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 [...]
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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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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
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
vir jou gee ek om,
maar voordat jy deug
knie ek en buig jou;
en só hervormd
is ek lief vir jou
© Sara Dias
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
Die bloekoms staan so stom vandag -
biljoene blaartjies roerloos;
net witogies, met klein geluid,
vra waarvoor hulle wag.
Ek sug na lug in die laatmiddag;
dit talm agter Tygerberg,
ver op die pad terug.
Oplaas kom jy asem haal
so net voor skemeraand;
strokies son versteur die swye
en die sprankelspel neem aan:
‘n glans-geruis van elke blaar
soos jy die ruim ontroer, bestraal.
© Sara Dias
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 [...]
ek dra ‘n ou bra;
uitgerafel,
uitgerek,
en verflenter,
wat pas by
menopousale jare
en gedagtes wat slenter
die kant is in flarde
en die nate vodde,
maar hel ek’s gemaklik
met my los kanonne
© Sara Dias
Lente hap-hap aan
die sleepvoet Kaapse Winter;
my Prozac gemoed
© Sara Dias
On the nether slopes of Devil’s Peak
runs Salisbury Street,
hunched between walls graffitied
with old resentment
and young bile:
walls sprayed
over and over
in glaring colours;
small patches of land regained
and lost again
as every faceless
statement of being
clings for a moment,
then is negated
with fresh blasts of paint
from the newly deprived.
The shop on the corner
politely hides
its Hindu heritage
from Muslim custom:
transient adverts
line its facade;
coats [...]