The sound of suns

Your Sunday bells collide
with tender-winged song,
and calls to prayer echo
off quiet paintings on my wall;

clamorous saints and saviours
crowd into still landscapes;
your demons gather
to scratch at my door.

I’d rather hear stellar nurseries,
the symphonic birth of worlds;
or faint harmonies as webs
catch snow afloat from eaves.

I am called to kindness
by each chirrup in spring,
and every careful crackle
as birds complete their homes.

I cannot pass my burden
to one already on a cross;
if I cause harm to others,
I shoulder blame alone.

© Sara Dias

Good News: Atheists are Coming Out

You can now get OUT-campaign hoodies and T-shirts with the big scarlet letter “A” (hee hee) for atheist at: http://richarddawkins.net/store/

Wear your "Scarlet Letter of Atheism" proudly. Red 'A' with "THE OUT CAMPAIGN" text below it.
Wear your “Scarlet Letter of Atheism” proudly.

I’m terribly amused by all this, even while applauding frowned-upon beliefs for coming out and taking their rightful place next to the rest of humanity. I won’t go as far as wearing such garments - that would put me on the same level as the loudly and proudly religious.

It is not as if I believe in nothing; rather, it is because I believe in the possibility of everything.

Terry Pratchett expresses my philosophy best:

“The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to the presence of those who think they’ve found it” - Terry Pratchett

Despite my attempts to remain neutral, I do find Believers in Religion more and more offensive the older I get. I am so sick and tired of the often outright condemnation with which they treat other people, and their self-righteous smarminess while being unbelievably nasty to others. It is quite shocking, actually, that believers can unload all their evil onto one god or man, like Jesus. They crucify him every day, and on Sundays they do it with even more gusto. Expecting someone else to pay for your own awful deeds is one thing, but crucifying him and drinking his blood and eating his flesh? Aren’t there serial killers who do that kind of thing?

I know a born-again Christian who believes she is protected from Satan’s devilish deeds because she is covered in the blood of Christ. It sounds exactly like something from a horror movie about Satan worshippers …

If such beliefs are not loathsome enough, the religious have created the ultimate and most vile form of Apartheid by splitting humanity into those who go to a nice place when they die and those who suffer excruciating pain and anguish for all eternity. Wishing such immense cruelty on their fellow beings is beyond my comprehension, never mind their capacity to conjure up a hell to accommodate such monstrous imaginings. How is it possible to still believe in such frightful things after all the atrocities we have visited on one another in our brief human history?

I meant what I said in a poem: it is hell on earth because heaven is already occupied by too many gods. That is, the heaven created by the religious. When I look up at the sky I see only endless possibility and infinite potential and I hope for acts of benevolence in the universe in general. A kind act — only sentient beings are capable of being kind or unkind on purpose.

Our local Spar plays the most [god]awful Afrikaans gospel music every time I go there. We’ve complained about it; how can they possibly be so arrogant as to think all their customers share their religious views? Also, it is not as if it is uplifting music; the way the name Jeeeeeeeesusss is dragged out is downright depressing. And the unctuous ‘U’ (Thou) with which they address their god in songs just does not make for good rhythm or song writing. At least the more brilliant gospel singers in America make it all sound like a good bit of foot-stomping fun.

What I also find repulsive is the lack of compassion in the religious. You are not suffering because really bad things or people happened to you, or because genetically you come from a long line of alcoholics, schizophrenics, manic depressives, weak hearts, cancerous lungs/breasts/ovaries; your toe doesn’t hurt simply because the chair was in the way or you dropped a brick on it; and you’re not scarred for life because you were sexually molested by your god-fearing father/uncle/grandfather … oh no, you’re suffering because you don’t hammer a man to a cross every day, you don’t unburden the responsibility of your wrongdoings onto an invisible friend, you don’t blow yourself up in the presence of innocent strangers, you don’t pray, chant, prostrate or diminish yourself or judge others enough.

And how can the religious think their god is the only god when we have not even met other species from other worlds in the universe? What hubris. As for man being created in the image of his god, it seems to be the other way around: to think of a divine being with unlimited powers indulging in petty jealousies or vengeful acts towards only certain members of one species in one small star-system somewhere in the unimaginable vastness of the universe just doesn’t sound plausible. If there is a creator, he/she/it is probably nothing like the gods spawned by the dark and selfish inventiveness of man.

I do not believe that a god, gods, creator or omnipotent super-being will command a species to go forth and multiply to such an extent that children starve to death and adults kill one another because there are not enough jobs, land or mineral resources to be had. I also do not think it possible that one person’s - usually a man’s it seems - experience of an epiphany or a vision, whether it is induced by brain chemicals in flux, drugs, starvation or a sudden overload of patriarchal arrogance and testosterone, can truly explain all the wonders of the universe or come up with the one true answer.

We have simply not evolved enough as a species to understand much about anything.  And if we keep up our current self-destructive behaviour we will certainly not be around long enough to gain an understanding of It All.

And to those who find themselves offended by my opinion: I have been poked by religious pitchforks for far longer and with more baneful intent than this piece of writing will ever manage.

Sara Dias

Willeboer se dogter

Die veld word geploeg
met breëstreep-boepense
toe stof en stink sweet
vir ‘n kind voelbaar was;

vóór TV’s die geweld
in ‘n skrum kon verpak
tot welriekende Brut
en ‘n naskeer wat streel

bierbrommers brul “Transvaal!”
en klap mekaar op die blad
en die lug weergalm met Deep Heat,
drankwalms en naartjie gespat

in onderdrukkende klamheid
is ek ‘n meisie, klein benoud;
die seun, die verkore,
kom eers agt jaar later

onder pa se rugbymaats
was ek toe reeds naamloos
as “Willeboer se dogter”
tot niet verklaar

die wedstryd is lankal verby,
maar gee tog vir Willeboer ‘n mandjie
vir sy as, en laat weet hom
een van sy kroos - helaas nie sy seun -
maar wel ék het sy strepe weg

© Sara Dias

die kind onthou 1976

in Junie 1976 maak ‘n kind
van ‘geskiedenis’ toe sommer ‘history’
maar díe nuus, vertel
deur ‘n fotograaf se oë,
bereik my eers jare later

om nou te kyk na die een wat hom dra
in die foto is te swaar;
my blik gly maklik af van sy gesig
en staar na die lewelose
voet in ‘n verslyte kous;
en om groter vrae te omseil
wonder ek liewer, waar
is Hector Pieterson se skoen?

dit is die jaar van ons eerste TV
net voor my matriek eksamens begin;
en so trots is ma en pa op díe bleek
weerkaatsing op ons lewens
dat die lawaai my studies versteur;
my kamer is reg langs
die boehaai oor skoolkinders
wat nie in Afrikaans wil leer

elke aand verdoem ons J.R. se gekonkel
en die morele verval van die Ewings,
van wellus wip ons op-en-af op vet rusbanke
maar vir die nuus is ons doodbang

en vroegdag al, lank voor die vermaak begin
sit almal vasgenael voor die kassie,
en staar desperaat na netjiese baantjies van kleur

© Sara Dias

hopeless acts of kindness

why unbind a tortured cat -
ready to die -
while millions of people
are penned nearby?

is it wrong -
a mere human tic -
or do I hope to free all
with such a small act?

© Sara Dias

Fences

A man loves a songbird,
but the oak must not spread
over his side of the wall;

dappled love only falls
on my side it seems,
wingflutters of song on his.

He bemoans the shade
of an ash on his lawn:
the tree is taller than him

and so must fall.

© Sara Dias

die woord liefde

vir jou gee ek om,
maar voordat jy deug
knie ek en buig jou;
en só hervormd
is ek lief vir jou

© Sara Dias

Wash separately

as I start grouping colours
I think, who has the time? and I cast
a heavy load into the Defy;

and what with the tumbling
and tangling in 40 degrees -
the warning on the labels ignored -
my multi-coloured robes emerge
a universal shade of dream

© Sara Dias

Wag (vir Rupert)

die bloekoms staan so stom vandag -
biljoene blaartjies roerloos;
net witogies vra, met klein geluid,
waarvoor hulle wag

ek sug na lug in die laatmiddag;
dit talm ver agter Tygerberg op die pad terug

oplaas kom jy asem haal
so net voor skemeraand;
strokies son versteur die swye
en die sprankelspel neem aan:

‘n glinster-geruis van elke blaar
soos jy die ruim ontroer, bestraal

© Sara Dias

Die Vervloektes

In die noord-oos skemeraand kras ‘n witborskraai,
sonder beraad, van agter die boonste takke
van ‘n haak-en-steek doringdraad

en ver in die pad af, met ewe drif,
eggo twee swartkraaie dié gegrief

en so vlieg verwyte verder suid
oor ‘n jakarandalaan met ‘n nuwe naam

doer langs die Gamkas luister withalskraaie
skeefkop-verontwaardig na dié lawaai;
hulle koppe sak, sonder skaamte,
om links-regs, links-regs snawels te slyp
net om kritiek met skerper bek terug te kryt

Die geskril flap voort met die skemer
en flenter tot in die suid-wes Kaap;
diep gekrenk word dit uiteindelik stil
as die wingerde gaan slaap

In die donker word daar gehurk
en gesug “Amen’;
om ligdag weer vanuit ‘n bos-kajuit
daai ander kraai af te maai

© Sara Dias