Member Poem

Stoor die spook in die slaaf se hart
en berg sy bloed in die stof ondervoet.
Maandagaand offer ons die vullisdrom
aan die boemelaars; hul trollies raas
soos kettings in die donker nag –
die skim van ‘n rustelose siel.
 
Die aand verkluim in sy eie koue wind
en spoel die dooies uit hul bed uit weg.
Val die reen dan waaks ons van ons sluimer,
maar dié droogte het ‘n houvas op ons geeste.
Verlore in die Bloedrivier en die leemte van die Drakensberg
tuimel ons kaal en kwaad, vergande en vergeet.
 
Linoleum en ‘n rosekrans sal ons nooit verlos
van die diepe oseaan se bose krag –
selfs spoel dit oor ons dongas en die Overberg
se sitrusboorde herroep die sout ons oorloë
en die gevangenis in die ou Karoo.
Liefde sal ons nooit verlos van ons bangheid vir die lewe.
 
 
Translation:
 
Store the ghost within the slave-man’s heart
and lock away his blood in the dust beneath his feet.
On Monday night we offer them the rubbish bins;
the beggars whose trolleys ring
like clanging chains in this darkest night –
the phantom of a restless soul.
 
The evening freezes to death by its own frigid winds
and flush the dead ones from their beds.
If the rains would fall we’d rise up from our slumber,
but this drought has possession of our spirits.
Lost in the Bloedrivier and in the hollow if the Drakensberg
we tumble naked and full of wrath, fading and forgotten.
 
Linoleum and a crown of roses will never set us free
from the abyssal ocean’s wicked force –
even if its currents rush into the dongas and the orchards
of the Overberg, its salt recalls our conflicts
and the gaoled in the old Karoo.
Love will never unbind us from our terror for this life.