Versindaba
~ 'n Kollektiewe weblog vir die Afrikaanse digkuns ~

Rosa Keet – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt

a private thing

and if I had to die now
bury me on a sand dune
between bushes with a view of the sea
a litre coke a carton of cigarettes
and a book or two
I am not very flashy
but an eiderdown and a blow-up mattress
would also be welcome

and differently from the mass graves at ur or dachau
(where they cram the place full)
I think a grave is a private thing
and besides I am too egocentric
for an epitaph such as:
here lies pete and john and the world and his wife etcetera etcetera
besides when I feel lonely I can

always go and haunt someone as a guest.

Phil du Plessis – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt

 
To the printer

I

My verse
holds me fast
and offers no words
to break out
from there

II

Trapped,
I strip
my senses, but
remain impure

from incessant
rhyming
with death

III

please attenuate
my sorrow

with white.

Jeanne Goosen – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt

 
the morning comes with its tatters

the morning comes with its tatters
and its puzzles
there is nothing I am sure about
the lorry has stopped for the waste stuff
they congregate there, on the pavement
my shiny bags full of revulsion
paper and words
they are heaved shoulder high and carted away
there is nothing I want to save
the day glares; it will not rain
no, it will not rain today
the blind bird turns back to its shadow
he is still
despair has become more ferocious than the love song

George Weideman – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt

 
It’s as if the flowers

It’s as if the flowers are crippled this year,
with unclear eyes; the plains dull and ashen-grey –
you must come in good time so that we can search
        deep gullies for wild flax and wild roses.

It’s as if the sunbird and the rain bird are silent
as stones in the desert, and stones do not grow either –
you must come, as long as my heart is still warm
        and my tears can still heal.

It’s as if the days fly by like migrant birds
after a summer that we no longer know –
you must come, because you can give me wings
        so that we can flee together.

It’s as if night is getting darker, sweetheart
and the stars dwindle; the moon is aloof –
you must come as long as there is light, and time
        – the almond tree is white with snow.

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.