Posts Tagged ‘John Keats’

Nini Bennett. Digters in die filmkuns.

Sunday, October 11th, 2015

wilde fliek

Filmverse, ‘n digkuns-animasieprojek wat die kunstenaar Diek Grobler in samewerking met die ATKV en Fopspeen Moving Pictures loods, word Oktober vanjaar by die Clover Aardklop Nasionale Kunstefees bekendgestel. Die projek bevorder nie net ‘n liefde vir poësie nie, maar lewer ook ‘n belangrike bydrae tot die artistieke animasiebedryf in Suid-Afrika, en kan vergelyk word met soortgelyke projekte in Nederland, België en Estland. ‘n Besliste hoogtepunt binne die film-poem as genre is die eksperimentele film wat gebaseer is op Allen Ginsberg se Howl. Met die ontploffing in tegnologie en die moontlikhede wat die multimedia bied, word die diglandskap aansienlik verruim. Poësie as antieke orale tradisie leef nou op die web in toonsettings, voorlesings, en digkuns word begelei met ikonografie, wat die vraag by ‘n mens laat ontstaan: hoe word digters uitgebeeld in filmkuns? Daar gaan vervolgens gekyk word na vier biografiese hoofstroomfilms wat oor bekende historiese digters handel.

Sylvia (2003)

Gwyneth Paltrow gee ‘n skitterende vertolking van die digter, Sylvia Plath, en haar stormagtige huwelik met die British Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes (gespeel deur Daniel Craig). Die film begin met die twee verliefdes se ontmoeting op Cambridge in 1956 en eindig met Plath se selfmoord toe sy dertig was. Sober en somber, word ‘n onthutsende kyk gegee op Hughes se selfgesentreerde karakter en Plath se toenemende depressie en fiksasie met die dood. Plath en Hughes se dogter, Frieda Hughes, het die filmvervaardigers beskuldig dat hulle ‘n profyt wil maak uit haar moeder se tragiese lewe – en die regte, om Plath se poësie in die film te gebruik, is geweier. Die openings- en slottonele bevat wel (minder bevredigende) verwerkings van dié fragment uit Plath se roman, The Bell Jar.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Wilde (1997)

Hierdie biografiese film is gebaseer op Richard Ellman se Pullitzer-bekroonde biografie oor Oscar Wilde. Stephen Fry oortuig in die komplekse hoofrol as die flambojante, skerpsinnige skrywer, en die soeklig val op Wilde se verhouding met Lord Alfred Douglas, ‘n hedonistiese leefstyl, en Wilde se arrestasie vir onsedelike dade met mans. ‘n Hoogtepunt in die film is Wilde se briljante betoog oor Douglas se verdoemende gedig, Two Loves (“I am the love that dare not speak its name”), wat aldus die aanklaer op ‘bewyse’ van homoseksualiteit sou dui. Ná ‘n vonnis van drie jaar dwangarbeid, en afgetakel na liggaam en gees, kry Wilde se bekende The Ballad of Reading Gaol besondere betekenis in die rolprent. Vervolgens strofes 7-9 uit dié lywige gedig:

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

 

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

 

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die. 

 Bright Star (2009)

In hierdie romantiese drama word die laaste drie jaar van die digter, John Keats, en sy verhouding met Fanny Brawne uitgebeeld. Die film het ‘n ouwêreldse Victoriaanse gevoel en beweeg stadig; die uitbeeld en indrink van die poëtiese oomblik word voorop gestel. Ben Whishaw lewer ‘n teer vertolking van die jong, brose Keats wat op vyf-en-twintig oorlede is aan tering.  Bright Star het meegeding om ‘n plek in die twee-en-sestigste Cannes Film Festival, en is by uitstek ‘n rolprent vir die fynproewer. Die naam is ontleen aan ‘n bekende sonnet van Keats, naamlik 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.

Il Postino: The Postman (1994)

neruda film v

‘n Nederige posbode, Mario Ruoppolo, ontmoet die Chileense digter en Nobelpryswenner, Pablo Neruda, waar hy in ballingskap woon op ‘n Italiaanse eiland. Il Postino is ‘n gewilde en genietlike prent wat goed gevaar het by die loket. ‘n Grootgeestige Neruda (gespeel deur Philippe Noiret) gee nuwe sin aan Mario se lewe deur sy wyshede oor liefde, kommunisme en poësie met hom te deel. Die verhaal speel af teen die dekor van lieflike natuurskoon afgewissel met burgerlike opstootjies in Italië, en so behou die film ‘n fyn balans tussen werklikheidsgetrouheid en magiese realisme.  Soos met Bright Star, word digterskap met patos verbeeld. Poësie is vir alle mense en nie beperk tot ivoortorings nie, of in Mario se woorde:  Poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it; it belongs to those who need it. ‘n Hoogtepunt in die prent is Neruda se spontane voordrag van sy werk om die beginsel van metaforiek aan die leergierige posman te illustreer.

Ode to the sea

 Here surrounding the island,
There΄s sea.
But what sea?
It΄s always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Raging,
Says no
And no again.
It can΄t be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.

 It slaps the rocks
And when they aren΄t convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.

 With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,

 Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don΄t waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you΄re our foe.
Don΄t beat so hard,
Don΄t shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day our daily fish.

‘n Interessante kenmerk van rolprente wat digters/digterskap as tema betrek, is enersyds die Ars poetikale invalshoeke wat wissel van die Carpe diem-tema, soos dit gestalte gekry het in die ikoniese Dead Poets Society (1989); andersyds word die skadukant van digterskap belig. In feitlik alle prente oor die onderwerp sterf iemand: óf die digter, óf ‘n ‘gewone persoon’ wat ná ‘n poëtiese ontwaking op ironiese wyse met die noodlot gekonfronteer word. Hierdie kenmerk verwys nie na die biografiese sterfte van die digter nie, maar na die dood as ‘n soort selfopoffering. Die jukstaposisie: die magie of wonder van poësie versus tragiese lewensrealiteite is in bykans alle films teenwoordig, waar die skryf van poësie ‘n tipe antidoot teen die noodlot word.  Die kyker kan die verglansde werklikheid van die silwerdoek vergewe – ‘n rolprent is immers in die eerste plek om te vermaak! Die eufemisme van verromantisering is welkom – en selfs genadig. Groot digters word as slagoffers van selfvernietiging of komplekse situasies uitgebeeld, en hulle status as tragiese helde/heldinne herbevestig (soos byvoorbeeld in die geval van Wilde en Plath). Digfilms met poësiewerkwinkels as tema begin toeneem (byvoorbeeld Poetry (2002)), asook films oor digmentors (soos die minder geslaagde Blue Car (2002) en The History Boys (2006)), wat raakpunte met Dead Poets Society toon.

Afgesien van die opvoedkundige en prikkelende waarde wat biografiese digfilms en films oor digterskap bied, noop dit kykers om dieper in digters se oeuvres te delf; die boodskap is om geïnspireerd te leef binne die dieper dimensies wat digkuns kan bied. In deel twee van die blog sal daar gekyk word na die uitbeelding van onder meer Suid-Afrikaanse digters in rolprente, asook nuwe filmtendense binne die mens se eeu-oue bemoeienis met digkuns.

Bibliografie

Plath, S. 1971. The Bell Jar. New York: Harper & Row Publishers.

Bright Star. BBC Films. Screen Australia (rolprent).2009

Il Postino: The Postman. Miramax (rolprent).1994.

Sylvia. BBC Films. Capitol Films (rolprent). 2003.

Wilde. Sony Pictures Classics (rolprent). 1997.

http://www.atkv.org.za/af/kunste/atkv-digkuns-animasieprojek-filmverse.

(Besoek 25 September 2015).

http://www.poemhunter.com/ (Besoek 27 September 2015).

http://www.imdb.com/list/ls050659361/ (Besoek 22 September 2015).

Louis Esterhuizen. En gestel John Keats was verkeerd?

Friday, November 23rd, 2012

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

En gestel John Keats (foto) was verkeerd met hierdie formulering? Dít is die interessante vraag wat David Orrell, bekende wiskundige en wetenskapskrywer, stel op sy gereelde Huffington Postblog. Volgens hom het daar nog altyd ‘n besonder sterk band bestaan tussen die wetenskapsgefundeerde teorië en estetika: “Three of the main aesthetic properties in science are the classical ideals of elegance, unity, and symmetry. Perhaps the archetypal example of a beautiful theory is Newton’s law of gravity, which is the scientific equivalent of the Parthenon, or maybe Grace Kelly. Its design is deceptively simple and elegant [….] People seek out partners with symmetric facial features because they are considered attractive. Physicists seek out symmetries in nature because these allow them to produce simplified mathematical representations (and because they are considered attractive).”

Mmmm … Met bostaande as uitgangspunt word die smagting na (simmetriese) skoonheid uiteraard ‘n doel op sigself en heel tereg stel Orrell (foto regs) die vraag of dié aanname nie dalk besig is om die wetenskap op ‘n roosbesaaide dwaalspoor van essensiële waarhede weg te lok nie … “An obsession with beauty has in the past certainly motivated generations of scientists, but at times has also led them astray,” beweer hy. “The problem usually occurs when a fascination with theory loses touch with the reality check of observations. It’s like falling in love with a pretty face, while ignoring obvious failings and incompatibilities, such as the person’s inability to tolerate your friends or personality.”

Hierna volg hy met ‘n lang, uitgebreide argument waarin gekyk word na wetenskapteorië van die vroegste tye af tot met die mees onlangse. Dit op sigself is die lees werd, maar waarmee ek wil afsluit, is sy slotparagraaf:

“To its many fans, supersymmetric string theory is an exceedingly gorgeous theory – the supermodel of physics – which can encompass all particles and forces in a single adorable package. It has been described as ‘too beautiful’ to be wrong. It isn’t just symmetric, it’s supersymmetric. However, while the theory may be based on an attractive idea–little vibrating strings–the actual implementation is a mess (imagine a supermodel with mental issues). The theory has also failed to make any predictions that could actually be used to validate (or invalidate) it. Theory has again become detached from reality.”

Lê daar nie in daardie slotsin ook ‘n waarskuwing aan die digkuns nie? Want sekerlik is dit moontlik dat ons in ons strewe na daardie “tegnies-perfekte” vers dalk al die bloed uit die pasiënt tap; of dat ons só op loop gaan met die “struktuur” dat die vers uiteindelik vals en oneerlik staan ten aanskoue van simmetriese, tegniese vernuf. Om nie eens van ‘n bewustelike “mooiskrywery” te praat nie.

Kruip skoonheid nie dalk júís in die onvolmaakte (of selfs onvoltooide) weg nie?

Of wat praat ek nou?!

Nietemin, hieronder volg John Keats se klassieke vers.

***

Ode on a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
      Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
            In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
            What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
      Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
            Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
            Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
      Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
      Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
            Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
            A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
      And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
            Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
            Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
      When old age shall this generation waste,
            Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
      “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—that is all
            Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

© John Keats (1820 )

 

 

Keats dood weens mediese flater

Thursday, November 12th, 2009
John Keats (1795 - 1821)

John Keats (1795 - 1821)

Pas het daar uit die pen van Sue Brown ‘n biografie in Engeland oor die lewe en werk van Joseph Severn verskyn. Severn was ‘n jarelange vriend van John Keats en die persoon wat hom in sy laaste dae in Rome versorg het. Volgens hierdie biograaf blyk dit nou dat Keats weens ‘n gruwelike mis-diagnose van sy siektetoestand dood is.  Dr James Clark, wat Keats in November 1820 in Rome ondersoek het, het aanvanklik geglo dat Keats se ongesteldheid toe te skryf is aan “mental exertions and application which seemed chiefly situated in his Stomach.”

Later het hy egter wel tuberkulose gediagnoseer, maar ‘n besonder streng dieet, bestaande uit slegs ‘n stukkie brood en één sardientjie, voorgeskryf. Boonop was hy ‘n toegewyde ondersteuner van bloedlating as vorm van behandeling. So het hy by geleentheid ‘n verdere agt onse bloed getap nadat Keats reeds twee koppies bloed uitgehoes het.

“Keats’s doctor didn’t kill him, but he didn’t treat him very well,” skryf Brown in haar biografie. “That was medical ignorance [but] what was sad in Keats’s case was three things. The bleeding pulled him right down, and also the near starvation was almost unforgivable. There were times when Keats was hallucinating for lack of oxygen and lack of sustenance.” Volgens Brown is die mees tragiese aspek van Keats se sterwensbed nie die fisiese pyn en lyding daarvan nie, maar die feit dat hy vas oortuig was dat sy lewe sinloos en sonder enige sukses as digter was. “When he died on 23 February 1821, he died believing he had been a complete failure as a poet. There was also the pain, not of a failed relationship with Fanny Brawne, but of one which could never be consummated.”

Gaan lees gerus die volledige berig op The Guardian se webblad.

Soos dit telkens die geval is met hierdie dinge, is die tydsberekening van Sue Brown se biografie natuurlik ook besonder goed, aangesien daar pas ‘n film, Bright Star, oor die gefrustreerde liefdesverhouding tussen Keats en sy Fanny deur Jane Campion vrygestel is. Ben Whisaw en Abbie Cornish vertolk die hoofrolle.

Vir jou leesplesier plaas ek Keats se gedig “Bright Star” onderaan vanoggend se Nuuswekker.

***

Op die webblad kan jy gerus Bernard Odendaal se bespreking van Ingrid Jonker se“Die lied van die gebreekte riete” lees, asook Andries Bezuidenhout se volgende aflewering oor die argitektuur van Johannesburg en Ronel Nel se ode aan haar laptop.

Lekker lees en bly tog weg van brood en sardientjies vandag, hoor.

Mooi bly.

LE

 

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.

© John Keats

 

Brittanje se gunstelingdigters

Monday, October 12th, 2009
TS Eliot

TS Eliot

Na ‘n maandelange veldtog en 18,000 stemme om die mees gewilde digter in die Britse digkuns te bepaal, het die BBC verlede Donderdag tydens hul Nasionale Gedigtedag bekend gemaak dat TS Eliot die meeste stemme gekry het. Hy word gevolg deur John Donne, Benjamin Zephaniah (‘n rastadigter van Birmingam), Wilfred Owen, Philip Larkin, William Blake, WB Yeats, John Betjeman, John Keats en Dylan Thomas. Opvallende name wat ontbreek in dié lys van gunstelingdigters is uiteraard eietydse digters oos Seamus Heaney en Carol Ann Duffy (tans poet laureate); asook immergewilde digters soos Sylvia Path, Ted Hughes en WH Auden.

Die 3de plek wat Benjamin Zephaniah inneem, kom nogals vreemd voor aangesien die hele fenomeen van rastafariërs met hul gepaardgaande rap poetry a la Linton Kwesi Johnson in ons eie digkuns maar skaars is … Waarskynlik is die enigste voorbeeld wat ons hiervan het, die enigmatiese Jitsvinger (Quintin Goliath) uit die Kaapse Vlakte en Yabadaka Shamah, wie se verse in My ousie is ‘n blom (2006: Snailpress, saamgestel deur Charl-Pierre Naudé) opgeneem is. (Toegegee, die verse in die bloemlesing is waarskynlik nie die suiwerste voorbeeld van Yabadaka se rasta-gerigtheid nie, maar sy impromptu optrede tydens die Versindaba van daardie jaar was beslis onverdunde rap.) Aan die Engelse kant van die draad is daar natuurlik meer voorbeelde, met Lesego Rampolokeng as die onbetwiste kroonprins van die spoegpraters; soos Andries Bezuidenhout en ander wat by die onlangse Bekgeveg by WITS betrokke was, waarskynlik sou agtergekom het. Dié man is in ‘n klas van sy eie, vermoed ek. Veral wanneer hy musiek met sy voordrag begin kombineer …

Nietemin, as voorbeeld van Benjamin Zephaniah se digkuns volg daar ‘n vers, Dis poetry, heelonder. Maar is dit?! Persoonlik wil ‘n mens amper binnebeks grom: Dis g’n poetry. Of wat praat ek nou?!

***

Ten slotte – nuwe toevoegings sedert Vrydag op die webblad is Carl-Pierre Naudé se inskrywing wat hy in reaksie op Neville Alexander en Gerrit Brand se deelname aan die pasafgelope Roots-kunstefees geplaas het; ook Andries Bezuidenhout se entoesiastiese vertelling van hoe plesierig Oopmond inderdaad was terwyl Johann Lodewyk Marais wat weer vra of die Afrikaanse digkuns dalk te moeilik is.

Mmm, lekker lees en geniet die week wat op hande is …

Mooi bly.

LE 

Dis poetry

Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
Preaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,
Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
It gets into me dreadlocks
It lingers around me head
Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike
I’ve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere
But did is de stuff I like.

Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book
Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look
Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved
An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved,
Iove tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me
So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,
I could try be more personal
But you’ve heard it all before,
Pages of written words not needed
Brain has many words in store,
Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting
De tongue plays a beat
De body starts skanking,
Dis poetry is quick an childish
Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish,
Anybody can do it fe free,
Dis poetry is fe yu an me,
Don’t stretch yu imagination
Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation,
Chant,
In de morning
I chant
In de night
I chant
In de darkness
An under de spotlight,
I pass thru University
I pass thru Sociology
An den I got a dread degree
In Dreadfull Ghettology.

Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk
An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk,
Dis poetry is wid me,
Below me an above,
Dis poetry’s from inside me
It goes to yu
WID LUV.

(c) Benjamin Zephaniah

 

Ilse van Staden.Blou

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Ek erf ’n klein, klein boksie, ’n blou een, van hout. ’n Kissie vol niks, so sê die briefie binne-in, maar daar is tog iets – ’n sonnet van John Keats. Bo-aan, in potlood geskryf, staan daar: “Vir die blou kissie”:

 

                                     12

Answer to a Sonnet by J.H. Reynolds, ending –

                           Dark eyes are dearer far

Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.

 

Blue! ‘Tis the life of heaven, – the domain

     Of Cynthia, – the wide palace of the sun, –

The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, –

    The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun.

Blue! ‘Tis the life of waters – ocean

     And all its vassal streams: pools numberless

May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can

     Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.

Blue! gentle cousin of the forest-green,

     Married to green in all the sweetest flowers –

Forget-me-not, – the blue-bell, – and, that queen

     Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers

Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great

When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate!

 

Ek wonder hoeveel van my grootoumagrootjies en oer-oupas het blou oë gehad, soos dié van my oupa, my ma, en nou laastens, ek. Tot my skok ontdek ek die Groot Verseboek het nie my gunsteling A.D. Keet versie in nie, dus moet ek dit elders gaan soek, in ’n (blou!) boek van sy briewe en gedigte deur sy seun (A.D. Keet II) versamel.

 

Ek hou van blou

 

O, vra my nie my liefde,

     Ek het dit weggegee

Aan ’n kleine koringblommetjie

     En aan die grote see.

 

Ek hou van bloue blomme,

     ‘k Aanbid die hemelblou,

Jou oë vermy dit kón ek nie –

     Ek min hul meer dan jou!

 

Dié gedig het ek geleer toe ek nog nie verstaan het wat “vermy” beteken nie. In my suigelingwysheid het ek geglo dis seker ’n drukfout, dat dit “vir my” moes wees en dat die vreemde onvoltooide sin wat so ontstaan, dan te wyte sou wees aan digterlike vryheid. Digters is mos toegelaat om enigiets met die taal te doen.

   Van “min” het ek meer verstaan, al was die liedjie “Jesus min my salig lot” (ja, sonder die komma) ook maar bietjie bo my begrip. Soos digters, kon mens godsdiensliedjies egter heelwat vergewe, soos die vreemde “Water vriend het ons in Jesus”.

   Van liefde weggee, daarvan leer ek al meer.