Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Ingrid Jonker / Freda Linde

Ingrid Jonker (1933 - 1965)


Stroomgebied
Freda Linde (1915-2013)

Hoe saggies gésel my die Juliereën
hoe gésel my die reën
deur oop neonstrate sonder ‘n boodskap
van die dag wat nooit gewees het nie:

‘n Halwe nag kon dag gebring het.
So naby kon die dag begin het
net tien treë oor die donker perk.

 – Selfs tien treë nie.
Nie vir al die die roem en luister nie.
Nie ‘n woord, ‘n roep, ‘n fluisterinkie.

Jy het nog sluwer weggeglip
as hul beloftes soos rookringe.
Maar hoe kon jy die klein dingetjies agterlaat
jou kind se skoentjies onder my bed
en êrens – waar? – jou oker trui
verweerd en sag soos die daeraad?

En die slytige kindjie van die skoentjies –
het jy geweet sy sou gaan
onverleë soos ‘n kind
op blinker voetjies . . .
Maar dié stukkende skoentjies?

Daar was ‘n dag toe iemand kortaf was
(en jy so windverwaaid in die straat)
en ‘n nag het gekom toe al die stemme stil was
in hul onwetende stil verraad

maar die klein dingetjies het jou niks gemaak nie
en roep nog onophoudelik na jou
skuldloos en klein, verlore, verniet:
die nederige glas met die blom van jou lippe
en die leë parfuumbotteltjies
en die getroue sleutel van jou deur.
Sleutels slyt af en vergeet maar hierdie een
het kort gelede nog in jou koorsige palm gelê.

Stroomgebied, droomgebied, ebvloed
skuif sag oor die rimpelende grense.
Oorsuis die gespitste stiltes.

As die verkeer ophou en die mense
spoel jou maatslag oor die stil balkonne
Stroomgebied, droomgebied,
sus jy die weerlose wens.
“Verdrinken is vergeten worden en vergeven.
“Is dit nie vir jou mooi nie –
“vergeten worden en vergeven?
“Het is een oud, zeer heimwee overwinnen.”
…         …
In die nanag hoor ek nog die Juliereën
wis ek hoe die vog vergader om die koue steen.

*

Undercurrent
Freda Linde

How gently the July rain chastises me
how the rain chastises me
through empty neon streets without a message
from the day that has never been:

Half a night would have brought the day.
So close the day could have begun
just ten steps across the dark lawn.

– Not even ten steps.
Not for all the fame and glamour.
Not a word, a call, a tiny whisper.

You slipped away even more slyly
than their promises like smoke rings.
But how could you leave behind the little things
your child’s tiny shoes under my bed
and somewhere – where? – your ochre sweater
well-worn and soft like dawn?

And the weathered child of the tiny shoes –
did you know that she would leave
unembarassed like a child
on spangled little feet…
But these broken little shoes?

There was a day when someone was abrupt
(and you so wind-blown in the street)
and a night came when all the voices were silent
in their unknowing silent betrayal

but the little things did not upset you
and still call to you ceaselessly
blameless and small, lost, in vain:
the humble glass with the flower of your lips
and the empty perfume bottles
and the faithful key to your door.
Keys wear out and forget, but this one
until lately lay in your feverish palm.

River basin, domain of dreams, ebb tide
softly shifts across the rippling boundaries.
Drowns out the attentive silences.

When the traffic stops and the people
washes your beat from quiet balconies
river basin, domain of dreams,
you hush the defenceless desire.
“Drowning is to be forgotten and forgiven.
“Isn’t it beautiful –
“Forgotten and forgiven?
It is vanquishing an old, aching grief.”

In the small hours of night I still hear the July rain
and know the chilly damp that settles on the stone.

(Tr. by Johann de Lange)


Freda Linde (1915-2013)