Die Heilige Kevin van Glendalough (oorl. ong. 618 n.C.)
Feesdag 3 Junie
Soos ‘n eikeboom winterlank wieg in reën en wind,
met tak en twyg elke vlaag en bui in die knuiste kry,
alle vog en lug in sy bas en wortels knoop en bind
tot sap en blad wat teen Paasfees bloei in ‘n lowerpy,
so omhels jy van kleins af die haselboom, eik en es,
lok jy, houtkapper van God, gaai, fluiter en koekoek –
‘n lyster weef in jou hand sy spriet- en stokkiesnes,
sodat jy die ganse Vas oor ‘n seegroen eier kloek.
Ja, wyd oop is jou hart vir die Gees se geringste bries
waardeur jou roersels liggies tril soos varings of heide,
jy wat yswater en netels bo die soetsuur van suring kies,
en waak by Glendalough se mere, in Wicklow se weide.
Is jy, Heilige Kevin, nes klawer en huls, hier nog aan huise,
waar korsmos aan grafstene kleef en aan Keltiese kruise?
© Jacobus van der Riet / 2014
Ek lees weer en weer, die gedig van Jacobus en die gedig van Seamus Heaney: die heilige Kevin wat bykans boom geword het, sy hand wat soos ‘n nes die eiers koester. Lanklaas het ek ervaar dat ‘n gedig en sy interteks my so lighoofdig van vreugde laat.
Hierdie gedig lees so lekker! So klankryk en skynbaar moeiteloos met die wonderlikste woorde wat ek amper kan proe – “gaai, fluiter en koekoek” is maar een voorbeeld – dat die leser verlei word en ingetrek is nog voordat die inhoud registreer. Ek sal ook bietjie gaan oplees oor Die Heilige Kevin (dankie, Maria Snyman)
Baie mooi vir my, Jakobus. Die gedig het my dan ook uitgebring by Seamus Heaney se “St. Kevin and the Blackbird” waaroor ek ook dankbaar is. Ek plaas dit dan sommer hier byderhand – die ding van omgee vir diere bly maar ‘n delikate saak en die Heilige Kevin van Glendalough stel ‘n mooi voorbeeld, al is die “whole thing” dalk “imagined anyhow,/
Imagine being Kevin”:
“St. Kevin and the Blackbird”
And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
and Lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
Self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in Love’s deep river,
‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird
And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.