Held met vlerk
Ek sou dit trots kon dra, die vlerk
wat so onsinnig uit my skouer bot,
die basis van spiere pure boomstam
en barstend van belofte,
met veerskagte sterk soos van ʼn arend
of ʼn engel
maar verlate
(één vlerk, ek bid jou aan!)
en verknot soos die gefaalde enting
van ʼn roosboom op ʼn eik.
Ek sou dit met saligheid kon dra, die seën
van so ʼn gawe,
selfs dié halwe talent,
die droom van vlug gereduseer
tot versteurde vere
in elke dapper briesie.
Ek sou dit verdra het, die las
van anders wees
ʼn simbool van weerstand,
die vlerk ʼn ordeteken,
stigma gekerf in eie vesel en vorm.
Ek het dit onwrikbaar verdra
en met blinde koppigheid probeer vlieg
en weer probeer en weer
en gebroke hou ek aan en dra
dié wanskape, vervloekte merk
dié lieflike, versengde vlerk.
© Ilse van Staden, 2025
https://br.pinterest.com/pin/519462138283777842/
Hero with wing
(after an etching by Paul Klee)
I could have borne it beautifully, the wing
that grows absurdly from my shoulder,
its base of muscle like a tree trunk
and powerful with promise,
the thick-shafted feathers an eagle’s
or an angel’s
but forlorn
(one wing, I ask you!)
and stunted like the flawed graft of a rose
upon an oak tree.
I should have borne it beautifully, the bliss
of being gifted
even with half a talent,
the dream of flight reduced to ruffled feathers
with every wayward breeze.
I would have borne it, the burden
of being different
a symbol of defiance,
the wing its own insignia,
stigma carved into my very form and fibre.
But I bore it with a high unyielding pride
and with blind obstinacy tried to fly
and yet again I tried
and broken keep on trying and bearing
this cursed, ungraceful thing
this beautiful, blighted wing.
© Ilse van Staden, 2024