E. W. S. Hammond – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt
Spring in England
The sun has come back again
with the colour
of wild daffodils.
And swallows
in their tremulous flight from
my haemorrhaging South Africa.
Autumn
It’s the sun that is grieving.
It’s the trees that weep.
I just sit here.
Would anyone mind
if I became a tree?
To ground
Before this death
I stand with
a mouth full of teeth,
hands hanging slack
with nothing more
to break off
or to hold up.
Alone
as a fresh
grave in the rain.
Acceptance
My name is not
Job; although
I sit here
in sackcloth and ash
and look at
a world that
had once been mine
My name is not
Samuel either;
Who calls so:
Eli, Eli, lamma sabbachtani?
Self-portrait
That’s really not my face
I am staring at.
That’s not me
looking like that:
these fleshy cheeks
fat gut
drooping hands
old man’s titties.