Poem
Charl-Pierre Naudé
Against love
And now –has it come to this?
We’re right next to one another, but so far apart.
Two lovebirds, transmitted by signal, breaking up.
No, four lovebirds – breaking up – becoming a sardine run
without ever reaching the other one’s shore.
I’m against love, the whole multiplication thing:
The Vatican’s never-ending bakery, as well as the fish shop
next door.
Your pricked-up breasts don’t fool me,
you’re just panelbeating your armour.
The metaphors have become soldiers, the gestures are all stretchers
and you’re a babushka-doll
of never-ending napoleons, one smaller than the other.
Strip the peacemakers naked and throw them out the windows –
Hot Cross buns first! I don’t care about the middle ground.
Let’s split up. The nice thing about dividing
the atom is that you can trust it, a million times over.
Our sweet words? They’ve soured –
the poisonous petit fours of a deserted voodoo ritual.
The only good thing about this is to see
how the counsellors and the priests flee,
those black peacocks in their useless sandals.
I’m against love. Let the continents drift apart.
Let them shape new worlds. New discoverers.
Another religion.
I’m against sense. I’m against confusion too.
Just the other day they crossed a pig’s egg
with a human sperm. I’m all for it.
Thank you mister girl deamons,
missus colonel flying fish,
for raining frogs on the ventriloquist,
for chaining the juggler
to the orchard of suspended oranges.
And the bangees that mounted the Trappist;
one can never trust a nightmare.
Now I’m at square one again –
you stole my Three Monkeys!
Baby Zeus, Mother Sun,
you were my photostatted little pantheon
blown to life by the wind,
but the temple is now torn and aflutter with wings.
What has become of us? Where are the memories?
We are frozen at one another’s throats
like eagles in the coat-of-arms
of a family that became extinct.
It is becoming summer on the highveld, where we both live.
They call this region the Cradle of Humanity,
where the first hominids roamed. Another year is passing.
The skeletons of primordial tigers lie packed up
in the limestone, like virtual grand pianos.
The naked savannah sings. And the lightning flashes
like my computer screen, the moment I store this sentence.
Scurrying stockbrokers of the young republic,
flighting new markets, are crushing the primitive skulls underfoot.
But while everything starts to live again, our love has died.
The grey guinea fowl are coming out of the grass, in their graphite shawls.
These are the peacocks, the down fireworks of long, long ago –
that have dulled on the retinas of two corpses, that are ours.
Love: the hidden categories,
the painted doors of the honey catacombs,
And now this. Damn it. Fuck it. Persecution.
Time: a stone of petrified strawberries;
the picnic basket that got stolen by a baboon
near Sterkfontein Caves,
and the vanished couple.
Yes this. Damn. –
We are sleeping at the bottom of a sea.
Our faces are looking in opposite directions,
two profiles embossed on separate coins.
Our hair that would lift in the breeze of the present
is now minted on the wind of eternity.
We are a lost treasure.
The ship went aground in foul weather.
But one day, on a clear day in the distant future
two skindivers, a boy and a girl,
two beautiful lovers in the shallow water,
will discover you and me again
with their brand-new bodies
and retrieve us
from this forgotten wreck.
© Translation: 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
Teen die liefde
Teen die liefde
Is dit waar ons nou is? Hiér,reg langs mekaar, en tog so ver uiteen;
twee liefdesvoëltjies wat na mekaar toe vlieg
in ’n transmissie waarvan die sein verbrokkel
tot vier liefdesvoëltjies – en verder opbreek – ’n hele sardientjieloop
wat nimmer die ander se strand sal haal nie.
Ek is teen die liefde, die hele storie van vermenigvuldiging:
Die Vatikaan se mooibroodjiesbakkery,
sowel as die viswinkel langsaan.
Jou opgeprikte borsies flous my nie,
jy’t maar net jou pantser uitgeklop.
Die metafore is soldate, die gebare almal draagbare,
en jy’s ’n baboesjka-poppie
gevul met napoleons wat net al hoe kleiner word.
Stroop die vredemakers kaalgat en gooi hulle by die vensters uit,
Paasbolletjie-kant eerste! Die middelgrond traak my nie meer nie.
Kom ons breek op, laat ons die atoom kloof;
dít sal ons minstens nie in die steek laat nie, tot in die oneindigheid.
Ons soet woordjies? Dié het suur geword –
die giftige kersiekoekies van ’n versaakte voodoo-ritueel.
Al goeie hiervan is om te sien hoe die beraders
en priesters op die vlug slaan,
daardie swart poue in hul nuttelose sandale.
Ek is teen die liefde. Laat die kontinente uitmekaar dryf.
’n Nuwe wêreld maak. Nuwe ontdekkers.
’n Ander godsdiens.
Ek is teen sin. Ek is teen onsin ook.
Nou die dag nog is ’n vark se vrug
met ’n menslike spermsel gekruis.
Ek’s heeltemal daar voor.
Dankie meneer meisiedemone,
mevrou kolonel vlieënde vis,
vir paddas reën op die buikspreker,
dat jy die goëlaar só moes vasketting
aan die boord se hangende lemoene;
en die gilspoke wat die Trappis gery het,
jy kan nooit ’n nagmerrie vertrou nie.
Nou moet ek weer voor begin –
was dit nodig om my Drie Apies te steel?
Poplappie Zeus, Moedertjie Son,
jy was my Pantheon gefotostateer
en deur die wind tot lewe gewaai;
nou flapper die verinneweerde tempel
die ene vlêrmuise.
Wat het van ons geword? Waar is die herinneringe?
Ons is aan mekaar se kele soos arende,
verstar in ’n opgediepte familiewapen.
Dit word somer op die hoëveld, waar ons albei woon.
Hulle noem hierdie streek die Wieg van die Mensdom,
waar die eerste mens-ape rondgeloop het.
Die geraamtes van die oertiere lê weggepak
in die kalksteen soos virtuele vleuelklaviere.
Nog ’n jaar verstryk. Die naakte savanne sing. En die weerlig flits
soos my rekenaarskerm – wat dié dokument nou bêre.
Skarrelende makelaars van die jong republiek verbeel nuwe markte
en vergruis met hulle rondgetrap die oeroue skedels.
Maar terwyl alles weer begin lewe, het ons liefde gesterf.
Kyk, tarentale kom wikkel-wikkel uit die gras in hul tjalies van grafiet.
Hulle is die poue, die donsvuurwerke, van lank, lank gelede –
wat verdof het op die retinas van ons twee se lyke.
Liefde: die verborge kategorieë,
die beskilderde deure van die heuningkatakombes.
En nou dít. Verdomp. Fokkit. Vervolging.
Tyd: ’n klip versteende aarbeie,
die piekniekmandjie wat deur ’n bobbejaan gesteel is
naby Sterkfontein Grot,
en die vermiste paartjie.
Ja dít. Móér.
Ons slaap nou op die bodem van ’n see.
Ons gesigte kyk in teenoorgestelde rigtings,
twee profiele op afsonderlike munte.
Ons hare wat kon lig op die briesie van die oomblik,
lê nou geslaan in die wind van die ewigheid.
Ons is ’n verlore skat.
Die skip het in onweer gestrand.
Maar eendag, op ’n mooiweersdag in die verre toekoms
sal twee duikers, ’n ou en ’n meisie,
verliefde skattejagters in die vlak water,
my en jou opnuut daar vind,
met hul splinternuwe lywe
ons weer opdiep
uit hierdie vergete wrak.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
Poems
Poems of Charl-Pierre Naudé
Close
Against love
And now –has it come to this?
We’re right next to one another, but so far apart.
Two lovebirds, transmitted by signal, breaking up.
No, four lovebirds – breaking up – becoming a sardine run
without ever reaching the other one’s shore.
I’m against love, the whole multiplication thing:
The Vatican’s never-ending bakery, as well as the fish shop
next door.
Your pricked-up breasts don’t fool me,
you’re just panelbeating your armour.
The metaphors have become soldiers, the gestures are all stretchers
and you’re a babushka-doll
of never-ending napoleons, one smaller than the other.
Strip the peacemakers naked and throw them out the windows –
Hot Cross buns first! I don’t care about the middle ground.
Let’s split up. The nice thing about dividing
the atom is that you can trust it, a million times over.
Our sweet words? They’ve soured –
the poisonous petit fours of a deserted voodoo ritual.
The only good thing about this is to see
how the counsellors and the priests flee,
those black peacocks in their useless sandals.
I’m against love. Let the continents drift apart.
Let them shape new worlds. New discoverers.
Another religion.
I’m against sense. I’m against confusion too.
Just the other day they crossed a pig’s egg
with a human sperm. I’m all for it.
Thank you mister girl deamons,
missus colonel flying fish,
for raining frogs on the ventriloquist,
for chaining the juggler
to the orchard of suspended oranges.
And the bangees that mounted the Trappist;
one can never trust a nightmare.
Now I’m at square one again –
you stole my Three Monkeys!
Baby Zeus, Mother Sun,
you were my photostatted little pantheon
blown to life by the wind,
but the temple is now torn and aflutter with wings.
What has become of us? Where are the memories?
We are frozen at one another’s throats
like eagles in the coat-of-arms
of a family that became extinct.
It is becoming summer on the highveld, where we both live.
They call this region the Cradle of Humanity,
where the first hominids roamed. Another year is passing.
The skeletons of primordial tigers lie packed up
in the limestone, like virtual grand pianos.
The naked savannah sings. And the lightning flashes
like my computer screen, the moment I store this sentence.
Scurrying stockbrokers of the young republic,
flighting new markets, are crushing the primitive skulls underfoot.
But while everything starts to live again, our love has died.
The grey guinea fowl are coming out of the grass, in their graphite shawls.
These are the peacocks, the down fireworks of long, long ago –
that have dulled on the retinas of two corpses, that are ours.
Love: the hidden categories,
the painted doors of the honey catacombs,
And now this. Damn it. Fuck it. Persecution.
Time: a stone of petrified strawberries;
the picnic basket that got stolen by a baboon
near Sterkfontein Caves,
and the vanished couple.
Yes this. Damn. –
We are sleeping at the bottom of a sea.
Our faces are looking in opposite directions,
two profiles embossed on separate coins.
Our hair that would lift in the breeze of the present
is now minted on the wind of eternity.
We are a lost treasure.
The ship went aground in foul weather.
But one day, on a clear day in the distant future
two skindivers, a boy and a girl,
two beautiful lovers in the shallow water,
will discover you and me again
with their brand-new bodies
and retrieve us
from this forgotten wreck.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
Against love
And now –has it come to this?
We’re right next to one another, but so far apart.
Two lovebirds, transmitted by signal, breaking up.
No, four lovebirds – breaking up – becoming a sardine run
without ever reaching the other one’s shore.
I’m against love, the whole multiplication thing:
The Vatican’s never-ending bakery, as well as the fish shop
next door.
Your pricked-up breasts don’t fool me,
you’re just panelbeating your armour.
The metaphors have become soldiers, the gestures are all stretchers
and you’re a babushka-doll
of never-ending napoleons, one smaller than the other.
Strip the peacemakers naked and throw them out the windows –
Hot Cross buns first! I don’t care about the middle ground.
Let’s split up. The nice thing about dividing
the atom is that you can trust it, a million times over.
Our sweet words? They’ve soured –
the poisonous petit fours of a deserted voodoo ritual.
The only good thing about this is to see
how the counsellors and the priests flee,
those black peacocks in their useless sandals.
I’m against love. Let the continents drift apart.
Let them shape new worlds. New discoverers.
Another religion.
I’m against sense. I’m against confusion too.
Just the other day they crossed a pig’s egg
with a human sperm. I’m all for it.
Thank you mister girl deamons,
missus colonel flying fish,
for raining frogs on the ventriloquist,
for chaining the juggler
to the orchard of suspended oranges.
And the bangees that mounted the Trappist;
one can never trust a nightmare.
Now I’m at square one again –
you stole my Three Monkeys!
Baby Zeus, Mother Sun,
you were my photostatted little pantheon
blown to life by the wind,
but the temple is now torn and aflutter with wings.
What has become of us? Where are the memories?
We are frozen at one another’s throats
like eagles in the coat-of-arms
of a family that became extinct.
It is becoming summer on the highveld, where we both live.
They call this region the Cradle of Humanity,
where the first hominids roamed. Another year is passing.
The skeletons of primordial tigers lie packed up
in the limestone, like virtual grand pianos.
The naked savannah sings. And the lightning flashes
like my computer screen, the moment I store this sentence.
Scurrying stockbrokers of the young republic,
flighting new markets, are crushing the primitive skulls underfoot.
But while everything starts to live again, our love has died.
The grey guinea fowl are coming out of the grass, in their graphite shawls.
These are the peacocks, the down fireworks of long, long ago –
that have dulled on the retinas of two corpses, that are ours.
Love: the hidden categories,
the painted doors of the honey catacombs,
And now this. Damn it. Fuck it. Persecution.
Time: a stone of petrified strawberries;
the picnic basket that got stolen by a baboon
near Sterkfontein Caves,
and the vanished couple.
Yes this. Damn. –
We are sleeping at the bottom of a sea.
Our faces are looking in opposite directions,
two profiles embossed on separate coins.
Our hair that would lift in the breeze of the present
is now minted on the wind of eternity.
We are a lost treasure.
The ship went aground in foul weather.
But one day, on a clear day in the distant future
two skindivers, a boy and a girl,
two beautiful lovers in the shallow water,
will discover you and me again
with their brand-new bodies
and retrieve us
from this forgotten wreck.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
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