africa rides a bicycle

Her ankles elegantly crossed, her spine upright
Frelimo skirt flaps bright reds, yellows, proud liberty
Sitting behind her husband she faces east, he peddles south
Nursing their baby rocking at her breast they travel to the market
Carrying an empty plastic can for 5 litres of kerosene to light their lantern tonight

His pearled brow squints against the sun with every stride
Korean trucks stir dust toward the morphing road works
Tied to his metal stallion he returns to his children with this catch
Tiger fish from the Rio Reveu for sale to ladies carrying bundles on their heads
Smiling to tourist cameras, surprised by a hand full of Metticais, shouting:gracis Deus

His legs barely reach the ground on his father’s steel chariot
Negotiating peak-traffic in Chimoio, he weaves across paved arteries of humanity
Slowing down in front of our parked cars, he pulls in behind the other bike
He’s early too, thirty minutes at least before the pump-attendant shows up
Two ten year olds, patiently in a grown-up life at five’o clock in Mozambique

joy wat wyk

vanoggend was ek swanger
twee maande ver
vanmiddag is ek nie
vroeë bloed onheilspellend
vreemde doktervingers vroetel

“piepie asseblief weer in die bekertjie, mevrou…
…dit is mevrou, nê?”
urine sê “ja”
sonar sê “nee”
verwys na die en dan na daai
ek ryg deur groue grys gange wat eggo as ek loop
verdwaal in die buise of dalk ‘n gewas?
die gyne se oë kyk myne mis
drie steteskope bondel om my baarmoeder
“ek sien dan niks nie, mis ek iets?”

terug op die plastiek laken met my bene oop
sneeu lê ge-ys op die pieke deur die venster
koue jellie bied min verligting
alles skeur
sy’s weg
of was dit dalk ‘n laaitie?
my menswees verdwyn in ‘n silver bakkie
weggespoel oppad rioolplaas toe

Wie maak die berge wat om Ceres troon?
Wie besluit of ek mag ma wees of nie?
Wie laat die varkore langs die vrugteboorde blom?
Ag Jirre, my hart en lyf is stukkend!

(vir Joy Van Wyk op 7 Augustus 2006)

departing joy

this morning I was pregnant
two months along
this afternoon I am not
premature blood bad premonition
foreign doctor-fingers fidget

“please wee in this little cup for us, Mrs…
…it is Mrs, isn’t it?”
urine says “yes”
sonar says ”no”
referred to here and then to there
I weave down dreary hallways that echo when I walk
lost in the tubes or perhaps a tumour?
the gyne’s eyes avoid mine
three stereoscopes convene around my womb
“I can’t see anything, am I missing something?”

back on the plastic sheet with my legs open
snow lie frozen on the peaks through the window
cold jelly provide little comfort
everything tears
she’s gone
or was perhaps a son?
my humanity disappears in a silver kidney bowl
washed away toward the sewerage yard

Who makes the mountains that reign around Ceres?
Who decides if I may mother a child?
Who allows the wild flowers to grow next to the orchards?
Oh God, my heart and body is broken!

patat

Patat se hand hou myne vas
as ons saam verby die wingerde jaag
Ons loer na die son wat oor miswolke dans
dan volg ons weer die maan wat uit sy broek se sak wil val

Patat se spens hou wag in die nag
langs die Witzenberge swoeg hy as ander siele slaap
Smôrens ry hy zoep-zoep oor die dorp se rivier
na waar rye mense langs Namakwa-Daisies vir hom wag

Patat se hart is so diep soos die hemel
met miljoene sterre wat vir siek kindertjies brand
Met sy glimlagte en inkleurboekpersente
hou hy einas en erge uiteindes so lank as moontlik weg

Patat se oog sien mooigoed raak
waar sneeuklokkies teen die winterreëns buig
Hy verf sy spoke en drome teen groot doeke vas
maar verberg dit onder sy wasgoed en onoopgemaakte pos

Patat se skouers hou myne regop en sterk
as my rugstring wil knak en my moed begin sak
Saam hoop ons vir genade en nog sonskyn in die môre
want Hy hou ons gipsbesmeerde hande elke oomblik in Syne vas