See
In Cannes se inham lê rykmansbote, ’n vloot gedwee
soos ligkastele, snoete raak weg in oksels van die see.
Jong lywe het hier verbygegaan, mekaar gesoen
dobberende borste, voete soos perlemoen.
Sy verkyk haar in Portofino aan die son se seine
en die akrobatiese vernuf van waaghalsige dolfyne.
Saans sink die son sonder takelwerk
maak wind op haar lyf onsigbaar ’n merk.
Sy moet my in die oog hou
en my styf teen haar vashou
voor ek – van alles gestroop –
op die rotse loop.

Aan flarde
Wind pluk engelvere in die beloofde land,
laat dit oor einders fladder tot waar die son sink.
Een waai hier teen ’n taaibos vas, land in my hand.
Ek streel die donse terug, doop die skagpunt in ink
en skryf vir jou op die netvlies van die nag.
Ek stuur vir jou ’n gedig toe sterre verskiet
en jy in jou drome se koelte op my wag,
verbyster oor hoe vinnig liefde kan vervliet.
My veerpendrif splyt skielik en laat skrik jou op:
jy vlug, jy wyk in die donker se noutes uit.
Ek soek jou asem. Bang-bang tril my hart se klop.
Rampspoed roer in als – wind, lot en vergetelheid.
En ek skeur die gedig aan flarde, om te vind:
Oral swerm daar pluksels vere in die wind.

Vere in die wind
Ek sien hoe jou brief, vere uit die wind se hand,
teen verrinneweerde taaibostakke vasvlieg.
Party reëls kom op ’n rivier se rug te land
en ander bly soos blare in die herfslug wieg.
In my drome gewaar ek flardes van ’n brief,
buig ek oor jou skeursels, vleg dit dan met ’n lint.
In elke vlegsel soek ek na jou naam, my lief,
maar liefde is ’n woord te vlugtig in die wind.
Deur skrewe van verbeel sien ek jou sinne skryf,
hoor ek jou liefde op velle papier fluister.
Terwyl die maan buite op ’n donker meer dryf,
sterre halfmas hang, wil ek na jou stem luister.
Ek verlang ’n brief – verlang jou brief, jou asem.
My woorde slaan teen jou omtrek aan soos wasem.

Wingerde van Arles
Die wingerde van Arles
slinger teen steiltes op.
Landerye staan in ligte laaie,
oral slaan hitte
koors op vrouelywe uit.
Dié vlammende engele
hurk in blou rokke
geel oranje rooi.
Korrels breek oop, druppels
bloed op die grond.
Rawe swerm oor stoppels,
gewaar ’n skilder.
Met haptiese hale
swerf hy in ’n ander land.
Hy wil die stemme
in sy kop smoor,
daar was nie ’n sagte hand
om hom te laat swyg nie.
Daar was net die pêreling
van warm bloed op droë vel,
dik pigment op doek.

Kate Moss
Naked Portrait 2002 – Lucian Freud

Oë kleef aan die amper klam verf
op Kate Moss se vliesdun, broos vel,
die palet van naaktheid op klip.
Die kop stut op haar linkervlerk,
die regter skimperig agter
heup en boud; die linkerbeen kruip
diep onder die regterknie in.
Die liturgie van liggaam-wees
berei haar tuin van soet wyding,
weivelde en waters van rus.
Diep in die verbeelding roer sy
haar lyf, ligweg, vlugtig, fetaal.
Jonges arriveer, swymelend
voor relikte vir huid en haar.

Nag
Na ’n gedig van Jim Morrison

Die nag is nog jonk
& vol gloed en vonk.
Sy dra ’n gesplete rok
om índruk uit te lok.
Sy wag vir ’n soete inval
& braak intussen gal.
Sy’s daar vir jou pure plesier
om doodsnikke te vier.
Die nag is afgeleef en oud
& jy kry bibberboud.

Die stilte lek
Die stilte lek deur mure se krake
en woorde dryf soos ink
in die reën
straataf.
Die wind jaag skadu’s
en ons twee
bibber van kil gedagtes.
Ons is stom soos ikone
in ’n kerk op ’n Maandag.
My woorde vloei soos ink
in die reën
straataf
jou stilte lek deur mure se krake.
Vir ons is die stilte aan die muur.

Sea
Rich men’s yachts bob in the cove of Cannes, a fleet set free,
castles of light, their snouts in the armpits of the sea.
Young bodies pass by here, kisses unfurl,
breasts like buoys, feet like mother of pearl.
In Portofino, the dolphins’ reckless, acrobatic pluck,
the play of light, fill her with a sense of luck.
In the evening, as the sun sinks free of yachts’ tackle,
the wind marks her body, an invisible shackle.
She must keep me reined in,
hold me tight against her skin
before I – stripped to the bone –
wash up on the rocks, alone

To pieces
Wind plucks angel feathers from a promised land,
lets them flutter across horizons, the sun’s brink.
One blows up against the scrub, finds my hand.
I stroke back the feathers and dip the quill in ink.
And so I write to you on the retina of night.
I write you a poem as stars fall out of the sky
and you await me in the shade of dreamy light,
agape at how quickly love can flicker and die.
But my quill falters. You awake in shock so sharp
you take flight through night’s narrow gate.
I seek your breath, terror beating at my heart
as disaster stirs in the winds, the voids of fate.
I rip the poem to pieces, only then to stare:
feathers swarming in the windblown air.

Feathers in the wind
I watch as your letter, feathers torn from wind’s grip
snags on the gaunt taaibos, its unruly hair.
Some lines come to land on a river’s lip.
Others, like leaves, hover in the autumn air.
In my dreams I see the tatters of a letter.
I bend over and ribbon together the bits.
In every braid, I seek your name, love’s fetter
but love is a word that flies on the wind like riffs.
Through serifs of vision I see you writing lines.
I hear your love whispering on sheets of paper.
The moon drifts on a lake of darkened vines,
the stars pale. I long for your breath, a rapier.
I seek out your body’s lettering as if in a haze.
My words fall like vapour off your absent gaze.

Red vineyards of Arles
The vineyards of Arles
sprawl up the slope.
The lands are aflame.
Everywhere you look, heat.
Women’s bodies break into fever,
bent over in purple,
these flaming angels,
yellow orange red.
Grapes burst, leaching
blood onto the ground.
Ravens swarm above the stubble.
A painter enters the picture.
With flaming flourishes
he roams another land.
These voices in his head
he wishes he could smother,
no soft or gentle hand
brings silence down upon him.
Only the beading of hot blood
on dry skin,
thick pigment on canvas.

Kate Moss
Naked Portrait 2002 – Lucian Freud

Eyes cling to the muddy paint,
Kate Moss’s mortal skin, a caul,
palette of bare flesh on rock.
Head angled onto left shoulder,
the right a quiet dare
behind hip and buttock; left foot
snuck in under right knee.
Liturgy of body & being
preparing the sweet bed of nurture,
meadow and stream of repose.
In deep imagination she shifts
her body light & quick, foetal.
Little ones arrive, a giddy swarm
before this reliquary, body & flesh.

Night
After a poem by Jim Morrison

The night is young, dark,
filled with gleam & spark.
She wears a cutaway dress
so obviously to impress.
She waits for a sweet invasion
yet still spoils the occasion.
She’s there purely for your pleasure
to celebrate death’s dirty measure.
The night is tattered and old
& now you’re shivering with cold.

The silence leaks
The silence leaks through the wall, its cracks
and words, like ink in the rain,
streak the streets.
The two of us
shiver from the chill
of our thoughts.
Wind blows away the shadows.
We are as mute as icons in a church
on a Monday morning.
My words flow like ink
down the streets
blotting the rain.
Your silence leaks through the wall’s cracks.
The wall of our silence.