Poem
H.J. Pieterse
starsteps
Straying in the cellars of sleep,Bluebeard. He follows a flute,
an inbreath without end or beginning
that lures him down the quiet passages
past faces, portraits on a wall,
a whispering in the dust,
through names, women he vaguely recalls
to balconies and terraces in his head.
The fluting fades. A silver snake
glides over the plain to the mountain
and stretches itself against the night air
to hang between stars.
Bluebeard feels flat. His eyes itch.
Behind the screens first light is rising.
He stretches, reaches through the roof,
then sails to the stars, step by step.
stertrap
stertrap
In die kelders van die slaapdwaal Bloubaard. Hy volg ’n fluit,
’n asemteug sonder einde of begin
lok hom deur die stil gange uit
verby gesigte, portrette teen ’n muur,
’n gefluister in die stof,
deur name, vrouens wat hy skaars onthou
na balkonne en terrasse in sy kop.
Die fluit word dun, ’n silwer slang
glip oor die vlakte na ’n berg
en rek hom teen die naglug uit
om tussen sterre te gaan hang.
Bloubaard voel dof. Sy oë krap.
Agter skerms rys die eerste lig.
Hy strek hom uit, reik deur die dak,
seil dan na die sterre, trap vir trap.
© 2000, H.J. Pieterse
From: Die burg van hertog Bloubaard
Publisher: Tafelberg-Uitgewers, Kaapstad
From: Die burg van hertog Bloubaard
Publisher: Tafelberg-Uitgewers, Kaapstad
Poems
Poems of H.J. Pieterse
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starsteps
Straying in the cellars of sleep,Bluebeard. He follows a flute,
an inbreath without end or beginning
that lures him down the quiet passages
past faces, portraits on a wall,
a whispering in the dust,
through names, women he vaguely recalls
to balconies and terraces in his head.
The fluting fades. A silver snake
glides over the plain to the mountain
and stretches itself against the night air
to hang between stars.
Bluebeard feels flat. His eyes itch.
Behind the screens first light is rising.
He stretches, reaches through the roof,
then sails to the stars, step by step.
From: Die burg van hertog Bloubaard
starsteps
Straying in the cellars of sleep,Bluebeard. He follows a flute,
an inbreath without end or beginning
that lures him down the quiet passages
past faces, portraits on a wall,
a whispering in the dust,
through names, women he vaguely recalls
to balconies and terraces in his head.
The fluting fades. A silver snake
glides over the plain to the mountain
and stretches itself against the night air
to hang between stars.
Bluebeard feels flat. His eyes itch.
Behind the screens first light is rising.
He stretches, reaches through the roof,
then sails to the stars, step by step.
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