THE FALL

DIE VAL

The Fall by Johannes van Eeden is singular, surprising poetry with few comparable texts in Afrikaans literature. Translated into English by Michiel Heyns, this slim collection of urgent verse explores themes of love, memory, and loss, drawing the reader into intensely personal landscapes.

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Index

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1

He was high, below him the pennons & loopholes of a
lifetime’s struggle. Skeletons & smells eluded him, powder
kegs & other valiant things as well. Exhausted, he lifted up
his lenses unto the hills, to the loci of his various shames.
He made me look as well & I saw the eyes of a rhebuck, its
leap. Previously he had sought invisible regions, voyaged
the blue landscape of drink & faith & like a seafarer of yore
recognised dragons, hailed each by name, charted each one.
Now, with old age & the grape’s tumescence between his
fingers, between his lips, under the tongue & the tongue’s
own growth to rod, he awaits the soft & moist thighs of the
cadaver slowly rising to the surface.

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1

Hy was hoog, onder hom die baniere & skietgate van ’n
leeftyd se stryd. Geraamtes & reuke het hom ontgaan,
kruitvate & ander dapper dinge ook. Moeg het hy sy
lense na die berge geslaan, na die wonings van sy verskeie
skaamtes. Hy het my ook laat kyk & ek het die oë van ’n
ribbok gesien, sy sprong. Vroeër het hy onsigbare streke
gesoek, die blou landskap van drank & geloof bereis & soos
’n seevaarder van ouds drake herken, elkeen op sy naam
genoem, gekarteer. Nou, met die ouderdom & die druif se
swel tussen sy vingers, tussen sy lippe, onder die tong & die
tong se eie groei tot stok, maak hy gereed vir die sagte & nat
dye van die lyk wat stadig na die oppervlak kom.

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2

That was before the days & nights clarified, rejoicing in
the space she left. Her presence had pinned him down in
this quiet corner of the spread-open & rumpled unknown.
Excited arms waved & warded off when the distance became
visible. Go forth, the task is done. There is time here now &
it weaves long armed through that which he wants to figure
forth. The shadow smote him. He passes it at an angle,
huddled in knots (does the wind never lie still here?), clings
to mast & sail. The young is night & hope is dense. He tries
to greet but his fingers (especially the thumb) are rigid.
What a lonesome fellow, the thought settles like urine &
there is no flow, his belly balloons out luke-warm.

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2

Dit was voordat die dae & nagte verhelder het, hulself verbly
het in die ruimte wat sy gelaat het. Haar teenwoordigheid
het hom vasgepen in hierdie stil hoek van die oopgespreide
& gekreukelde onbekende. Opgewonde arms het gewuif &
gekeer toe die verte sigbaar word. Gaan, die taak is voltooi.
Hier is nou tyd & dit vleg langarm deur wat hy wil verdig.
Die skaduwee het hom getref. Hy gaan dit skuins verby,
gebuk in knope (lê die wind nooit stil hiér nie?), klou aan
mas & seil. Die jonk is nag & hoop is dig. Hy probeer groet
maar sy vingers (veral die duim) staan styf. Wat ’n eensame
kêrel, die gedagte sak af soos urine & daar is geen vloei nie,
sy maag bol lou vooruit.

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3

Into ink he gazes blindly, bare & cold, black & white. Write
in black, the inkling seeks simplicity, yield him the black
blood throbbing from your pen. He knows your heart bleeds
white: Thank you for your letter & for him who wrote it.
Since then he’s been coming regularly, speaks in tongues,
hears voices, etcetera. It’s going well. He suspects you were
a mere paroxysm, no more. Much less. Remember Carver
has always wanted brook trout for breakfast. Suddenly he
finds a new path to the waterfall. He begins to hurry. Wake
up, says his wife, you’re dreaming. But when he tries to rise,
the house tilts. Who’s dreaming? It’s noon, she says. His
new shoes wait by the door. They are gleaming.

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3

In ink staar hy vas, koud & kaal, wit & swart. Skryf in swart,
die inkgestel soek eenvoud, gee vir hom die swart bloed
pulsend uit jou pen. Hy weet jou hart bloei wit: Dankie vir
jou brief & vir hom wat dit geskryf het. Sedertdien kom
hy gereeld, praat in vreemde tale, hoor stemme, ensovoorts.
Dit gaan goed. Hy vermoed jy was bloot ’n stuiptrekking,
niks meer nie. Baie minder. Onthou Carver wou nog altyd
stroomforel vir ontbyt hê. Skielik vind hy ’n nuwe pad na
die waterval. Hy raak haastig. Word wakker, sê sy vrou, jy
droom. Maar as hy probeer opstaan, kantel die huis. Wie
droom? Dis middag, sê sy. Sy nuwe skoene wag by die deur.
Hulle blink.

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4

Where is the force that attracts & beckons or do we have to
go & seek it ourselves? He flees when he sees you because
you are one & he is afraid of that which is indivisible. When
he thinks about it he sees you appear in images dreams &
doors. He stoops, eyes against the sealed rock paintings,
the slope more acute, a mountain for knights & fairy tales.
Wordsworth was always like that, even the better days a
violated rose, cravat undone & staggered into the veldt,
listened to his own voice. Word processors, trees grow
lushly, capsized plough, onward, into sewers pointy-eared
rabbits disappear, in holes he lies down & by green pastures
the tarred traffic. The years blindfold us & in the dark all
children are scared.

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4

Waar is die krag wat trek & roep of moet ons self gaan
soek? Hy vlug as hy jou sien want jy is een & hy is bang
vir dit wat onverdeelbaar is. As hy daaroor dink dan sien
hy jou verskyn in beelde drome & deure. Hy buk, oë teen
die geslote rotstekeninge, die helling skuinser, ’n berg vir
ridders & sprokies. Wordsworth was maar altyd so, selfs
die beter dae ’n oopgerukte roos, krawat losgeknoop &
veld-in gesteier, geluister na sy eie stem. Woordverwerkers,
bome groei lustig, omgekeerde ploeg, voorwaarts, in riole
verdwyn spitsoor hase, in gate lê hy hom neer, & langs
groen weivelde die geteerde verkeer. Die jare blinddoek ons
& in die donker is alle kinders bang.

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5

His footprints point backwards but the brows strain curled
forward, he got up & stacked up the tumbling thoughts in
his memory while the wind tore sheets through the sheath
of her thighs & the little coloured fish & shallow words
pool slithering in the pleats of her bony fingers, salt in the
mouth, the mock & fill of voids left by previous lovers, the
present absences, the taste of ripe & white partings, the
up & downsides, the catch, he got up at the first raise of
her eyebrow above the wave’s insistent push & gathered the
distant streams as in a net, a perhaps, an almost, nearly, he
got up & prepared for the confession of his unconditional
dread.

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5

Sy spore wys terug maar die broue beur vorentoe gekrul,
hy het opgestaan & die vallende gedagtes in herinnering
gestapel terwyl die wind lakens deur die sloop van haar dye
skeur & die gekleurde vissies & vlak woorde glibbend in
die voue van haar benerige vingers poel, sout in die mond,
die tart & vul van leemtes gelaat deur vorige geliefdes, die
teenwoordige afwesiges, die smaak van ryp & wit skeidings,
die af & opofferings, die vangs, hy het opgestaan met die
eerste lig van haar wenkbrou bo die branders se volgehoue
voort & die veraf strome ingetrek soos met ’n net, ’n
miskien, ’n amper, byna, hy het opgestaan & reggemaak vir
die belydenis van sy onvoorwaardelike angs.

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6

At the end up against the wall they came to fetch him
& lifted him over: it is the beginning & that is why he
is going back—it is forever set in stone & yet the verse
remains against everything except coming, it is maddening.
A sunpoem comes over the morning, everything is rigid,
even the birds struggle & force their beaks open. There are
clouds of course, always the anchor of the cloth the spread
of the bed the rays shutters, & if he glances back, leaving
the room, draping a beloved on the fickle soft of his words,
he believes. With the brush in his hand he ventures into a
landscape of marrow, the bones scattered in benign bliss,
he would want to proclaim! if he could, every painting an
effigy of that which seeks to liberate him.

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6

Aan die einde teen die muur het hulle hom kom haal &
oorgetel: dit is die begin & daarom gaan hy terug—dit is
eindeloos versteen & tog bly die vers teen alles behalwe
kom, dit is rasend. ’n Songedig kom oor die oggend, alles
is styf, selfs die voëls sukkel & forseer hul bekke oop.
Daar is natuurlik wolke, altyd die doek se anker die bed
se deken die strale luike, & as hy terugkyk, vertrek verlaat,
’n geliefde op die wispelturige sag van sy woorde drapeer,
glo hy. Met die kwas in sy hand betree hy ’n landskap van
murg, die beendere verstrooi in goeie geluk, hy sou wou
uitroep! as hy kon, elke skildery ’n ewebeeld van dit wat
hom wil bevry.

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7

Away from it all, close to his own breast, suck to live to
suck if the head can bow that far. Close to himself, far
from the silence. Flee to the east where old age lingers
like sores on a bed (or so it is rumoured). He gets up, he
sits down. Sunburn, hitch hike, his grandmother lives by
the sea & nowadays her heart (of gold) runs on pills. She
takes them daily despite the state of emergency. Her tree
bears jam & other bottles & words contain the wrinkles
at the top, & in the branches float longing canned light—
she will be there when the sun rises. Longing is not only
blue & remembering already solitude, almost photo, a last
untimely smile, waiting now a mere formality—everybody
already present.

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7

Weg van alles, na aan sy eie bors, suig om te lewe om te
suig mits die kop so ver kan buig. Na aan homself, ver van
die stilte. Vlug na die ooste waar die ouderdom agterbly
soos sere op ’n bed (of so word vertel). Hy staan op, hy
sit. Sonbrand, duimgooi, sy ouma woon by die strand &
deesdae loop haar hart (van goud) op pille. Sy drink dit
daagliks ten spyte van die noodtoestand. Haar boom dra
konfyt & ander bottels & woorde hou die plooie bó ín, & in
die takke sweef verlange ingemaakte lig—sy sal daar wees
as die son opkom. Verlange is nie alleen blou nie & onthou
reeds alleen, amper foto, ’n laaste ontydige glimlag, wag nou
slegs ’n formaliteit—almal reeds teenwoordig.

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8

Trees fascinate him. Word games in the branches among
the leaves, squirrels flaunt their tails, birds you only hear
& children steal eggs, bravely break open the unborns,
a primal I did it. The years spiral out further in shade,
rougher bark facilitates the ascent, a fork for the summer
evenings, young lovers & other moments of reassurance
that he remembers well. But if you want to recline on his
flower-strewn knees, he is still from eden, apple in the
cheek (beyond the brushwood shelters your sleep) & with
his horizon overshadowed he dwarfs up the slopes again in
search of beauty, her seven graves unmarked. The afternoon
dies concealed & over the swimming pool dragons find flies.

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8

Bome fassineer hom. Woordspeletjies in die takke tussen
die blare, eekhorings wys graag hul sterte, voëls hoor jy
net & kinders steel eiers, breek die ongeboortes dapper
oop, ’n eerste ék het dit gedoen. Die jare kring verder uit
in skaduwee, growwer bas vergemaklik die opklim, ’n mik
vir die somersaande, jong verliefdes & ander oomblikke
van gerustelling wat hy goed onthou. Maar as jy wil lê op
sy geblomde knieë, hy is steeds van eden, appel in die kies
(anderkant die ruigte skuil jou slaap) & met sy horison
geberg dwerg hy weer die steiltes uit op soek na skoonheid,
haar sewe grafte ongemerk. Die middag sterf versteek &
oor die swembad vind naalde kokers.

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9

He describes the silence, the flaking ears of a monument.
Cameras with visitors seek to claim it. Conjuring tricks &
the dictionary of time keep it invisible. Those who have
ears to hear, listen: In this house of cards everybody talks
by fist. Who can lift his arm, lives. The ace of hearts is his
trump, & in the soft flow of rock a beard, broad-brimmed
hat, braces, buttoned up breeches. He saw her tremble, one
summery winter’s morning she abandoned her clothes over
the uprising of his words & his bookkeeping & he left her
even though she was the topless bible itself, only looked up
days later at the blue lips, through the stiff lashes & pale
hair of several African winters.

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9

Hy beskryf die stilte, die afgeskilferde ore van ’n monument.
Kameras met besoekers wil dit neem. Towerkunsies & die
woordeboek van tyd hou dit onsigbaar. Wie ore het, luister:
In hierdie huis van kaarte praat almal met die vuis. Wie
sy arm kan lig, lewe. Die aas van harte is sy troef, & in
die sagte vloei van rots ’n baard, breëranthoed, kruisbande,
toegeknoopte broek. Hy het haar gesien bewe, een somerse
wintersoggend het sy haar klere laat gaan oor die opstand
van sy woorde & sy boekhou & hy het haar gelos al was
sy die bostuklose bybel sélf, net dae later opgekyk na die
blou lippe, deur die stywe wimpers & vaal hare van verskeie
Afrikaanse winters.

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10

Mountains light & towering frameless around him, still
nameless with broken sounds & clawed glaciers. White
woods flake against slopes, in wooden houses people burn
with crosses, exorcise the unknown, prevent the unavoidable,
see the invisible, hear the silence, dream the real. It snows
soft promises up against the slopes & he returns to the
known like a word to his mouth, a child to his mother, a
beat to his heart. He awaits a new meaning, something on
which he can walk & think & live & dream. Meanwhile
that happens which he does & remembers & clings to, that
which makes him get up & carry on, the routes he follows
& the tracks he leaves a silent witness to his brief existence.

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10

Berge lig & tronend raamloos rondom hom, nog naamloos
met gebroke klanke & kloue gletsers. Wit woude skilfer teen
hange, in houthuise brand mense met kruise, besweer die
vreemde, keer die onvermydelike, sien die onsigbare, hoor
die stilte, droom die werklikheid. Dit sneeu sagte beloftes
vas teen die hellings & hy keer terug na die bekende soos
’n woord na sy mond, ’n kind na sy ma, ’n klop na sy hart.
Hy wag op ’n nuwe betekenis, iets waarop hy kan loop &
dink & leef & droom. Intussen gebeur dit wat hy doen &
onthou & aan vashou, dit wat hom laat opstaan & aangaan,
die paaie wat hy volg & die spore wat hy laat ’n stil getuienis
van sy kort bestaan.

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11

Spokes between limbs vanish in speed, in vain to try to
find the axle. Ships sink & in the lenses of binoculars
history vanishes silently. At this moment he fears nothing,
the perfect & unknown word, a heaven lying speechlessly
in wait for the degrees of his comparison, carefully with
the hands of a crusader drawn around his last earthly
power, the more crucial rhyme of acute instruments, the
cape that once again we can discover anew. On the fall of
the gangplank he unlearns the fear of dancing, & for the
first time since he’s been floating, here where words glitter
without purpose like leaping fish in the sun, he can think of
peace & going for the rafters, the hangman awaits.

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11

Speke tussen bene verdwyn in spoed, vergeefs om die as te
wil vind. Skepe sink & in die lense van verkykers verdwyn
die geskiedenis stil. Op hierdie oomblik vrees hy niks, die
volmaakte & onbekende woord, ’n hemel wat sprakeloos op
die trappe van sy vergelyking lê & wag, versigtig met die
hande van ’n kruisvader om sy laaste moondheid getrek, die
noodwendiger rym van skerp instrumente, die kaap wat ons
nogmaals nuut kan ontdek. Op die loopplank se val verleer
hy die vrees vir dans, & vir die eerste keer sedert hy dryf,
hier waar woorde oorboordig blink soos springende visse
in die son, kan hy dink aan vrede & balke toe, die hangman
wag.

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12

Even on his last voyage there is a hellhound that pursues
& covers him, enclosing his mythical cubs in the colours of
war. Flutter flutter, the young is night, the hope is tight,
& the red flag flies one last time while the officer of love
takes him, willingly, he & his weathered bark. Cervantes
windmills on his chest, swallows heart’s desire & knocks
(perhaps he hears you over the birds caging here at the
back) but meanwhile yet another moment widow-long &
then welcome: the art of see-sawing an old old fantasy, who
knows where forsworn & then again the question who had
to travel downwards with disillusion and rigid toes, the
terrified dust goggles the fall & behold: he has a screw
loose—easy.

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12

Selfs op sy laaste tog is daar ’n helhond wat hom skraap
& dek, sy mitiese welpies toesluit in die kleure van oorlog.
Wapper wapper, die jonk is nag, die hoop is dig, & die rooi
vlag lig ’n laaste keer terwyl die offisier van liefde hom
neem, graag, hy & sy verweerde blaf. Cervantes windmeul
op sy bors, sluk hartlam & klop (miskien hoor hy jou bo
die voëls wat hier agter hok) maar intussen nóg ’n oomblik
weduwee-lank & dan welkom: die kuns van wipplank ry
’n ou ou fantasie, wie weet waar afgesweer & dan nog die
vraag wie met ontnugtering & stywe tone afwaarts moes
reis, die beangste stofbril die val & siedaar: hy het ’n klap
weg—maklik.

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13

There where lakes enfold the silence & sleeping bodies
dream the surface. Be at rest, the dead fly past, the sun
stopped setting long ago. Close & moist his strokes, heaven
stoops low, gods whisper in his ear: come now, don’t be
afraid, gently take him out of the book. He was sleeping.
End of story? No, the quest continues through endless
dream tunnels of the gentle death. Donne summed it up
more aptly: sleep, pain’s easiest salve. But love remains
behind him, in front of him, blind—a journey much further
than his destination. To put down the wine, get up & to say:
end of my story? No, he would rather lie down, tomorrow
is a new day & yesterday has dawned already: a good night.

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13

Daar waar mere die stilte omvou & slapende lywe die
oppervlak droom. Wees gerus, dooies vlieg verby, die son het
lankal ophou sak. Rakelings & klam sy hale, die hemel buig
laag, gode fluister in sy oor: kom nou, moenie bang wees
nie, haal hom saggies uit die boek. Hy het geslaap. Storie
uit? Nee, die soeke gaan voort deur eindelose droomtonnels
van die sagte dood. Donne het dit beter opgesom: slaap,
pyn se maklikste salf. Maar die liefde bly agter hom, voor
hom, blind—’n reis veel verder as sy bestemming. Om die
wyn neer te sit, op te staan & te sê: my storie is uit? Nee,
hy sal eerder lê, môre is ’n nuwe dag & gister het reeds
aangebreek: ’n goeie nag.

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14

The frail skin, the small mole under the left nipple, the wet
trail against the thigh, the creeper, the entwined loneliness,
the distance, the frown, the tongue relapsed into deep
wrinkles, the toes curling up, the firmer calf, the stoop of
the back, the conscious slowing down, the lifting of the
hips, the attempt to delay, the catching up with the end,
the coming, the stasis of the sun, the bodilessness, the
realisation, the heel’s relenting, the undressing, the rolling
over, the peace, the guilt, the next, the movement, the light
through curtains, the side, the unknotting of limbs, the
closing & getting up & covering up & cooking & children,
the cold observance, the duty.

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14

Die broos vel, die klein moesie onder die linkertepel,
die nat spoor rankend teen die bobeen, die klimop, die
vervlegde eensaamheid, die verte, die frons, die tong in
diep plooie verval, die tone vorentoe gekrul, die stywer
kuit, die rug se buig, die bewuste stadiger beweeg, die
heupe se lig, die poging tot uitstel, die einde se inhaal,
die koms, die stilstand van die son, die lyfloosheid, die
bewuswording, die hakskeen wat ontspan, die uittrek, die
omrol, die vrede, die skuld, die volgende, die beweging, die
lig deur gordyne, die sy, die bene ontknoop, die toetrek
& opstaan & bedekking & kosmaak & kinders, die koue
nakoms, die plig.

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15

Seagulls circle over a morning he does not see, clouds there
would seem to be as well & somewhere between the sea
& the first sands of stability lie shells. Probably. Things
happen, ships lose their balance, driftwood washes to the
tip of the tongue. He wants to start a fire with his words,
here where winters grow colder. At times he wishes it were
all over, that he could close his lips formally. Skittishly he
walks in the garden and spigots, frowns his ears, verbalises
the water precisely in rhyme, whistles—doves are an egg
long, regardless of the time in which he writes, regardless
& listless the hours he barehandedly repels, close to the
moment’s shudder, commas like antennae out of breath,
tempests in the tummy, swimming practice in the desert,
duck weather.

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15

Seemeeue draai oor ’n oggend wat hy nie sien nie, wolke
is daar blykbaar ook, & iewers tussen die see & die eerste
sand van vastigheid lê skulpe. Seker. Dinge gebeur, skepe
verloor hul balans, dryfhout spoel tot voor op die tong.
Hy wil vuurmaak met sy woorde, hier waar winters kouer
word. Soms wens hy dis als verby, dat hy sy lippe formeel
kan sluit. Speels loop hy in die tuin & gieter, frons sy ore,
verwoord die water stip in rym, fluit—duiwe is ’n eier lank,
ongeag die tyd waarin hy skryf, ongeag & lusteloos die ure
wat hy kaalhand verdryf, na aan die oomblik se gril, spriete
soos kommas uitasem, storms in die maag, swemoefeninge
in die woestyn, eendeweer.

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16

Time for books that tell that only those who are possessed
can possess, to stalk the cow from the arse but to grab the
bull by the horns. Golden words, a farthing farther, a great
gilded puppet show like those in the time of louis. Books
that tell of breathing as a good habit, how to kick a dike
in the blue, make your mark, to live-live. But breathing
happens. If you want to sleep he is the password by your
door, & if you want to talk—he has tried. Even though
sometimes it doesn’t sound like it, even though his words
sometimes leap over rocks with horns & hard hooves, even
though his heart whores, sometimes, & even though he is
sometimes half seas under, his sometimes sometimes more
than you would still want to believe. He has tried.

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16

Tyd vir boeke wat vertel dat slegs dié wat besit word kan
besit, om die koei van die gatkant te benader maar die
bul by die horings te gryp. Goue woorde, ’n stuiwer in die
warmbeurs, ’n groot versierde poppekas soos dié in lodewijk
se tyd. Boeke wat vertel van asemhaling as goeie gewoonte,
hoe om ’n dyk te skop in die blou, jou merk te laat, te lewe-
lewe. Maar asemhaling gebeur. As jy wil slaap is hy die
wagwoord voor jou deur, & as jy wil praat—hy het probeer.
Al klink dit soms nie so nie, al spring sy woorde soms oor
rotse met horings & harde hoewe, al hoer sy hart, soms, &
al is hy soms verdronke, sy soms soms meer as wat jy steeds
sou wou glo. Hy het probeer.

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17

He takes his poem for a stroll, morning, evenings & in the
past tense, & if she wants to take a turn then the poem
takes the lead, directed forward—simple necessity. Let the
wronged words, the simple sentences of our masterpiece get
up line up shape up & bow down before the upper case
of their delusion. Quantz, the renowned teacher & more
than a match for most flautists, could maintain: control the
lungs, listen to the singer, let it come from the belly (relax
the shoulder!) & the sounds will flower of their own accord,
naturally through the opening of listening. We assume that
forcing was to him a swearword & that here too he would
agree with us that: the art of peace lies largely in the art of
breathing.

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17

Hy neem sy gedig op ’n stappie, soggens saans & in die
verlede tyd, & as sy ’n draai wil loop dan neem die gedig
die voortou, vórentoe gerig—eenvoudig noodsaaklik. Laat
die verontregte woorde, die eenvoudige sinne van ons
meesterstuk opstaan toustaan regstaan & buig voor die
hoofletters van hul waan. Quantz, die beroemde leermeester
& menige fluitis se moses, kon beweer: beheer die longe,
luister na die sanger, laat dit kom uit die maag (ontspan die
skouer!) & die klanke sal self, natuurlik deur die opening
van luister blom. Ons neem aan dat forseer vir hom ’n
vloekwoord was & dat ook hy hier sou saamstem met: die
kuns van vrede lê grotendeels in die kuns van asemhaal.

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18

Bull-over and cow-under but beware the blood pressure of
an ox, that thou dost not forget the things thine eyes have
beheld. & when the poet as seer lifted his hands and sought
eyes, he found the frontiersman with his gun, his ox, his
wagon, his book. On sidewalks feet barely cling. Has he
really been here & when would it have been. A poem like
her is rarely written. He reads, so many words stay enfolded
in the soft folds of her body. He pages up the ending, but
it’s late. The flowers well up in his eyes, his heart knots,
the always obliging hand on his stomach now folded into
another while the stars shine in broad daylight. Chin held
high ahead & slit-eyed in repose, one morning he woke up
& he was dead.

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18

Overbul & onderkoei maar wee die bloeddruk van ’n os, dat
gij niet vergeet die dingen die uwe ogen gezien hebben. &
toe die dichter als ziener hande lig & oë soek, vind hy die
trekker met sijn roer, sijn os, sijn wa, sijn boek. Op sypaadjies
kleef voete skaars. Was hy werklik hier & wanneer sou dit
wees. ’n Gedig soos sy word selde geskryf. Hy lees, soveel
woorde lê nog opgevou in die sagte voue van haar lyf. Hy
blaai die einde nader, maar dis laat. Die blomme wel op in
sy oë, sy hart knoop, die altyd gewillige hand op die maag
nou in ’n ander gevou terwyl die sterre skitter helderoordag.
Ken gelig vooruit & skrefiesoog op rus, een oggend het hy
wakker geword & hy was dood.

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19

He decided to give her a white rose, an open-air poem so
that it could rain in the amphitheatre of her heart. With the
fall of the curtain his hands carried on clapping nervously:
the poem had evacuated itself, stooled high on stage. On the
way back he weeps & the night weeps with him because that
is the nature of the poem. She lifted naturally, her words
used in innocence to extreme harbours, in fables where
liquor can save a drowning man oh elusive one! What never
can be: a dream other than the real, a country other than the
fabrication. A coast with coral. Floating photos. The tide.
Swollen years. Hidden cameras. Desires, waters, words.
Beaches sodden white & the lens approaching invisibly.

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19

Hy het besluit om vir haar ’n wit blom te gee, ’n opeluggedig
sodat dit kan reën in die amfiteater van haar hart. Met
die gordyn se val klap sy hande senuagtig voort: die vers
het opelyf geword, op die verhoog hoog gestoel. Op pad
terug huil hy & die nag huil saam want só is die gedig.
Sy natuurlik gelig, haar woorde in onskuld gebruik tot by
uiterste hawens, in fabels waar drank ’n drenkeling kan red
o ontwykende! Wat nooit kan wees nie: ’n ander droom
as die werklike, ’n ander land as die verdigsel. ’n Kus met
koraal. Drywende foto’s. Die gety. Geswolle jare. Versteekte
kameras. Begeertes, waters, woorde. Witgeweekte strande
& die lens onsigbaar nader.

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20

This bracelet you can wear whenever you like. It’s because
he loves you. No chain, only your gentle choice every now
& again when you see it glitter somewhere down in your
drawer. He prefers it like that (otherwise you might perhaps
get used to him? Otherwise you might perhaps forget that
love is voluntary?) It is in any case like vapour or clouds or
words or something that is difficult to touch, you know it
is there when it is not there, & it vanishes when you want
to pay for it. By the way: if your god had been like that
everybody would have been in heaven (perhaps there is still
hope that his love will convince her of the contrary?) but
for the time being it is only he & she, the moments without
guilt or fear, & that is enough for him.

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20

Hierdie armband kan jy dra net wanneer jy wil. Dis omdat
hy jou liefhet. Geen ketting nie, net jou sagte keuse elke
nou & dan as jy dit sien blink iewers onder in jou laai. Hy
verkies dit so (anders raak jy miskien gewoond aan hom?
Anders vergeet jy moontlik dat die liefde vrywillig is?) Dis
in elk geval soos wasem of wolke of woorde of iets wat
moeilik is om aan te vat, jy weet dis daar as dit nie daar is
nie, & dit verdwyn as jy daarvoor wil betaal. Terloops: as
jou god so was sou almal in die hemel wees (miskien is daar
nog hoop dat sy liefde haar anders sal oortuig?) maar vir
nou is dit net hy & sy, die oomblikke sonder skuld of vrees,
& dis vir hom genoeg.

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21

There are circles, there is movement, they swim. The
flowers grow all the way up to the wall. The evening is full
of chicken. Not that the cold overtakes them. Not that fear
has the upper hand. He can write once again. This evening
they will be together, he will spread her legs & kneel, place
his forehead on her triangle & pray. Her letter yesterday
and the bay with white sails torn. He is alone without
her & the landscape on his hand useless, his wrists cold,
bothersome like two denials. Put in his thumb, pulled out
a plum, oh wide and weary land, with or without her he
cannot live, to newcastle he wants to carry coals, one man’s
poison another man’s poetry & his years of wandering mere
years of squandering, his hours airtight.

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21

Daar is kringe, daar is beweging, hulle swem. Die blomme
groei tot teen die muur. Die aand is vol hoender. Nie dat
die koue hulle oorval nie. Nie dat daar vrees heers nie. Hy
kan weer skryf. Vanaand sal hulle saam wees, hy sal haar
bene oopsprei & kniel, sy voorkop op haar driehoek plaas &
bid. Haar brief gister & die baai met wit seile geskeur. Hy
is alleen sonder haar & die landskap op sy hand nutteloos,
sy polse koud, lastig soos twee ontkennings. Stok & hoed,
vol van moed, o wye & droewe land, met of sonder haar
kan hy nie leef nie, na newcastle wil hy kole dra, die een
se beswyming die ander se beryming & sy swerfjare bloot
sterfjare, sy ure lugdig.

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22

Jesus appears & says: fuck you all & your icy stalactites that
heaven knows remain growing undisturbed in this neon-
lit grotto despite the crackling of pringles & the prophetic
chanting of soft white kneelers ready for the spit, begone
with you & your dark obsession with pain & wounds &
blood & guts, the gilded instruments of torture around
your necks against your walls between your fingers in your
thoughts & in particular facing you all & among us,
begone with your hugs & tears & selfish quest for personal
revelations & pigeons & flowers & towers & songs for me
as imaginary beloved & the sweet smell of putrefaction as
the last strains shyly absent themselves.

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22

Jesus verskyn & sê: fok julle & julle koue stalagtiete wat
vader weet onverstoord bly groei in hierdie neonbeligte
grot ten spyte van die gekraak van pringles & die profetiese
dreunsang van sagte vet knielendes reg vir die spit, weg met
julle & julle donker obsessie met pyn & wonde & bloed &
binnegoed, die vergulde instrumente van marteling om julle
nekke teen julle mure tussen julle vingers in julle gedagtes
& veral voor julle & tussen ons, weg met julle drukkies &
trane & selfsugtige soeke na persoonlike openbarings &
duiwe & blomme & torings & liedjies vir my as verbeelde
geliefde & die soet reuk van ontbinding as die laaste klanke
hulself skaam onttrek.

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23

Jesus appears again & says: fuck you all and your kind who
kneel & suck in order to speak in tongues (it was after
all a coming in the mouth) & now must swallow words
in surprise, here where spitting would be inappropriate,
before me, begone with you. But meanwhile the oak trees
& the black canoe, the waterways of love & gateways of
friendship, the desire green algae bottom trout speed
snags, he looks up, lifts up his eyes to the nipples (what
was her name? Elena? Hungarian possibly with a pledge
to her mother that she will feed her one-year-old child by
waitressing, how right she was) & now while she’s serving
& he comes & she jerks away her hands from the wet spurt
& lets the spurt of wet thoughts run through his heart, you,
all of you.

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23

Jesus appears again & says: fuck you all and your kind who
kneel & suck in order to speak in tongues (it was after
all a coming in the mouth) & now must swallow words
in surprise, here where spitting would be inappropriate,
before me, begone with you. But meanwhile the oak trees
& the black canoe, the waterways of love & gateways of
friendship, the desire green algae bottom trout speed
snags, he looks up, lifts up his eyes to the nipples (what
was her name? Elena? Hungarian possibly with a pledge
to her mother that she will feed her one-year-old child by
waitressing, how right she was) & now while she’s serving
& he comes & she jerks away her hands from the wet spurt
& lets the spurt of wet thoughts run through his heart, you,
all of you.

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23

Jesus verskyn weer & sê: fok julle & julle soort wat kniel &
suig om in tale te kan praat (dit was immers ’n koms in die
mond) & nou verbaas woorde moet sluk, hier waar spoeg
onvanpas sou wees, voor my, weg met julle. Maar intussen
die akkerbome & die swart kano, die waterweë van liefde
& poorte van vriendskap, die lus groen alge bodem forelle
spoed haak, hy kyk op, hef sy oë op na die tepels (wat was
haar naam? Elena? Hongaars moontlik met ’n belofte aan
haar ma dat sy haar eenjarige kind deur kelnerin-wees sal
voed, hoe reg was sy nie) & nou terwyl sy bedien & hy kom
& sy haar hande wegruk van die nat spuit & die spuit nat
gedagtes deur sy hart laat loop, jy, julle.

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24

Repetition anchors the lie, difficult to distinguish the
known from the true & suddenly he realises: He does not
miss her. There is no body. There is no conversation. There
is no house—the one he built is no longer his & the dream
that he is selling has been flying pilot-less for years. The fall
will happen during tea time news prayer or the inevitable
chatter about it & his trove of words, his trove of love, his
trove of thoughts—fall it will, somewhere in the south
where ships sail seekingly, cameras anchor in deep streams
& nothing (she repeats, nothing) is completed, only the
stare, the glassy gaze, the shuffling past of families with
aprons full of holes, weightless chairs, etcetera.

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24

Herhaling anker die leuen, moeilik om dit wat bekend is
van die waarheid te onderskei. & skielik besef hy: Hy mis
haar nie. Daar is geen lyf nie. Daar is geen gesprek nie. Daar
is geen huis nie—die een wat hy gebou het is nie meer syne
nie & die droom wat hy verkoop vlieg reeds jare sonder
loods. Die val sal gebeur tydens teetyd nuus gebed of die
onvermydelike gepraat oor dit & sy woordeskat, sy liefde
skat, sy gedagtes skat—val sal dit wel, iewers in die suide
waar skepe soekend vaar, kameras in diep strome anker
& niks (sy herhaal, niks) voltooi word nie, net die staar,
die glaserige kyk, die verbyskommeling van families met
voorskote vol gate, gewiglose stoele, ensovoorts.

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25

What is this thing that kills us without leaving a mark,
without leaving behind something substantial like a corpse,
a gaping wound, blue welts around the neck, a floating &
stark-staring bloater, or a motionless & buriable word about
which we can talk in the past tense, to leave behind us?
What is this invisible hammer that strikes us in the middle
of nowhere, unexpectedly, makes us peer into the abyss &
the unbearable lightness of being & essential illusion of
immortality abruptly dispossessed? What is this thing that
hollows us out & fills us with the empty progress of the
living dead, the knowledge of good & evil, transience? We
must write about these things because the silence kills us.

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25

Wat is hierdie ding wat ons doodmaak sonder om ’n merk
te laat, sonder om iets ordentliks soos ’n lyk, ’n gapende
wond, blou strepe om ’n nek, ’n drywende & stilstarende
opgeblasene, of ’n bewegingslose & begraafbare woord
waaroor ons in die verlede tyd kan praat, agter te laat?
Wat is hierdie onsigbare hamer wat ons tref in die middel
van nêrens, onverwags, ons die afgrond in laat kyk & die
ondraaglike ligtheid van bestaan & noodsaaklike illusie
van onsterflikheid eensklaps ontneem? Wat is hierdie ding
wat ons uithol & vul met die leë vooruitgang van dooie
lewendes, die kennis van goed & kwaad, verganklikheid?
Ons moet hieroor skryf want die stilte maak ons dood.

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26

He knows that no-one can gaze fixedly at the sun or
death & that without anxiety or sickness he would be but
a becalmed boat. Legend has it that he entered the world
tongue first, hence his inability to cherish in the cabin
of his heart the astonishment & desolation & ultimate
bafflement. Promptly & in love’s peril thus he declared
god (yours as well) to be the answer to questions that he
had never asked, & the consequent prayers, heartsore &
heartfelt requests of those who believe his bearings to be
lost, his salvation precarious, his illnesses admonitions &
his pain the essential nail to silently clamp down his wrists
in light & blind acceptance, long forgotten.

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26

Hy weet dat niemand stip na die son of die dood kan kyk
nie & dat hy sonder angs & siekte maar ’n roerlose skip
sal wees. Volgens oorlewering het hy tong eerste die wêreld
ingekom, daarom sy onvermoë om die verwondering &
vertwyfeling & uiteindelike verbystering in die kajuit van sy
hart te bewaar. Pront & in liefdesgevaar het hy dus verklaar
dat god (ook joune) die antwoord is op vrae wat hy nooit
gevra het nie, & die gevolglike gebede, hartseer & opregte
versoeke van dié wat glo sy spoor is byster, sy redding
rakelings, sy siektes aanmanings & sy pyn die nodige spyker
om sy polse stil te klamp in lig & blinde aanvaarding, reeds
vergete.

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27

So much to say. He is silent & looks at the mountains. The
mist will arise from the valley & soon settle beneath them
like a woollen blanket. Wooden bowls with mountain water
along the scarcely visible tensed blue electric wire to keep
the cows out. & he hears today that he gives because he can,
that goodness and mercy shall follow him wherever he goes
& this in spite of the pills & the anxiety & the improper
rest of his existence, his diarrhoea (how he covets the soft
firm stool on which he could once squat with pride), his
grey realisation that like a good wine he is now slowly
becoming undrinkable, a bottle cellared for the single &
special occasion where vinegar will rhyme with fulfil.

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27

So baie om te sê. Hy bly stil & kyk na die berge. Die mis
sal opstoot uit die vallei & binnekort soos ’n wolkombers
onder hulle kom lê. Houtbakke met bergwater langs die
skaars sigbaar gespanne blou elektriese draad om die koeie
weg te hou. & hy hoor vandag dat hy gee omdat hy kán, dat
goedheid & guns hom sal volg orals waar hy gaan, & dit ten
spyte van die pille & die angs & die onvatsoenlike res van
sy bestaan, sy diarree (hoe begeer hy nie die sagte stywe
stoel waarop hy eens met trots kon sit nie), sy grys besef dat
hy nou soos ’n goeie wyn stadig ondrinkbaar begin word,
’n bottel gebêre vir die enkele & spesiale geleentheid waar
asyn sal rym met volbring.

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28

There were times when the injustice moved through lands
& cities & neighbourhoods & homes & sitting rooms &
hearts like barely audible breaths, that he could do nothing
about it, but talked, that he certainly did—Protestant,
first through the shutters of his thrown-open windows,
later through the gap in his broken heart, finally & at last
through the smell of the slow putrefaction of his shored
-up collection of words, the erstwhile significant rhyme
now declined into a more pressing process of displacement,
a time where understanding and formerly sincere vowels
once again fuse in sound & smell, a cloak that shall remain
hovering like a rare perfume over the inexorable protest.

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28

Daar was tye waar die onregverdigheid deur lande & stede
& buurte & huise & voorkamers & harte beweeg het soos
skaars hoorbare asems, dat hy niks daaraan kon doen nie,
maar gepraat, dít het hy wel—Protestant, eers deur die
luike van sy oopgetrekte vensters, later deur die gaping in
sy gebreekte hart, finaal & uiteindelik deur die reuk van
sy versameling gestapelde woorde se stadige ontbinding,
die eens betekenisvolle rym nou in ’n noodwendiger
proses van verskuiwing verval, ’n tyd waar verstaan &
voorheen opregte klinkers weer een word in klank & reuk,
’n kleed wat soos ’n besondere parfuum bly hang oor die
onafwendbare protes.

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29

Thus the end came, at first gradually (god knows how many
years & tears & hopeless repetitions & drowned words he
had to endure) & then suddenly, as if over a precipice, gone.
The memory of her eyes in the winter of her life, absent &
guilty like those of a flagellant called to seek out faithfully
the narrow pathways, the gashes & oblique red welts her
cherished affirmations of the several wider disregarded
routes & a harking back to that which never was, never will
be & his eventual leap over backwards & the sensation
of falling interrupted only for a moment by the dawning
awareness of her ever shrinking fingers over the railings of
the bridge.

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29

So het die einde aangebreek, eers geleidelik (god weet
hoeveel jare & trane & hopelose herhalings & verdronke
gedagtes hy moes verduur) & toe skielik, soos oor ’n
afgrond, weg. Die herinnering aan haar oë in die winter
van haar lewe, afwesig & skuldig soos dié van ’n flaggelant
geroepe om getrou die nou paadjies uit te soek, die skrape
& skuins rooi hale haar gekoesterde bevestigings van die
verskeie breër verlate paaie & ’n terugsoek na dit wat nooit
was nie, nooit sal wees nie, & sy uiteindelike agteroorspring
& die ervaring van val slegs vir ’n oomblik onderbreek deur
die bewuswording van haar al kleiner wordende vingers oor
die reëlings van die brug.

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30

The last straw appeared like a tree out of the blue & elevated
up straight with the sharp peaks of their white mountains
behind the still light-green leaves of spring & young
antelopes that every now & again make an appearance in
the back yard against the edge of the forest sloped above
the winding pathway with its bridge over the stream that
runs all year, sometimes under low ice but flowing all the
same with the pleats of least resistance, & the realisation
that going & letting go is now driven by an invisible force
against which he wells up impotently, the stalks reminders
of hand-folded paper boats that in former years could race
skimmingly over rocks & light eddies but now rest wetly
unfolded & uninscribed in the dark & silent deep.

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30

Die laaste strooi het soos ’n boom uit die bloute verskyn &
regop met die skerp spitse van hul wit berge agter die nog
liggroen lenteblare gelig & jong bokkies wat elke nou & dan
ore wys in die agterplaas teen die rand van die woud skuins
bo die kronkelende paadjie met sy brug oor die stroom wat
heeljaar vloei, soms onder lae ys maar lopend nogtans saam
met die voue van minste weerstand, & die besef dat gaan &
laat vaar nou gedryf word deur ’n onsigbare krag waarteen
hy magteloos wel, die halms herinneringe aan handgevoude
papierbootjies wat in vroeër jare resies kon gly oor klippe &
ligte kolke maar nou nat oopgevou & skrifteloos rus op die
donker & stil bodem.

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31

It is not the sun setting, ever since his years of love he has
known that it’s the horizon lifting at evening when her rays
rest over his breathing & her cheek clings to his unruly
breast till the morning’s setting & tilting, the rising, &
when he focuses his eyes on that stretched tight distant
straight line with the vanished masts charted on lost maps
& beholds his former loves & their collection of long fingers
with silver words like playful fish plucked from the depths
now gratefully & filled with new meaning & concomitant
confession point communally upward, the absent ones
forgotten & mercy open-mouthed & silent in a confession
of surprise, then he has to look away, close his eyes &
await the light of the horizon.

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31

Dis nie die son wat sak nie, sedert sy liefdesjare weet hy
dis die horison wat lig saans wanneer haar strale oor sy
asemhaling rus & haar wang teen sy onstuimige bors klou
tot die oggend se sak & kantel, die opkoms, & wanneer hy sy
oë rig na daardie vergespanne reguit lyn met die verdwene
maste op verlore kaarte gestip & aanskou hoe sy vorige
liefdes & hul versameling lang vingers met silwer woorde
soos spelende visse uit die dieptes geruk nou dankbaar & vol
nuwe betekenis & gepaardgaande bekentenis gemeenskaplik
na bo wys, die afwesiges vergete & die genade oopmond &
loos in ’n belydenis van verbasing, dan moet hy wegkyk, oë
sluit & wag op die horison se lig.

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32

He thought of her love, that unfoldable & strange white on
which his words can unfurl themselves, his pen can erect
itself in surprise & spurt ink, calculatedly, intending within
the late night of happiness, instinctively & quillessly, fertile,
words such as: my love, my heart, my dear, mine & all the
other undeserved possessives. He thought of the silver strip
of irregularly printed out round whites in his right pocket,
one per day but more often three, especially if he has to
approach the gorge from another angle, wants to find a new
route to the waterfall, or return homewards, that which
helps him to stand back fearlessly so that the fluttering
unknown gods that he almost sees from the left corner of his
blind eye may be rendered visible & with their supple tails
slip through the opening of lifeindeath, all for the sake of
a better understanding of the inexorable & unknowable.
He thought of rose petal, nutmeg, clove, rubber, cocoa,
the bitter-black match tip, lemon wood, candlewax nails,
rough lace, a soft lobe, up by the tongue, telegram, amygdala,
heart of cloth, line of longitude, december dance, home visit, printer’s
ink, inner arm, red underlining, love rock, showpiece.
He thought of the temple where priests with blue thumbs
& fast faceless messengers make futile attempts to translate
the ineffable, love among other things, but that he was born
to understand dead trees, ashtrays, the insatiable fire, books
with or without pictures, tomato jam, the heat of his iron
cauldron, smoke twirling listlessly to a high ceiling, the
colour of meat ripening waiting suspended from a hook,
the flexibility of time, women with a history, yellow lights,
also those hiding behind eyes, arranging books, the smell of
ginger & garlic under the nails in the early morning, touch,
light fingers, goose pimples, the twitching of eyebrows &
mouth corners—in the nature of things among other things.

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32

Hy het gedink aan haar liefde, daardie onvoubare & vreemde
wit waarop sy woorde hulself kan ontplooi, sy pen homself
verbaas kan lig & ink stort, berekend, bedoelend binne
die na-nag van geluk, instinktief & veerloos, vrugbaar,
woorde soos: my lief, my hart, my skat, myne & al die ander
onverdiende besitlikhede. Hy het gedink aan die silwer
strook oneweredig uitgedrukte ronde wittes in sy regtersak,
een per dag maar meestal drie, veral as hy die kloof moet
benader uit ’n ander hoek, ’n nuwe pad na die waterval wil
vind, of huiswaarts keer, dit wat hom help om angsloos
terug te staan sodat die fladderende onbekende gode wat
hy amper sien uit die linkerhoek van sy blinde oog sigbaar
mag word & met hul soepel sterte deur die opening van
lewendood kan glip, als ter wille van ’n beter begrip van
die onafwendbare & onkenbare.
Hy het gedink aan roosblaar, neut, naeltjie, rubber, kakao,
die bitterswart vuurhoutjiepunt, suurlemoenhout, kerswasnaels,
growwe kant, ’n sagte lel, tonglangs op, telegram, amandelbrein,
materiaalhart, lengtegraad, desemberdans, tuisbesoek, drukkersink,
binnearm, rooi onderstreep, liefdesklip, skitterstuk.
Hy het gedink aan die tempel waar priesters met blou duime
& vinnige gesiglose boodskappers verlore pogings aanwend
om die onvertelbare te vertaal, liefde onder andere, maar
dat hy gebore is om dooie bome te verstaan, asbakke, die
onversadigbare vuur, boeke met of sonder prente, tamatiekonfyt,
die hitte van sy ysterpot, rook wat lusteloos warrel na ’n hoë
plafon, die kleur van vleis waar dit ryp aan ’n hoek hang &
wag, die plooibaarheid van tyd, vroue met ’n geskiedenis,
geel ligte, ook dié wat agter oë skuil, boeke rangskik, die
reuk van gemmer & knoffel onder die naels vroegoggend,
aanraking, ligte vingers, naby vel, hoendervleis, die beweging
van wenkbroue & mondhoeke—uiteraard onder andere.

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