Antjie Krog

neither the moist intimacy of your eyelids fair as fennel
nor the violence of your body withholding behind sheets
nor what comes to me as your life
...

under orders from my ancestors you were occupied
had I language I could write for you were land my land
...

tonight everything speaks through the dead
towards me
your brittle bundle of bones
...

since we started walking
this road the irises
finished blooming the still
abandoned eyeballs of
...

while she makes tea something strangely
familiar flows down her inner thigh. like ink.
after many years she bleeds again.
...

1.
from inside from outside
from in outside from out inside
from innermost outside to outermost inside
...

jy laat my voor loop, maar bly self skuins staan
sit jou vingers liggies op my rug sodat
my somerskouers verby jou lapelle skuur
my werwels loop uit in lig

skaamteloos kom lê jou oë op my arms
sulke nat swart oë het jy wat nooit knip nie - nugter
gly dit my borste binne
ek word daarvan litterig, lieflik, ligter

as wyn direk die slagaar giet
sak jou mond swaar oop om die glas
subiet word my lyf totaal orgaan

later as geswolle wond deur jou voorarm
teen die muur geknel - ontplof my ganse skelet
en bars verby die wit versperring van vel
...

1.

tussen jou en my
hoe verskriklik
hoe wanhopig
hoe vernietig breek dit tussen jou en my

soveel verwonding vir waarheid
soveel verwoesting
so min het oorgebly vir oorlewing

waar gaan ons heen van hier?

jou stem slinger
in woede
langs die kil snerpende sweep van my verlede

hoe lank duur dit?
hoe lank vir ‘n stem
om ‘n ander te bereik

in dié land so bloeiende tussen ons


2.

in die begin is sien
sien vir eeue
die kop vul met as
geen suurstof
geen spriet
by sien word eindelik woord gevoeg
en die oog stort af in die woedende wond

hoor! hoor die opwel van medemenslike taal
in haar sagte weerlose skedel
en hoor die stemme
die talige stemme van die land
almal gedoop in die lettergreep van bloed en hoort
be-hoort die land uiteindelik aan die stemme wat daarin woon
lê die land aan die voete van verhale
van saffraan en amber
engelhaar en kwets
dou en eer en draad


3.

woordeloos staan ek
waar sal my woorde vandaan kom?
vir die doeners
die huiweraars
die banges
wat bewend-siek hang
aan die geluidlose ruimte van ons onherbergsame verlede

wat sê ‘n mens?
wat de hel dóén ‘n mens
met dié drag ontkroonde geraamtes, oorsprong, skande en as

die land van my gewete verdwyn sissend
soos ‘n laken in die donker


4.

ons dra die dood
in duisend klowende gedaantes
drummelend
droef
dra ons die dood

hy klamp sy mond aan ons hart
hy drink steunend
hoe wars lok die lig op ons vel
dit weet
ons mense dra die dood
dit lyk na onsself
ons maghe spoel daar swart van
‘n buidel van ink
ons dra die dood die huis binne
en ‘n taal sonder genade
alles ruik ineens na geweld

die dood klap sy beroulose kleppe in ons taal
ja, die onverdrote deeglike dood


5.

hier langs die lang wit skaduwee
waar ek die weeklaag van sprinkaan wou agterlaat
van sprinkaan en dood wou laat, hoor ek die geluid
die geluid van weeklaag

hier langs die lang wit skaduwee
waar ek glans gryp, eer gryp wat ooit glans was en luisterryk wit
het ek die waarheid gehoor en hoe om dit geweld aan te doen

dat ek reis dat ek afreis langs die koring en kaf van my verlede
wat voortkruip op sy dodelike knieë sonder om ooit een maal op te kyk
dat ek op my knieë voortklou na die plek

na die ademligte plek waar die lig nooit net wapper nie
hier allangs die lang wit skadu van dodelike en gemolesteerde waarheid
begraaf ons vele begraaf ons sonder dooskleed of ritueel

vele begraaf ons en uit die grafte spruit daar
die skaduwee spruit glans en klitsgras en koring
die geluid van sprinkaan hier langs die lang wit skadu

en my verlede sit so goed in sy tande al langs
sy tande sit dit goed in die skadu van sulfer en aluin en dit word tyd
die tyd van moordenaar en skaamte en tin

ek bly glip bly glip uit die waarhied
terwyl langs my die lang wit skaduwee sidder
wat ek was loop bruusk die lang wit siddering van as en skuld

sny my ek wat steeds glip in die lang wit skaduwee
uit tyd uit willekeur en leuens uit die onhoudbare siddering
allangs die leegheid van weeklaag en skadu

sny my van wraak en verlies van ruïne
sny my die lang wit litteken die ligeen en as sny my vry
in berou o my hand my hand gryp die laken soos ‘n keel


6.

die liggaam beroof
die blind gefolterde keel
die prys van die land van verskrikking
is die grootte van ‘n hart

verdriet draal so alleen
as die stemme van die angstiges verdrink op die wind

jy gee nie op nie
jy trap ‘n voetpad oop met seer versigtige stappe
jy sny my los

in lig in - liefliker, ligter en kraniger as lied

mag ek jou vashou my suster
in dié brose oopvou van ‘n nuwe, enkele medewoord


7.

diepste hart der harte
hart wat net kan bars uit hierdie swart aarde
onverskrokke
met tande ferm
in die slagaar van die enigste waarheid wat altyd opstaan
en in dié land is goddank altyd dié wat opstaan
opstaan en opstaan
teen die ander in
teen die eie in
teen geweld en onreg in
ek besing dié verblindende medemenslike hart
met ‘n lied van hoort en behoort
die keel smeul in trane
vir een kortstondig skitterende oomblik is dié land
waaragtig ons algar s'n

o my allerhart, jy kom verruk op die been!


8.

vanweë die verhale van verwondes
lê die land nie meer tussen ons nie
maar binne-in

sy haal asem
gekalmeer na die litteken
aan haar wonderbaarlike keel

in die wieg van my skedel sing dit
ontbrand dit
my tong my binneste oor die gaping van my hart
sidder vorentoe na die buitelyn
van ‘n woordeskat nuut in sag, intieme keelklanke

van my siel leer die retina oopgaan
daagliks - ‘n duisend woorde
skroei my tot ‘n nuwe tong

ek is vir altyd verander. Ek wil sê
vergewe my
vergewe my
vergewe my

jy wat ek veronreg het - seblief
neem my
met jou saam


9.

wat doen ‘n mens met die oue
wat so lustig saamstink in die nuwe
die ou virus beman reeds flink die nuwe kleppe

hoe herken mens die oue
met sy rassisme en slym
sy onveranderde besitlike voornaamwoord
wat is die verlede tyd van die woord haat
wat is die simptoom van gebrutaliseerde bloed
van pyn wat nie taal wou word nie
van pyn wat nie taal kón word nie

wat doen ‘n mens met die oue
hoe word jy jouself tussen ander
hoe word jy heel
hoe word jy vrygemaak in begrip
hoe maak jy goed
hoe sny jy skoon
hoe ná kan die tong tilt aan teerheid
of die wang aan versoening

‘n punt
‘n lyn wat sê: van hier af
van dié moment af
gaan dit anders klink
want al ons woorde lê naas mekaar op die tafel
bibberend van die kleur van mens
ons weet nou mekaar
mekaar se kopvel en reuk mekaars bloed
ons weet die diepste geluide wat mekaar
se niere maak in die nag
ons is stadig mekaar
opnuut
nuut
en hiér begin dit


10.

(maar as die oue nie skuldig is nie
nie skuld bely nie
kan die nuwe natuurlik ook nie skuldig wees nie
en nooit voor stok gekry word
as hy die oue herhaal nie
alles begin dus van voor af aan
dié slag anders ingekleur)
...

a.

between you and me
how desperately
how it aches
how desperately it aches between you and me

so much hurt for truth
so much destruction
so little left for survival

where do we go from here

your voice slung
in anger
over the solid cold length of our past

how long does it take
for a voice
to reach another

in this country held bleeding between us


b.

in the beginning is seeing
seeing for ages
filling the head with ash
no air
no tendril
now to seeing speaking is added
and the eye plunges into the wounds of anger

seizing the surge of language by its soft bare skull
hear oh hear
the voices all the voices of the land
all baptised in syllables of blood and belonging
this country belongs to the voices of those who live in it
this landscape lies at the feet at last
of the stories of saffron and amber
angel hair and barbs
dew and hay and hurt


c.

speechless I stand
whence will words now come?
for us the doers
the hesitant
we who hang quivering and ill
from this soundless space of an Afrikaner past?
what does one say?
what the hell does one do
with this load of decrowned skeletons origins shame and ash
the country of my conscience
is disappearing forever like a sheet in the dark


d.

we carry death
in a thousand cleaving spectres
affected
afflicted
we carry death

it latches its mouth to our heart
it sucks groaningly
how averse lures the light on our skin
it knows
our people carry death
it resembles ourselves
our stomachs wash black with it
a pouch of ink
we carry death into the houses
and a language without mercy
suddenly everything smells of violence

death snaps its repentless valves in our language
yes, indefatigable meticulous death


e.

deepest heart of my heart
heart that can only come from this soil
brave
with its teeth firmly in the jugular of the only truth that matters
and that heart is black
I belong to that blinding black African heart
my throat bloats with tears
my pen falls to the floor
I blubber behind my hand
for one brief shimmering moment this country
this country is also truly mine

and my heart is on its feet


f.

because of you
this country no longer lies
between us but within

it breathes becalmed
after being wounded
in its wondrous throat

in the cradle of my skull
it sings it ignites
my tongue my inner ear the cavity of heart
shudders towards the outline
new in soft intimate clicks and gutturals

I am changed for ever I want to say
forgive me
forgive me
forgive me

you whom I have wronged, please
take me

with you


g.

this body bereft
this blind tortured throat

the price of this country of death
is the size of a heart

grief comes so lonely
as the voices of the anguished drown on the wind

you do not lie down
you open up a pathway with slow sad steps
you cut me loose

into light - lovelier, lighter and braver than song
may I hold you my sister
in this warm fragile unfolding of the word humane


h.

what does one do with the old
which already robustly stinks with the new
the old virus slyly manning the newly installed valves
how does one recognise the old
with its racism and slime
its unchanging possessive pronoun
what is the past tense of the word hate
what is the symptom of brutalised blood
of pain that did not want to become language
of pain that could not become language

what does one do with the old
how do you become yourself among others
how do you become whole
how do you get released into understanding
how do you make good
how do you cut clean
how close can the tongue tilt to tenderness
or the cheek to forgiveness?

a moment
a line which says: from this point onwards
it is going to sound differently
because all our words lie next to one another on the table now
shivering in the colour of human
we know each other well
each other's scalp and smell each other's blood
we know the deepest sound of each other's kidneys in the night
we are slowly each other
anew
new
and here it starts


i.

(but if the old is not guilty
does not confess
then of course the new can also not not be guilty
nor be held accountable
if it repeats the old

things may then continue as before
but in a different shade)
...

dat ek na julle toe terugkom
moeg en sonder herinnering
dat die kombuisdeur oop is ek

inskuifel met tasse haastige presente
in die gange sluip rond my gesin
se verdrieteige drome ruite aangepak

van hulle verlate taal in die harde
badkamerlig borsel ek my tande
druk ‘n pilletjie op my tong: Do.

dat ek verbyloop waar my dogter slaap
haar lakens netjies geplat onder haar ken
op die spieëltafel steier sywurms in goud getoom

dat ek my seuns verby kan kom
fronsend teen kussings aangevuis
hul onrugstige ondertone kneus deur die kamer

dat ek ‘n naghemp vroetel uit die laai
inglip in die donker skreef agter jou rug
dat die warmte na my oorvloei

maak my nog digter nog mens
in die hinderlaag van asem
sneuwel ek tot vrou.
...

that I come back to you
tired and without memory
that the kitchen door is open I

shuffle in with suitcases hurriedly bought presents
my family's distressed dreams
slink down the corridor the windows stained

with their abandoned language in the hard
bathroom light I brush my teeth
put a pill on my tongue: Thur

that I walk past where my daughter sleeps
her sheet neatly folded beneath her chin
on the dressing table silkworms rear in gold

that I can pass my sons
frowning like fists against their pillows
their restless undertones bruise the room

that I can rummage a nightie from the drawer
slip into the dark slit behind your back
that the warmth flows across to me

makes me neither poet nor human
in the ambush of breath
I die into woman
...

my liefdeswoorde raak yler as die geluid van sering
my taal twisserig
verbyster en verteder voel ek my deur jou verbete vegtery

jy hou my vas nog altyd soos niemand nie
jy kies my kant nog altyd soos niemand nie
teen jou borskas belieg en bely ek
jy jag my elke gebaar
jy haal my oral in
jy trek my neer tussen bos en gras
in die voetpad keer jy my om
dat ek jou in die oë moet kyk
jy skop my in die eiers
jy ratel my aan die nekvel
jy hou my, piel in die rug, op die straight en narrow
...

my words of love grow more tenuous than the sound of lilac
my language frayed
dazed and softened I feel myself through your stubborn struggle

you still hold me close like no-one else
you still choose my side like no-one else
against your chest I lie and I confess
you hunt my every gesture
you catch up with me everywhere
you pull me down between bush and grass
on the footpath you turn me around
so that I must look you in the eye
you kick me in the testicles
you shake me by the skin of my neck
you hold me, prick in the back, on the straight and narrow
...

(dit is die bloukraanvoël se storie wat hy sing; hy sing van sy skouer, dat die bessies van die krieboom (kareeboom) op sy skouer is; hy loop terwyl hy sing:)
I

die bessies is op my skouer
die bessies is op my skouer
die bessies, dis op my skouer
die bessies is op my skouer
die bessies is hier, bó (op my skouer)
Rrrú is hier bo
die bessies is hier bó
rrrú is hier bó
is hier bó
die bessies rrú is gebêre (op my skouer)


II

(terwyl hy vir 'n mens weghardloop)
'n splinter van klip wat wit is
'n splinter van klip wat wit is
'n splinter van klip wat wit is


III

(terwyl hy stadig loop, rustig en in vrede loop)
'n wit klip splinter
'n wit klip splinter

IV

(as hy sy vlerke klap)
skraap (die springbokvel vir) 'n bed
skraap (die springbokvel vir) 'n bed
Rrrrú rrra
Rrrú rrra
Rrú rra
...

(//Kabbo sings the blue crane's story; he sings over his shoulder that the berries of the karee tree are on his shoulder; he sings as he walks)
I

the berries are on my shoulder
the berries are on my shoulder
the berries, they're on my shoulder
the berries are on my shoulder
the berries are here, above (on my shoulder)
Rrrú is here above
the berries are here above
rrrú is here above
is here above
the berries rrú are safe (on my shoulder)


II

(while he is running away from someone)
a splinter of stone that's white
a splinter of stone that's white
a splinter of stone that's white


III

(while he is walking slowly, calmly and at a steady pace)
a white stone splinters
a white stone splinters

IV

(when he flaps his wings)
scrape (the springbok for) a bed
scrape (the springbok for) a bed
Rrrrú rrra
Rrrú rrra
Rrú rra
...

Susara Domroch van Kubus
‘nee Oupa Mandela vir hom stem ek
hoekom is om Nama te wees vandag om iets te wees?
omdat ons nou ons eie woord is
onder die ou regerings was ons hulle woord
oor jarre is ons uitgedryf na die bar plekke
Kleurling Reserves
ons was niks
maar vandag is ons iets
en dis hy, daai Ouman Mandela, dis hy
nee Mandela-goed het my stem gekry'

Kubus se kerk staan wit teen die kwartsiet lug
en stoot stem teen die rante uit
‘o God blaas en bloei u liefde oor ons,'
sê oom Adam
hand op die hart sing die gemeente
‘ja Jessus is 'n rots
in 'n dorr-stigge land
'n dorr-stigge land
'n dorr-stigge land'
‘U is soos wasem vir my
Hiesus Hie-ie-ie-sus'
Kubus háng aan die rante van Rosyntjieberg

dit vra baie God om hier te hou

Mev Farmer van Eksteenfontein
‘ek's mos vreeslik vás aan vee
'n huis is vir my niks
maar die ope veld
ek het grootgeraak so in die ope veld
in 'n ronde huisietjie
toe ons hier kom, reën dit
en die gousblomme staat so hoog
as ek hurk sit ek onder 'n blommevloer
daarvandaan het ek die plek aangeneem
dat ek hom nounog liefhet
vir die aard
vir die veld'
...

Susara Domroch of Kubus
‘well I'll vote for Grandpa Mandela
why is it that you're someone these days if you're Nama?
because we're now our own word
under the old governments we were their word
for many years we were driven to the barren places
Coloured Reserves
we were nothing
but today we're something
and it's him, that Granddad Mandela, it's him
no, Mandela's lot have got my vote'

the church in Kubus stands white against the quartzite sky
and echoes its voice among the ridges
‘o God blow and bloom your love for us'
says Uncle Adam
the congregation sing with their hands on their hearts
‘yes Jesus is a rock
in a thi-ir-sty land
a thi-ir-sty land
a thi-ir-sty land
you are like breath to me
Je-sus Je-ee-ee-sus'
Kubus hangs on the edge of Raisin Mountain

God it takes a lot to survive out here

Mrs Farmer of Eksteensfontein
‘I'm just very attached to cattle
a house isn't for me
but the open country
I grew up like this in the open country
in a little round house
when we came here it was raining
and the marigolds were growing high
when I squatted I sat under a floor of flowers
so I made a place of my own
that I still love
for the earth
for the country'
...

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
...

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
...

(fragment)
die sterre vat jou hart
want die sterre is vir jou nie bietjie honger nie!
die sterre verruil jou hart vir 'n ster se hart
die sterre vat jou hart en voer jou 'n ster se hart
dan word jy nooit weer honger nie

want die sterre sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!'
en die boesmans sê die sterre vervloek die springbok se oë
die sterre sê: ‘Tsau!' hulle sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!'
hulle vloek die springbok se oë
ek het groot geword luisterend na die sterre
die sterre sê: ‘Tsau! Tsau!'

dis altyd somer wanneer jy die sterre hoor Tsau-sê
...