I
Telkemale is daar verwysings na T.S. Eliot (1888 – 1965) in George Steiner se lesings van tekste. Eliot was nie alleen digter nie, maar ook ‘n gerekende uitgewer en essayis. Van Steiner is daar veel te lere uit sy essay “Eros and Idiom”.
“Loudness is poverty” lees ons (1972: 134). Oor die hele kwessie van die morbidezza skryf hy eweneens insigryk. Delikaatheid, sagtheid veral geassosieer met die 16e-eeuse skilder Correggio.
II
Karen Solie, die Kanadese digter is sopas bekroon met die gesogte T.S. Eliot-prys in 2025 vir die bundel Wellwater.
Soos haar landgenoot Margaret Atwood, wat benewens ‘n romansier is, werk die gedigte met slim toespeling en verhulde intertekste.
The Hermits
Warmth activates the sugars,
and sugars rally
in the gorse, in the flowers
it sees with, the scent
that is its voice,
the nontoxic fragrant wood
good for cutlery, and for burning,
though it flares out quickly,
unlike smoldering peat. Are they converting
sugars of their loneliness
to conviction? Burning
their sugars on the wicks
of their frailty,
one can nearly read by them,
as Fillan in his own cave read
by the light of his broken arm,
one of the horrible miracles
of the times —
St. Fillan, the Human Flashlight,
patron of the mentally ill —
an unenviable between-worlds
position.
Whereas marsh orchids,
fully in this one,
change their clothes
out in the open, hard candy
in their mouths,
the sugars plump, round, smooth,
unlike seawater’s jagged molecules,
which when drunk like anger
will tear through you.
Like bitterness, desiccate you.
To survive, suffering burns
the strength of the afflicted. If,
left in Fillan’s cave,
bonds of the stricken
were loosened by morning,
his spirit had intervened to convert
the molecules of their madness,
and still later did smugglers stash there
some of those little things
that make life worth living.
The highly edible
sweet gorse flowers
produce a coconut-flavored wine
if one enjoys the luxury of time,
and a tea prescribed in cases
of uncertainty,
for those who appear
to have lost all hope.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/145167/the-hermits Besoek 25 Januarie 2026
‘n Gorse is ‘n blomsoort (op syn Engels ‘n “shrub”). Dessicate is om iets uit te droog. Geis kan onder meer verwys na ‘n magiese taboe in Ierse folkore. Ook ‘n curse …
Fillan beteken ‘n klein wolf, maar verwys ook na die 8e eeuse heilige. Daar word die volgende legende aan hom toegedig:
A story is told that while St. Fillan was ploughing the fields near Killin, a wolf took the life of the ox and thus Fillan could not continue. A geis was put on the ox, which meant the wolf had to take the place of the ox and do its work. The story may be considered more of a parable than historical truth, but the connection with the origins of Fillan’s name remains obvious.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fillan Besoek 25 Januarie 2026
Die gedig handel oor transformasie in die natuur en in die self. Bitterheid is sleg vir jou, maar behalwe dat sy die storie rondom St. Fillan betrek, aktiveer sy ook die volgende oor hom:
St. Fillan was credited with powers such as the healing of the sick and also possessed a luminous glow from his left arm which he used to study and copy Sacred Scripture in the dark.
Daar is ook ‘n toespeling op Eliot se beroemde bundel essays: The Sacred Wood. Hierin vind ons die artikel “Tradition and the Individual Talent” en die term “objective correlative”. Solie skryf oor die “between-worlds”, oor liminaliteite, oor geestesiekte (depressie?), oor die groeiproses in die natuur …
Die gedig is ook ‘n ars poetica wanneer ‘n mens dit uitmekaar haal.
Hier is ‘n bekende Atwood-vers:
The moment
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
https://allpoetry.com/poem/15757263-The-Moment-by-Margaret-Atwood Besoek 25 Januarie 2026
‘n Mens besef dat albei hierdie digters uitstekend dig.
Lewensloop van Solie:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/karen-solie Besoek 25 Januarie 2026
Joan Hambidge
Kaapstad
25 -26 Januarie 2026
Bronne:
Eliot. T.S. 1920. The Sacred Wood. Londen: Methuen.
Steiner, George. 1972. On difficulty and other essays. Oxford: Oxford University Press.