Soccer ball
aimed at wet seagull
going home
–
Vuvus blare
I long for the bees
of summer
–
© Sara P. Dias (South Africa)
Both first published in Asahi Haikuist Network, July 16, 2010.
Below 0°
snowflakes touch portholes
no face alike
© Sara Dias
(a rondeau)
There’s water on the moon, they say,
enough to wash the grit away
from eyes alit by this detour
mapped out by Greed’s cartographer
who mocks the herd, this way, This way …
I bled the green valley Monday,
all the veins ran dry by Sunday,
while to my children I proffer
the water on the moon, the Moon
they say, which we will reach one day -
my children and cattle today
tramp, tramp the dust even further
to the Rift Valley abattoir
where our bulldozed carcasses lay
bathed in the water on the moon.
© Sara P. Dias
The suffering of hundreds of thousands of animals dying and rotting where they fall, and the slaughter of the emaciated stock that survive being driven over long distances in search of green pasture by starving herders and their dying children, is heart-rending. The headlines are everywhere: The devastation sweeping across Kenya is but one example of prolonged drought caused by climate change, expanding populations, deforestation, overgrazing, crop failure, mismanagement of water resources, corrupt government officials who sell off emergency food, and violent ethnic conflicts over competition for resources. And still we don’t change our behaviour.
‘n Suurpootjie-skilpad skommel vorentoe-agtertoe,
voerentoe-agtertoe, teen ‘n heining vas,
die spinnekopblom ontplooi vir net
een dag – en stink al klaar na aas;
die blou Aristea’s vou die lug
reeds op die middaguur toe, want koekemakranka
se penisvrug het nooit verskyn – bestuiwing
het soos die renoster en die Khoisan verdwyn.
© Sara P. Dias
© Sara P. Dias
Kukumakranka (Koekemakranka)
The Geometric Tortoise (Suurpootjie Skilpad), the Ferraria crispa subsp. Crispa (Spinnekopblom), the Aristea lugens (Aristea’s) and the Kukumakranka (Koekemakranka or Koekmakranka [Khoi, Afrikaans]) are all on the disappearing Renosterveld endangered species list.
Gelykheid trippetrappetrone soos
die ballerina op ‘n speeldoos:
voornemens pragtig, maar goedkoop
en sentimenteel -
eentonige klaagliedere is vir saamsing,
en wentel om die waarheid, vasgehaak
in een groef van kwaad en kleur,
en al wat ons ken
is die dryfveer maar weer opwen -
soos Haydn se “Sewe Laaste Woorde aan die Kruis” -
sewe woorde wat langer vat as sewe sekondes,
sewe jaar, sewe dekades, om gesê te word:
“ons is arm, help ons, doen iets …”
in handgebare, lyftaal en groot oë, nooit werklik
gehoor; die politici se gepeins op elke woord
langdurig uitgerek sodat die woorde dun,
deursigtig raak, en sonder ‘n verlossende afklowing
knak en vou die stemme in die middel en met ‘n laaste
gekinkelkonkel word die woorde ‘n ewigheid
van rondtollende beloftes en wanhoop.
© Sara P. Dias
Lined up with my pillows I find a tray with a
scalloped tea cloth: its flowers and ribbons trailing
a basket; the pattern repeated in all quadrants;
hand-embroidered and thoughtfully arranged.
Spread around the centre of one whole-grain slice,
marmalade to sweeten a cup of Kenya and a glass of
thin orange juice, crowding a small Woolworths
jar which labels the pink hibiscus a
“sun-dried tomato tapenade”: tissue-crimped and
curled, already turning brown, with ants emerging
from the petals to walk the rim eternal -
measuring the girth of this communication:
Happy fiftieth birthday. In all this I call him
teacher: in careful thread and tiny tread I
find countless meanings, as yet unnamed,
to swell the word ‘love’.
© Sara Dias
I stretch time
Holiday photos
on my desk
-
Footprints in hot sand
A wave of pedestrians
wipes out yesterday
-
Her swells and
troughs linger on shore
Desk dreamer
© Sara Dias
Let men be men, demands the man, and mark
the confidence in his request, his musk
still trailing far behind where dampening dark
has settled heavy stones to shape decay:
the dents defined in moss, once supple life,
her amber bracelet stains the skin turned grey
where bones show wrist aligned with womb now raped
by rock, in shallow cave – where men would not
let her be woman – this eternal girl-shaped
depression in a sandy grave; where carpal
and tarsal roll like pebbles discarded, split,
disturbed, by more than an animal
who would not leave intact the girl,
but ground, and ground her into gravel.
© Sara Dias
In small hands
sparklers cast spiral
galaxies
–
Timeless play
dawn frays the tail end
of night’s arc
–
Owl asks who?
A billion stars wink
knowingly
–
Evening dress
Milky Way girdles
dashing earth
–
© Sara Dias
Out of blue
irises summer
skies unfurl
–
Falling sky
Blue hydrangeas cloud
the garden
–
Blue iris
tongues uncurl to catch
water pearls
–
© Sara Dias
When autumn winds howl low and long
through soil and root of this old tree,
I hear a multitude of leaves in song,
but, a lonely crow on naked bough I see.
© Sara Dias
Sy staan op nat strate met wingerdroes in haar kop,
haar trui toegerek oor haar blinkrooi top.
Vir die Audi pluk sy haar kortmou-kind nader,
vir vanaand se plesier offer sy hom op.
© Sara Dias
Spider’s web sparkles
Pendent summer raindrops long
for the swelling sea
—
In haste, summer clouds
leave countless rainbows behind
Iridescent trout
© Sara Dias
Scudding clouds signal summer’s
rain with dots and dashes,
interrupting the sun
in long and short flashes.
© Sara Dias
Etch’d against far hills
her lime scarf turns feldgrau:
he stops waving
© Sara Dias