Hierdie tyd van die jaar doen mense soos ek, universiteitsdosente, ernstige beplanning vir die modules wat gedurende die semester aangebied moet word. Daar’s ‘n duisend-en-een dinge om aan te dink; ‘n duisend-en-twee wat verkeerd kan loop.
Een van my grootste kopsere in hierdie verband is openbare vakansiedae en lang neweke. Hulle maak dit nie net moeilik om werk betyds af te handel nie, maar ook om verskillende groepe studente se lesings en tutoriale te sinchroniseer. Veral as jy, soos ons in sielkunde, groot getalle studente het en lesings dus moet herhaal. Ek sit en staar nou al twee weke lank na die almanak, en meer spesifiek na die logistieke nagmerrie wat April 2011 beloof om te wees… Elke tweede dag van daardie maand is hierdie jaar klaarblyklik ‘n openbare vakansiedag! Chaos!
Maar net toe ek vanoggend weer wil begin gal braak oor die administratiewe las wat hierdie nasionale lyfwegsteek te weeg gaan bring, ontdek ek heel toevallig ‘n heel relevante en boonop pragtige gedig van die Hongaarse digter Gyorgi Petri – een om te memoriseer en in April vir myself te sit en prewel…
Gratitude – Gyorgi Petri
The idiotic silence of state holidays
is no different
from that of Catholic Sundays.
People in collective idleness
is even more repellent
than they are when purpose has harnessed them.
Today I will not
in my old ungrateful way
let gratuitous love decay in me.
In the vacuum of streets
what helps me to escape
is the memory of your face and thighs,
your warmth,
the fish-death smell of your groin.
You looked for a bathroom in vain.
The bed was uncomfortable
like a roof ridge.
The mattress smelt of insecticide,
the new scent of your body mingling with it.
I woke to a cannonade
(a round number of years ago
something happened). You were still asleep.
Your glasses, your patent leather bag
on the floor, your dress on the window-catch
hung inside out – so practical.
One strap of your black slip
had slithered off.
And a gentle light was wavering
on the downs of your neck, on your collar-bones,
as the cannon went on booming
and on a spring poking through
the armchair’s cover
fine dust was trembling.