(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 [...]
‘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
The Geometric Tortoise (Suurpootjie Skilpad), the [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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
Scudding clouds signal summer’s
rain with dots and dashes,
interrupting the sun
in long and short flashes.
© Sara Dias
(Skya, Pixel, Jack be Nimble and Ozzie)
Four Cats
I’m moulded into slumber,
curved around half-moons,
as four bold bodies
knead me in the night.
My folds expand, then furl,
holding and releasing fur;
my bosom is spooned hollow,
my legs scooped out;
and so transmuted
I’m wedged in comfort -
nudged and pawed
to enclose their shapes.
As wakefulness pours
in with the light
and lifts me away,
every morning finds [...]
She numbers slow steps,
one, two, one, two,
to the mailbox and back;
delaying the need
for conversation.
Sorrow demands silence,
and can’t count beyond two.
A soft breeze
lifts her white hair
and tugs at the comfort
of her perfume;
her pink smile stays fast
for the short walk
to the gate at the end
of the brick-faced complex.
The newspaper,
twice-folded to fit
the narrow slots
of letter boxes,
remains unopened:
murder and [...]
Whenever I water the garden,
I direct a fine spray
high into the trees:
I know the witogies will come.
Only tiny details
catch my eye –
never the whole –
as they flit suddenly
into existence.
Hop hopping
from branch to leaf,
they chase down drops –
equally elusive bodies of light.
With quick flicks
of wing and tail,
and lusty shaking
of feathers,
their spirited cheeps
trill their delight:
the few drops [...]
Empty boats,
roped in pairs,
drift in curved lines
on dull water,
all facing east:
they wait
for winter
to let go.
A stubborn wind
ruffles the lake,
still pushing against
coming spring.
Grey trees,
part of the sky
for too long,
prepare
to be earthed
by the weight
of blossoms
and thousands
of cameras
and bums in boats.
© Sara Dias
Ek voel gerasper —
raak aan my
en ek krimp weg
soos ‘n see-anemoon:
‘n trok rammel
oor ‘n spoedhobbel;
goedkoop bas luidsprekers
boem-boem om die draai
terwyl harde stemme
by oop vensters inbars —
alles voorlopers van gevaar —
as die Trellidor
tog net die geluide
kan stop.
© Sara Dias
Lida’s photo of a Japanese maple (momiji) in Koishikawa Korakuen, Tokyo.
© Lida Kotze: photo
Ochre leaves persuade many feet
along paths where thoughts cannot follow;
the only reflection — the water.
I’m paused in mid-air.
© Sara Dias
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 [...]