Poem
Antjie Krog
NARRATIVE OF THE CATTLE FARMER
Uncle Jacobus de Wet talks in poems‘near Jerusalem there are mountains
here alone with the goats in the veld
there are also mountains
but God is all around us
I feel him approaching all evening from the direction of Akkediskloof (Lizard Canyon)
my grandchild Benjamin does the herding
he told me so himself this morning
even said he wanted to be a cattle farmer
and I’m content
God has given everyone a talent
in the evenings in the pasture we don’t have to talk
we know which have been pastured and which have yet to be pastured
it’s a good life to give a child
every child has his honour
let me just say this
it is very pleasant to be with a grandchild
he makes you laugh
he lets you talk about things that aren’t really relevant
it’s good to be with a child
because you’re alone here day and night in the pasture with Jesus
you talk
you can lie back
and with clear eyes talk to him
you only have to look
because flesh notices flesh
the river lies defenceless
open vein in the heat
the landscape unthinkable without that brown-green cut
indestructible older than the oldest human breath on stone
he feeds the goats whether they live or die
there isn’t much of nothing here
there’s much too little of nothing here
the mountain on the other side looks as if it’s leaking
at midday it is extinguished in blue
I look at the watch
it’s twenty to three
and that means absolutely nothing
we doze between coolness and eating and heat
the sun sinks at last
the ridges echo with blaring as the big goats come in to pasture
the lambs are tied up and pulling at their tethers
nothing as soft as goat’s lamb
(my language remembers)
nothing so sweet snouty
sweet to the mouth defenceless-looking as goat’s lamb
towards evening
some get their mother’s tit some get a strange tit
from full blaring to flat blaring to lost blaring
to muffled blaring to whining blaring to spoiled blaring
to irritated bossy blaring
the satin of a lamb’s ear
slips through my hand
‘how do I tie my line to you my love
when the late light strikes stone’
a colour never comes alone she says
when the ridges float and fall in blue folds of satin
the pleated mountains turn to fire
and amber
the river stills into reflecting streaks of jelly
it’s feeling time and flying time
in the violence of colour and reeds
a heron flies silently through the valley
redbreast fly-catchers, tufted ducks, seed eaters
bunched in tassels on the grassy bank by my tent
the mountain hides its stone in the water
there’s a shivering of stone and river willows and reeds
frightened by sound a dove falls from the crag
I sleep on the bank of The River
the whole day it flows past me quiet and broad like blood
from a wound – above me lie the chippings of stars
the night opens itself –
soon colour loses its original way
© Translation: 2004, Richard Jürgens
Narratief van die parkboer
Narratief van die parkboer
Oom Jakobus de Wet praat poetry‘rondom Jerusalem is berge
hier alleen by die bokke in die veld
is ook berge
maar rondom ons is God
ek voel Hom heel aand aankom so van Akkediskloof se kant
my kleinkind Benjamin doen die weiwerk
sy mond het my dit vanoggend gesê
self gesê hy wil ’n veeboer wees
en ek is tevrede
God het vir elkeen ’n talent ingesit
saans by die staning hoef ons nie te praat nie
ons weet waar gewei is waar gewei moet word
dis ’n goeie lewe om aan ’n kind te gee
elke kind het sy eer
laat ek dit maar sê
dis baie smaaklik om saam met ’n kleinkind te wees
hy laat jou lag
hy laat jou goed praat wat nie heeltemal toepas nie
dis goed om by ’n kind te wees
want dag en nag is jy alleen hier by die staning met Christus
julle praat
jy kan agteroor lê
en met helder oë met Hom praat
jy kan maar net kyk
want gees gewaar gees
weerloos lê die rivier
oop aar in die hitte
die landskap ondenkbaar sonder die bruingroen sny
onverwoesbaar ouer as die oudste mensasem op klip
hy voed die bokke van maak en die bokke van dood
hier’s van niks te veel
hier’s van niks te bittermin
die berg aan die oorkant lyk soos iets wat lek
teen middaguur blus dit in blou
ek kyk op my horlosie
dis twintig minute voor drie
en dit beteken absoluut niks nie
ons dommel tussen koelte en vreet en hitte
die son kantel eindelik
die rante galm van blêr soos die groot bokke staning toe kom
die vasgebinde lammertjies spook aan hulle riempies
niks so saf soos boklam
(onthou my taal)
niks so soet snoetig
fynbekkig weerloosogig soos boklam
teen die aand se kant
party kry tiet party kry vreemde tiet
dis grootblêr tot platblêr tot kleinverloorblêr
tot mofblêr tot sanikblêr tot bederfblêr
tot vererg se baasblêr
die fluweel van ’n boklam se oor
glip deur my hand
‘hoe lê ek die lyne af na jou toe lief
as die laat lig so kliplangs knel’
‘’n kleur kom nooit alleen nie,’ sê sy
toe die rante teen skemer losraak en wegval in blou kantvalle
die plooingsgebergtes omsit in vuur
en amber
die rivier verstil tot weerkaatsende stroke selei
dit raak voeltyd en voëltyd
deur die geweld van kleur en riet
vlieg ’n reier stil die vallei af
bontrokkies kuifkoppies sysies
bondel in tossels op die grasbank langs my tent
die berg bêre sy klip in die water
daar’s ’n trilling van klip en rivierwilgers en riet
’n duif in die krans val verskrik in klank
ek slaap op die wal van Die Rivier
die hele nag vloei dit stil en breed by my verby soos bloed
uit ’n wond – bokant lê die gruis van sterre
maak die nag haarself oop –
dadelik is kleur die oerkluts kwyt
© 2000, Antjie Krog
From: Kleur kom nooit alleen nie
Publisher: Kwela, Cape Town
This poem is the sixth section of ‘Selected Narratives of the Richtersveld’
From: Kleur kom nooit alleen nie
Publisher: Kwela, Cape Town
Poems
Poems of Antjie Krog
Close
NARRATIVE OF THE CATTLE FARMER
Uncle Jacobus de Wet talks in poems‘near Jerusalem there are mountains
here alone with the goats in the veld
there are also mountains
but God is all around us
I feel him approaching all evening from the direction of Akkediskloof (Lizard Canyon)
my grandchild Benjamin does the herding
he told me so himself this morning
even said he wanted to be a cattle farmer
and I’m content
God has given everyone a talent
in the evenings in the pasture we don’t have to talk
we know which have been pastured and which have yet to be pastured
it’s a good life to give a child
every child has his honour
let me just say this
it is very pleasant to be with a grandchild
he makes you laugh
he lets you talk about things that aren’t really relevant
it’s good to be with a child
because you’re alone here day and night in the pasture with Jesus
you talk
you can lie back
and with clear eyes talk to him
you only have to look
because flesh notices flesh
the river lies defenceless
open vein in the heat
the landscape unthinkable without that brown-green cut
indestructible older than the oldest human breath on stone
he feeds the goats whether they live or die
there isn’t much of nothing here
there’s much too little of nothing here
the mountain on the other side looks as if it’s leaking
at midday it is extinguished in blue
I look at the watch
it’s twenty to three
and that means absolutely nothing
we doze between coolness and eating and heat
the sun sinks at last
the ridges echo with blaring as the big goats come in to pasture
the lambs are tied up and pulling at their tethers
nothing as soft as goat’s lamb
(my language remembers)
nothing so sweet snouty
sweet to the mouth defenceless-looking as goat’s lamb
towards evening
some get their mother’s tit some get a strange tit
from full blaring to flat blaring to lost blaring
to muffled blaring to whining blaring to spoiled blaring
to irritated bossy blaring
the satin of a lamb’s ear
slips through my hand
‘how do I tie my line to you my love
when the late light strikes stone’
a colour never comes alone she says
when the ridges float and fall in blue folds of satin
the pleated mountains turn to fire
and amber
the river stills into reflecting streaks of jelly
it’s feeling time and flying time
in the violence of colour and reeds
a heron flies silently through the valley
redbreast fly-catchers, tufted ducks, seed eaters
bunched in tassels on the grassy bank by my tent
the mountain hides its stone in the water
there’s a shivering of stone and river willows and reeds
frightened by sound a dove falls from the crag
I sleep on the bank of The River
the whole day it flows past me quiet and broad like blood
from a wound – above me lie the chippings of stars
the night opens itself –
soon colour loses its original way
© 2004, Richard Jürgens
From: Kleur kom nooit alleen nie
This poem is the sixth section of ‘Selected Narratives of the Richtersveld’
From: Kleur kom nooit alleen nie
NARRATIVE OF THE CATTLE FARMER
Uncle Jacobus de Wet talks in poems‘near Jerusalem there are mountains
here alone with the goats in the veld
there are also mountains
but God is all around us
I feel him approaching all evening from the direction of Akkediskloof (Lizard Canyon)
my grandchild Benjamin does the herding
he told me so himself this morning
even said he wanted to be a cattle farmer
and I’m content
God has given everyone a talent
in the evenings in the pasture we don’t have to talk
we know which have been pastured and which have yet to be pastured
it’s a good life to give a child
every child has his honour
let me just say this
it is very pleasant to be with a grandchild
he makes you laugh
he lets you talk about things that aren’t really relevant
it’s good to be with a child
because you’re alone here day and night in the pasture with Jesus
you talk
you can lie back
and with clear eyes talk to him
you only have to look
because flesh notices flesh
the river lies defenceless
open vein in the heat
the landscape unthinkable without that brown-green cut
indestructible older than the oldest human breath on stone
he feeds the goats whether they live or die
there isn’t much of nothing here
there’s much too little of nothing here
the mountain on the other side looks as if it’s leaking
at midday it is extinguished in blue
I look at the watch
it’s twenty to three
and that means absolutely nothing
we doze between coolness and eating and heat
the sun sinks at last
the ridges echo with blaring as the big goats come in to pasture
the lambs are tied up and pulling at their tethers
nothing as soft as goat’s lamb
(my language remembers)
nothing so sweet snouty
sweet to the mouth defenceless-looking as goat’s lamb
towards evening
some get their mother’s tit some get a strange tit
from full blaring to flat blaring to lost blaring
to muffled blaring to whining blaring to spoiled blaring
to irritated bossy blaring
the satin of a lamb’s ear
slips through my hand
‘how do I tie my line to you my love
when the late light strikes stone’
a colour never comes alone she says
when the ridges float and fall in blue folds of satin
the pleated mountains turn to fire
and amber
the river stills into reflecting streaks of jelly
it’s feeling time and flying time
in the violence of colour and reeds
a heron flies silently through the valley
redbreast fly-catchers, tufted ducks, seed eaters
bunched in tassels on the grassy bank by my tent
the mountain hides its stone in the water
there’s a shivering of stone and river willows and reeds
frightened by sound a dove falls from the crag
I sleep on the bank of The River
the whole day it flows past me quiet and broad like blood
from a wound – above me lie the chippings of stars
the night opens itself –
soon colour loses its original way
© 2004, Richard Jürgens
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