following of the 1984 mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap. This day was chosen because of the recurrence of the number 11, which became a significant number in the movie, based on one particularly scene in which the character Nigel Tufnel explains how they can turn the volume of their amplifiers "up to eleven", making them "one louder" that other bands that can only go up to ten. The quote "up to eleven" has become pop-culture idiom, suggesting that something is done better, beyond it's expected limitations. I'm not sure exactly how one celebrates Nigel Tufnel Day; I guess you make sure to do something "up to eleven."

Also from popular culture and linked with 11 November 2011 is the movie that is supposed to have been released today, 11-11-11. While it may have gone on circuit in other parts of the world, I didn't see it showing in Korea (I went to the movies today). Then again, I'm not particularly interested as I avoid horror movies; this film was directed by Darren Lynn Bousman, the director of SAW II, III and IV, none of which I've seen. On the other hand, I do like science-fiction films and this is a sci-fi horror. I'll wait a bit and first see how it rates on RottenTomatoes before I make my decision.

On a more philosophical note, 11 November is the anniversary of the death of the Christian philosopher Søren Aabye Kierkegaard, the father of Existentialism. Existentialist thought was most notably expounded upon by later philosophers like Friedrich Nietzche, Martin Heidegger, and Jean-Paul Sartre, but it was Kierkegaard that first focussed on the human dilemma of freedom of choice and the existential angst this causes. He wrote about it in his book The Concept of Anxiety. One example in which he explains this angst requires us to imagine a man standing on the edge of a very tall building and looking down. The man experience two kinds of fear: "the fear of falling, and fear brought on by the impulse to throw himself off the edge. This second type of fear, or anxiety, arises from the realization that he has absolute freedom to choose whether to jump or not, and this fear is as dizzying as his vertigo" (The Philosophy Book, p. 195). In short, Kierkegaard argued that apart from the freedom to be born, God endowed us with free choice. Because making life-altering decisions always cause much angst in me, I'm quite attracted to the Existentialists. Kierkegaard died at the young age of 42 on 11 November 1855.

11 November 2011 is also a day on which New Agers celebrate "Interconnectedness Day", with heavy focus on the Green Agenda. Previous such Interconnectedness Days were celebrated on 10 October 2010 and 9 September 2009. I guess next year on 12 December 2012 will be the last year Interconnectedness Day will be celebrated in a very very long time.

On a personal note, my first best friend, Matthys du Preez, and I used to celebrate 11 November as our friendship day. I can't remember exactly what the reason was that we chose this day as our friendship day, but we celebrated it as a birthday. Matthys was literally my first friend. I cannot recall any friend before him. Our parents were friends and because we were of the same age we naturally became friends. We also went to the same elementary school (a "plaasskool") together. We grew up on farms in the same farming community and there was only one elementary school where all the children in the community went -- a little school with hardly 300 pupils. We were so close in personality that many people mistook us as twins, to our delight -- I guess the fact that we often dressed alike contributed to it. We often finished each other's sentences and my mother told me that we seemed to communicate telepathically as we would sometimes just look at each other and seem to know what the other was thinking. Unfortunately my first best friend moved away when we were about 11 years old and due to the distance our friendship waned until we completely lost contact. In recent years I've started to increasingly think about my old friend. I was able to look him up and sent him an email with the hopes of meeting with him at the beginning of this year while I was in South Africa, but he didn't respond to my email. I guess he's not as sentimental as I am about those early years. In our late teens, early twenties, we both lost our mothers to illness. I think we could have been a great comfort to each other had we stayed in contact. I sometimes wish I could have been there for him during that time of loss and during other trials he may have experienced as a child. I have fond memories of our friendship and I remember quite distinctly the good and caring friend he was. I am very blessed with some great friends in my life. I have, in part, Matthys to thank for that. Because my first friendship had been such a very close one, that has become my expectation of a real friendship. Matthys' care and loyalty as a young boyhood friend inspired me to become the same type of friend later in my life.

Happy 11 November, for whatever reason you decide to celebrate it.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Don't Smoke in Bed & A Poem About the Assassination of a Heart



One of my favourite songs is "Don't Smoke in Bed." I'm not sure why this song resonates with me, because I do not smoke and am unlikely to be romantically involved with someone that does smoke. Nevertheless, there is something wonderfully touching about the lyrics of this song. Even as the narrator is leaving her husband, she still cares for him, she still reminds him not to smoke in bed.

My favourite version is of course the one by Nina Simone, whom I've mentioned on this blog before (see here and here).

Apart from Nina Simone, the other person with whom the song is probably usually associated is Peggy Lee. I especially like the instrumentation in this version.



Patti Smith, the musician partly responsible for the punk rock genre, also does a riviting performance of this old jazz classic.



A more upbeat version in a lounge jazz style is performed by the Eddie Higgins Trio. You might be excused for getting up and dancing to this tune. The trio consists of piano, guitar and bass.



k.d. lang with her beautiful voice provides a beautiful full sounding version, but I do miss the rawness that one hear in Simone and Smith.




In around 2008 my then girlfriend and I broke up after somewhat of a tumultuous emotional period in our relationship. Shortly before we broke up I wrote her the poem below. In the poem the narrator speaks of his lover as an assassin of hearts that will soon come to murder (i.e. break) his heart and in so doing be the cause of his death. At the end of the poem I realised that I needed there to be a personal touch--a loving "don't smoke in bed". After sometime I added the line: "Don't forget to water the flowers"--the idea being that flowers are a symbol of romantic love and by caring for the flowers she will keep his remembrance and symbolically keep their love alive after his passing. In a strange way this poem I wrote was influenced by this song "Don't Smoke in Bed". Basically they have the same themes and tell the same story of broken hearts and separation. Soon afterwards I moved to Korea.


Throughout the night I battle sleep
(my fists broken       my temples bleeding
my knees and elbows chafed from fighting)
lest, like a calamity, the morning breaks
open like an egg       a skull       a heart stuffed
to the brim with love (that undaunted
heartless threatening damned type of love).
And now, as the day comes crawling
(my heart’s assassination on the agenda;
it will, I’m sure, be done with a knife)
and I have little fighting spirit left, I beg you
my love, be swift. I have already
both my stubborn shirt and chest
ripped open (I trust you’ll appreciate it).
My love, both my heart and I am ready
on this day (please don’t torture me further!)
to die enthusiastically an enormous death.
The angels (my guardian angel and yours)
are standing on their marks for a farewell number
(a necro-duet) to call me to the Big Slumber.
Don’t forget to water the flowers.

Monday, 27 June 2011

bygestaande selfmoord / "assisted suicide"

'n Opinie omtrent bygestaande selfmoord


Ek nes my lewe in klam rooigrond:

'n pêreltjie—oënskynlyk leweloos—skiet
skielik 'n harige stertjie suidwaarts,
'n kordadige nekkie priem noorde toe;
die gevuisde lentegroen koppie
vou oop soos twee palmpies na gebed
of voor applous en glimlag vlinderlik.

Natuurlik, figuurlikgesproke het ek my lewe
so geplant en met die selfde aanmatigheid
wil ek, wanneer die tyd ryp is,
die pêreltjie weer oes—sagkuns ontwortel,
die lewensare se konneksie met die klam
rooigrond kortknip, die vlinder laat verwelk
en die korreltjie wat aan my geleen is teruggee.

Want, toe ek ontkiem het,
was dit 'n deftige—tog toweragtige—affêre
en daarom wil ek ook op 'n betaamlike
manier sterf—sans towerkuns natuurlik—.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Lady Gaga se "Judas" en die stryd met sonde

Lady Gaga se nuwe song “Judas” vanaf haar onlangse album “Born This Way” word baie ongunstig in Suid-Afrika bevind. Vele radioluisteraars het gevra dat die lied van die lug af verwyder word.

Die spreker in die liedjie noem dat sy verlief is op Judas en dat sy Judas se voete met haar hare sal was. Die spreker trek dus 'n paralel tussen Jesus en Judas en sê dat soos Maria Magdalena Jesus se voete met haar trane gewas het en met haar hare afgedroog het, so sal die spreker ook Judas se voete was. Judas word dus 'n paralele Messias of aanbiddingswaardige figuur. Haar liefde aan Judas is onvoorwaardelik. Sy sal Judas vergewe al sou hy haar belieg (“[lie] through his brain”); selfs al sou hy haar bedrieg, “three times,” sal sy Judas vergewe. Judas is nie goed vir die spreker nie, nogtans het sy vir Judas onvoorwaardelik lief, en daarom beskryf die spreker haarself as a “Holy fool.” By implikasie is Jesus dan ook 'n “Holy fool” omdat Jesus se liefde onvoorwaardelik is en omdat hy ons wat hom so gedurig bedrieg vergewe.

Die lied maak 'n vreemde draai met die brug wanneer die spreker haarself as 'n “Fame hooker, prostitute wench” beskryf wat haar gedagtes “vomits.” Die prostituut wat Jesus se voete gewas het, het haar vergifnis vir haar misdade in Jesus gevind. Die spreker in die “Judas” liedjie vind haar vergifnis in Judas: “Judas kiss me if offensed.” Maar ons weet dat Judas se soen die soen van 'n verraaier is. Sy is ongelukkig dat haar lojaliteit aan Judas nie volkome is nie, want “something's pulling me away from [Judas].” Dit is Jesus wat haar wegtrek van Judas af. Sy vind haarself in 'n tweestryd: “Jesus is my virtue, / Judas is the demon I cling to.”

Wat presies Lady Gaga se intensie met die lied is weet ek nie. Indien Judas die sonde in haar lewe is waarmee sy 'n “liefdesverhouding” het, dan het ek baie simpatie met haar. Ek het ook al geskryf oor my eie (liefdes)verhouding met sonde—gedigte geïnspereer uit 'n stryd met gewoonte sondes.

Belydenis

Ek dans met haar. Vat haar styf
om die lyf. Speen aan haar peul-
bors. Hawe haar kors tortuur tong
in my mond. Stort my ongebore
half-kinders in haar kreng brakbuik.
Miopies beskou ek haar vigs
minnenswaardig. Noktambulis
eienaardig is my sinlike wellus
vir haar. Sonde is my houvrou.

Sonde

sy flankeer met my,
lek haar kraakblou lippe af met ’n skilfer tong
en flankeer met my
haar koue linkerhand krewel my broek af
haar benerige regterhand speel met my hare
haar asem, lou soos die dood, walm vanuit ’n diep kasme
in my nek – die tyd vir vrek het aangebreuk
my siel slaan in sweet uit soos na seks
bevlek met onne:
onheil
ongeregtigheid
onbarmhartigheid
só flankeer sy met my,
en ek weet – nou’s dit tyd om te sterf,
af te sterf en die wêreld ’n reiner plek agter te laat,
’n bietjie purer: daar’s een sondaar minder
en daarvoor sterf ek gewillig

En nes Lady Gaga het ek myself ook al as 'n hoerbeskryf, in baie erger terme as sy:

Soos ’n opgefokte hoer
met ’n pruimmoer, ’n suursmoel,
’n opgedroogte hart wat lanklaas
geklop het, lankal uitgeplukte oë
en afgekapte hande, vuilsiekte
en wonde, ’n swartsak vir ’n siel.
Só, het die sonde my gepimp.

Vier hierdie tipe gedigte het ek kritiek ontvang. Daar is vir my gesê dat deur ek oor die sonde skryf (al is dit my eie stryd daarmee), dat ek "rol in die sonde". Dat 'n mens nie in die sonde moet rol nie, is sekerlik goeie raad, maar die kunstenaar het 'n ander motief: om kommentaar te lewer oor die werklikheid. 'n Foto joernalis neem nie slegs fotos van blomme en mooi sonsondergange nie. 'n Ordentlike foto joernalis neem ook (of veral) fotos van ellende, van die afskuwelikheid van oorloë, van pyn en hartseer.

Enige een wat 'n eerlike bewustheid het vir sy of haar eie sonde, weet dat dit 'n tipe verliefdheid tot die daad is. Jy weet dit is sleg vir jou, maar kan dit nie help nie. Selfs die Apostel Paulus was eerlik hier oor:

Rom 7:18, 19, 24 “Want ek weet dat in my, dit wil sê in my vlees, niks goeds woon nie; want om te wil, is by my aanwesig, maar om goed te doen, dit vind ek nie. Want die goeie wat ek wil, doen ek nie, maar die kwaad wat ek nie wil nie, dit doen ek . . . Ek, ellendige mens! Wie sal my verlos van die liggaam van hierdie dood?”

Paulus was dit eens dat as 'n Christen voer 'n mens 'n tweestryd: “Want ek verlustig my in die wet van God na die innerlike mens; maar ek sien 'n ander wet in my lede wat stryd voer teen die wet van my gemoed en my gevange neem onder die wet van die sonde wat in my lede is” (Rom 7:23). Daar is twee wette in ons; twee magte: een goed en een sleg; die invloed van Jesus en die invloed van Satan. Lady Gaga se lied beskryf dit as: “Jesus is my virtue, / Judas is the demon I cling to.”

Daar is 'n oomblik van hoop in Lady Gaga se lied, daardie sinsnede “Jesus is my virtue.” Nêrens probeer sy haarself verdedig nie. Sy erken dat sy 'n “Fame hooker, prostitute wench” is wat aan sonde vasklou – byna sonder hoop. Paulus se uitlating is soortgelyk: “Ek, ellendige mens! Wie sal my verlos van die liggaam van hierdie dood?”

Maar dan antwoord Paulus sy vraag: “. . . Jesus Christus, onse Here!” (Rom 7:25); soos Lady Gaga: “Jesus is my virtue.”

Ek probeer nie Lady Gaga se liedjie verdedig nie. Ek stem saam dat dit 'n onsmaaklike trand het, nes my sonde-gedigte. Nietemin, dit openbaar 'n pertinente Christelike punt: Die stryd met sonde is 'n intieme werklikheid – byna soos verslawing en wat is verliefdheid anders as verlawing? Maar daar is hoop: “Jesus is my virtue.” Paulus gaan verder in sy rede en sê dat “die Wet van die Gees van die lewe in Christus Jesus het my vrygemaak van die wet van die sonde en die dood” (Rom 8:2). Paulus se raad is om ons hoop op God te hou en ons gedagtes weg te draai van die “vleeslike,” en eerder geestelike dinge te bedink. Dit verg 'n doelbewustelike keuse om eerder die “geestelike dinge” te bedink (Rom 8:5). Uiteindelik, soos Jesus gesê het, moet ons kies—ons kan nie twee meesters volg nie. Dis of Judas of Jesus.

Totdat jy nie self uit ervaring weet hoe moeilik dit is om teen intieme sondes te stry nie, moet nie te haastig wees om Lady Gaga te oordeel nie. Totday jy nie self weet hoe dit voel om deur sonde "gepimp" te word tot 'n "opgefokte hoer" nie, moenie my te vinnig oordeel nie.

Daar is twee dinge wat ek oor Lady Gaga kan sê. Dis nie my tipe musiek nie, maar daar is geen twyfel dat sy 'n uitmuntende stem het nie, en baie talentvol is nie. Tweedens, sy's braaf. Dit sit nie in enige een se broek om te doen wat sy doen nie. Noem dit maar sensasionalisme as jy wil. Hoe ook al, dit vereis binnegoed om jouself so bloot te stel.

Ten laaste, wat dink ek van die reaksie van Suid-Afrikaners om te vra dat die liedjie van die radiogolwe verwyder word? Ek hou daarvan. Verbruikers moet meer proaktief wees in wat hulle behoeftes is. Dit is nie nodig dat ons alles opvreet wat die media vir ons gooi nie. Ons moet 'n keuse gegun word en ons strewe moet wees na kwaliteit. Ek hoop Suid-Afrikaners sal ook begin om al daardie ander (Afrikaanse) gemors wat die radiogolwe so besoedel te kritiseer.

Friday, 17 December 2010

Gedig: Wie?

Wie, hier, kan vir my sê
waar die westewind
haar kop neelê;
waar die oostewind
haar skuiling vind;
waarom my mooi liefling
weggegaan het,
waarom sy my hier
agter gelaat het?
Wie?

Thursday, 18 November 2010

'n Gedig aan my X


Toe jy verwagtend was

Ek wens ek was daar
toe jou maag volmaan rond
en vol lewe -- nuwe bloedjonklewe -- was
en jou borsies sappige geswolle
melkvrugte -- vrugte van die Boom van die Lewe -- was
en jou heupe oorlopens toe vol lewe was
en jy soos 'n amoeba te veel lewe gehad het
en twee lewens -- jy en 'n splinternuwe jy -- geword het.

Ek wens ek was daar
en dat ek daar saam met jou -- albei van jou -- gelewe het.

Friday, 5 November 2010

my vrou is 'n boervrou

my boervrou spit in die tuin
sy spit die aarde in klowe oop
groot vrugbare oopwondklowe
met haar groot ysterspit

soos Agdistis is my vrou
my boervrou bevrug Moeder Aarde
kloof haar oop en stort haar saad daarin
my vrou is 'n vrugbaarheidsgodin

Monday, 31 May 2010

Gedig


Op persketakke lê soos watte die voorvrugte.
Só, op my hart blom my liefde – onverdun.

My beminde, hou nie jou rooi hart gegrendel nie:
die hart is ’n papie wat eens nog moet vlerke kry,
wat oop moet maak soos biddende hande na gebed,
soos ’n lotus voor die son, soos twee pare lippe
vir mekaar, soos bene vir bekende heupe,
soos vriende se kaalpersoonlikhede.

Want in die laat winter bot die perskes
en deur die koue groei die liefde soos tienerborste.

My beminde, hou nie jou soet mond toe nie:
laat my tong soos ’n vinger jou snare stram,
jou perkussie plekke kielie, jou diep liefdesgrotte
maak eggo soos roepende katedraalklokke,
wat luidkeels ween oor die hoog gestookte liefde
en jou brandstapel waarop ek hartstogtelik verteer.

Hoogsomer dra die perskebome swaar aan vrugte
en loop die harte oor van bloed en liefde.

My beminde, vergeet nie die ou verhale nie:
van Adam (óf Romeo) wat deel aan die giftige perskes
en deel aan die lot, want die liefde se drif vrees nie
die dood nie, dit loop doelgerig die duisternis in –
braaf soos Christus, wánt, my beminde,
die slot van die dood bind nie die liefde nie.

Sunday, 23 May 2010

Gedig: Haas terug

"Hot Stuff" by Lilivanili

Haas haastig terug, my beminde,
terug voordat jou rooirissie rusplek
afkoel voordat jou blossende borste
(spitsige rooiwangperskes) skaam word
voordat jou gedoude lippe soos mis
voor die dag        kom gou-gou terug!

Kom terug my beminde, vóór ek sterf!

Thursday, 13 May 2010

One of my favourie John Keats (love) poems

Bright Star
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Klankgedig

My klankgedig "Spektra" (gebasseer op 'n vorige gedig met die titel "Spektrum") is nou beskikbaar op pypaanlyn.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

When I Die...

When I die I wish not to buried in an exquisite coffin, varnished and glossed, carved with decorative lines, adorned with gold-plated handgrips and gemmed studs, padded with silk and lace, and me spread out in an expensive Italian suit as if I’m going to a wedding. If a coffin is needed, let it be a cheap box of pine or some other inexpensive wood, preferably a type of wood that will deteriorate quickly and expose my decomposing body to Mother Nature’s womb in a proper, timely manner. And dress me, if dress is needed, in an old thin garb fit for a child of the streets. Honestly, I’d prefer not a coffin at all, if that is possible; and naked I entered, why not naked depart? And why should the corpse be lowered so deep – nearly to Hyades itself – where no plant could reach the nourishment of my cadaver? Ideally, if your sentiments require covering then wrap my corpse in a sheet of cotton, drop it in a shallow hole, and plant a tree on top of it: a sturdy tree; preferably one that bears fruit, or one known for its comforting flowers – a Mulberry or a Magnolia. But before bagging me, cut out all that can be used. Excavate the internal organs: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys; pluck out the eyes – astigmatism and all; peel the skin and hair; suck out the bone marrow; and whatever else can be of use to some poor soul in need of something. Then let the remains be food for that tree.

While, at this moment, I’m fond of my body and relish all the sensuous perceptions it allows me – the sweet and the bitter, food and hunger, the vast array of polyphony, the great spectrum of colours, all kinds of textures under my touch, the explosion of orgasms, the sting of snow against my face, the sweat on my brow in summer, the aroma of lilies, the great comfort of deep sleep – I will not miss such things in death for “the dead know not anything, neither have they any more a reward.”

Thus, it is with Knut Hamsun that I pray:

“Oh Lord, I pray thee do not let me die
In a bed with sheets and blankets piled upon
And with dripping noses about me.
Nay, smite me someday without warning,
That headlong I fall into the forest some place
Where no one will come around nosing.
I well know the forest, I am its son,
It will not deny my humble request
To die on its cranberry bog.
Thus will I give back without word of complaint
My mighty cadaver to its creatures all,
To the crows, the rats and the flies.”

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

To Autumn

So many other bloggers (particularly South African bloggers living in Korea) are showing their appreciation of the awe inspiringly beautiful autumn foliage. The colours are so striking that one would believe them artificial, as one blogger suggested: “Die kleure is net doodeenvoudig ongelooflik en lyk soms onnatuurlik, so asof iemand oral plastiekblare ‘geplant’ het” [The colours are so unquestionably astounding and looks at times unnatural, as if somebody ‘planted’ plastic leafs everywhere]. Indeed, it looks like a staged scene for a fairytale. Pasted are some “fairytale” pictures I took on the campus where I live.

Autumn is definitely my favourite season, not only in Korea, but in South Africa as well. It might have something to do with the fact that I was born in autumn. Another South African blogger calls autumn a “halfweghuis” [halfway house], a place of recuperation after the summer and a time for preparation before the coming cold. I thought that a beautiful image.

A colleague recently, while both of us were admiring the beautiful colours, told me that she learned from autumn that death need not be ugly. In fact, death can be beautiful, as autumn is beautiful – the leaves are dying, but in their death they are changing into such inspiring colours. Quite a beautiful image too.



Yet another South African blogger, rather appropriately, started quoting poetry. Who better that the poets, and of all the poets the Romantics, to evoke the most striking autumn-images? My favourite is John Keats’ “To Autumn”:

To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Here are some links to autumn-themed photos I took last year:

Monday, 3 August 2009

This Living Hand


This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed -- see here it is --
I hold it towards you.
A lyrical poem by John Keats -- one of my favourite poems.

Sunday, 12 April 2009

Gyeongpo: Heo Nanseolheon

This is a statue of, I think, Heo Nanseolheon - Korea's great female poet of the Joseon Dynasty.
A Love Song

On the calm autumn pond, jade-blue ripples glitter;
She moors her boat where lotus flowers bloom.
Seeing her love across the water, she throws a lotus seed,
And blushes for half a day, worrying that others may have seen.

- from "The Moonlit Pond"
This is just an exquisite poem.



It is believed that Heo Nanseonheon commited suicide at age 27 after suffering from depression due to the early deaths of both her children. She reminds me of a South African female poet, Ingrid Jonker, who also commited suicide at a fairly young age (31), and let us not forget of Sylvia Plath, yet another poetic genius to commit suicide. I'd like to write something, maybe an essay, still, on poets and depression.

Saturday, 11 April 2009

Gyeongpo

I took the weekend off and came to the sea -- Korea's East Coast.

This is the first weekend I took off since the semester started. As part of my work contract I have to facilitate a cell group every Saturday morning. However, I can take leave once a month. On the spur of the moment I decided to do so Thursday evening -- knowing that the coming two weekends will be too busy to go anywhere -- and Friday afternoon I took the bus from Seoul to Gangneung City, a two and a half hour trip. From Gangneum I took a taxi (about 10 minutes) to the Gyeongpo.

I arrived around 8 pm and booked into a motel with a bathtub. The latter was a serious consideration to which motel I'd choose to stay in. Since my own apartment only has a shower, I've been longing to soak in a tub for some time now; that's exactly what I did last night. This morning I slept in. Aparantly Gyeongpo is famous for its beautiful sunrises, but that's something I will have to take on faith. I might see it tomorrow morning, but that is also unlikely as I am not a morning person.

It is my custom to go to church on Saturday. I seldom miss it. Unfortunately my impulsive decision to come hear on such short notice did not allow me enough time to search for a Sabbath-keeping church before hand. Nonetheless, going to church is not the only way to keep Sabbath. These holy ours are not only a reminder of God's salvation, but also a reminder of God's creative power. So today I spent most of my day outside enjoying the beautiful blue and green retina hues of the East Sea; the pink and white blossoms like pixies perched on the trees in swarms; the merriment of fellow (albeit, native) tourists spending this day with their families and friends.

A local attraction is the Gyeongpodae (Gyeongpo Pavilion), a temple-like structure build specifically to provide an excellent vantage point from which to look over the beautiful Gyeonpo lake. I sat for a long time at the Gyeongpodae, taking in the view, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the wind on my face. In the picture above the roof of the Gyeongpodae is visible, with the scenic lake in clear view and the cherryblossoms in full bloom.

I also saw a little shrine dedicated to Mong Ju Chung, the scholar-poet, pennamed Poeun. One of the patterns in ITF Taekwon-Do is named Poeun, after Mong Ju Chung. Many Koreans are familiar with one of his poems:

Even if, I may die, die a hundred times,
Even if my skeleton may become dust and dirt,
And whether my spirit may be there or not,
My single-hearted loyalty to the lord will not change.

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

Sonneblom


Daar’s baie blomme om jou mee te vergelyk,
maar eens woorde droog word soos sand
of ink klaar raak nes sap uit ’n vrug,
kies ek dan nou ’n sonneblom –
geel soos ’n vinkhaantjie flink aan die werk,
aan’t kasteel bou, wat Goddank klou
aan ’n slanggroen takkie soos ’n baba bobbejaantjie
aan teertepel en fisantgrys pels.
Geel soos die son se brandende oorloop
aan’t warm maak soos sussende arms
soos gemmer en songeel heuning
en smerend nes olyfolie-liefde.
Lawageel soos die aarde se goue bloed,
bruisend soos die hartstog
ontroerend soos heilige genade
verkwikkend.
En met jou gesig na bo getilt
soos ’n kind wat reën in haar mond vang
al spinnende nes mot en kers
nes planeet en son
nes verliefde en geliefde
nes ons in God en God in ons.
My lief – jy’s ’n sonneblom.

Friday, 2 January 2009

Watch the Aged

An English rendition from the original in Afrikaans.

Watch the aged.
Their grey faces eroded by time and labour;
the radiant youth, once lustful like fawn bucks,
is flaked away; their skins tainted with rust;
the down-thin-hair lies thinly over chick-bare-heads.

Imagine under all the layers of clothing (necessary
to keep the snail-oozed-circulation from setting),
those down-to-earth (for earth you are and earth you’ll be again)
withered aged bodies
..... aged flesh tanned to leather
by life
..... by the vanity of life – all for not.

Death comes. There’s no hurrying her.
Her steps, each step, unwavering
without misstep without spraining or swaying
like an ox on the plough field comes death.

Also God sees the aged and shakes his head.
Not in disapproval, but in empathy...
No, God forbid! What does God know of growing old?
But God, more than any other spectator, always recognises the tragedy:
The weathered just born – breathes in – dashes through curiosity,
lust, responsibility and weathered old age – breathes out –
like a flower.

Listen to the aged voice. The blazing anima/animus, that was once
stoked high in a moment of orgasmic sweet sex
waned to moist quivering lukewarmness – gibbering like urine.
Yes even in the piss you hear it. The bladder has no more ambition.
The sluices are lame and without water pressure.

Worst are the eyes: jewels that turned into dull alluvial stones.
It’s the longing in the eyes that are worst; the acknowledgement, the forced
recognition that the oil is finished, the wick is burned up,
even the lantern is brittle. Regardless the fighting spirit, the defeat,
the surrender is unavoidable. She won. She always wins.

But God does not pity his withered children,
‘cause God knows that life is larvation; death is pupation.