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)