Hierdie is die LitNet-argief (2006–2012)
Besoek die aktiewe LitNet-platform by www.litnet.co.za

This is the LitNet archive (2006–2012)
Visit the active LitNet platform at www.litnet.co.za

Nuwe skryfwerk | New writing > Poësie | Poetry > English


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When they hit 49
Tinus Horn - 2009-12-03

History of Art in 48 seconds
Tinus Horn - 2009-12-03
Michelangelo’s Dave was a murderous knave an adulterous killing machine with a faraway stare an imperial air and a willy the size of a bean. “In with the new and out with the rigid!” shouts a fuck-ugly midget who struts on ridiculous legs there’s Pollock the dripper! (but Warhol was hipper) And Bacon? I’ll have mine with eggs. Someone called the police for Derain and Matisse who smothered their lovers in green as...

Hypertext Poetry Competition: Bloody Brothers
Trohan Bekker - 2009-12-02
ever hungry bloated bellies food, money, not hence needed but narcotic/necessary hollow men and solid tellies and on every corner a sort of shady apothecary selling seedless stimulation; an aristocrat sits still at the bread-filled table master and slave in consummation for the bread’s only through proletariat hands able abundance of one, dearth of other yes two, who only through destruction of our mother seem at all the same – both death’s closest lover who...

Rake this
Gérard Rudolf - 2009-11-19
I wrote:Happy 1st birthday to the kid!Love,G.It took you five days to reply: Happy day! One year in the world! Climbs the stairs. Walks like a drunk. Terrorises the cats. Speaks fluent Mandarin.Love, C. Mandarin? I play with the word: Man-da-rin, Roll it around like a marble in my palm,Put it in my mouth; let it loiter on my tongue.I return to your reply to look for clues between the lines:Three simple lines like a neatly raked tomato patch.Not a single stone for turning...

Last days of the Comeback Kid
Gérard Rudolf - 2009-11-19
During the last months, they said, the Comeback Kid stopped reading newspapers, left them untouched and neatly folded next to his easy chair like a pile of fresh tablecloths. They said, during the last weeks, the Comeback Kid lost all interest in hunger and thirst, ignored sustenance as if he was a holy man fasting for insight. They said he lost all sense of place, time, space, that he became a drifter, a man adrift, flotsam. During the last days, they said, the Comeback Kid slept almost nothing,...

Emily melting
Gérard Rudolf - 2009-11-19
me through the back window of the car just looking at her her rich soil & soap smell still on my shirt finallythis is poor memory –i am alone in that car a boy fivedriving itself down that streetfor the final time no steadfast father behind the black wheel no mother with hands sewn together in her lap like nothing they can do no brother who points at things and saysi spy ... no crying babe-in-arms...

Hypertext Poetry Competition: We two boys together clinging
Alfred Kruger - 2009-11-19
“We two boys together clinging”Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. We two boys together clinging,One the other never leaving,Up and down the roads going – North and South excursions making,Power enjoying – elbows stretching – fingers clutching,Arm’d and fearless – eating, drinking, sleeping, loving, No law less than ourselves owning – sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,Misers, menials, priests alarming – air breathing,...

Hypertext Poetry Competition: anthony
Mareli Claassens - 2009-11-12

Hypertext Poetry Competition: Pop goes pop icon
Chris Brunette - 2009-11-05
Rumour has it that Death was waiting at your bed with a palmful of pills which you popped like an icon - with your pinstriped lips and hollow cheeks pinched wax nose left to dry eyes dark as liner, jacket and hat black as umbrella armband and socks white as gloves bump and grind hot as crotch tights and shoes pointed like a moonwalk and then you grew tired as pyjamasThe icon's gone poplike a palmful of cock<< Read more hypertext poems here << << Klik hier...

Hypertext Poetry Competition: i am! wrote this dead hand
Kwikfeeks - 2009-10-27
a pakicetus beached off the gulf of einsteinvomiting the johanson that cried hominid on to dry landthe fourth dog always denies any existence of a bone and for his longed knight in bloody armour opposition to enemies within are but genocides aparto great unseen one deliver us from science- another mental ward within the same institution —for soon sanity will be proclaimed malignantand even sense cannot be ignorant of its imminent endas infospheres supernova and the communiverse dissolves...

Obituary for Afrikaans
M Labuschagne - 2009-10-27

Madness unsurpassed
Thandy Nadine Mkhabela - 2009-10-26
Should have known in those cracked floorsCrayons and colors that fixed my beingBut she watched and she sawThat I am one burdened with madness unsurpassedOn that crooked desk I saw clearlyThe wings perched on the tiny beingTo fly beyond and beneath skies of sanityOf madness unsurpassedThere is only one that unleashedAnother followed and unchainedInspirational madness locked in these huts and dry riversFlowing in madness unsurpassedWon't you whisper to me, spirit beautiful The works and joys bestowed...

Affirmative shopper
Kwikfeeks - 2009-09-18

Sarah Frost - 2009-09-16
From this balcony I watch the sea below rolling in sad as a mother, the heft of the waves coarser than Umdloti beach sand, and the sky, a power kite of startling yellow, pulling me into turbulence. Last afternoon, after I read my poems to bleak-faced judges, I walked with a man who pointed to wood rings in the vulva of a stump. I saw the likeness of a laptop camera, capturing my image. He kisses my mouth, and my other mouth, as if it were a map of the world, pushing into its contours with...

Affirmative shopper
Kwikfeeks - 2009-09-16

The orphan
Abigail George - 2009-09-04
The world does not acknowledge you as a citizen An orphan caught in a terrifying death grip I am sickened by your slender limbs, your face Your belly flapping, your country's suffering; Your hunger is diminished; in your eyes there remains A pool of emptiness, your innocent eyes. The air is crackling with feverish tension Then still and blue; your life has vanished in an instant At last I am compelled to speak for you, to breathe The state of my heart is not unlike yours - a...

Abigail George - 2009-09-04
I am one of Sylvia Plath’s ghosts – Do you remember them at all? The ghost of all writers and poets Their imprint is burned on my brain A human stain given breeding and recognition Bred amongst familiarity and contempt Not for lack of knowledge, lack of a more Worthwhile and happier existence I have searched my entire life for. I am a miracle – it came from childhood. I lived at high speed lost in you. Brave and suave is the hero in love The heroine marked...

The mirror
Abigail George - 2009-09-04
I am hollow like a husk of yellow wheat Unlike the sun I am not golden – I do not glow I do not vanish with a flair and vain retreat I am unaccustomed to having my features Appraised in this way. You think I am worthy – you delighted in my company At first and became sickened at my desire to be Deemed lovely and perfect in all extremes I shadowed you, foolishly you allowed me to. I am not in love with you. This figure cast in glittering ice and stone, This figure that...

The missionary
Abigail George - 2009-09-04
I have always been scared of you Until the day I began to talk like you, Think like you, walking like you do The folds are like itchy silk at first The embrace unbearable, uncomfortable, rare Then smooth, a slippery, mossy and gentle Second skin that I awaken and bring to life Like the husky tones of an African tongue When it is not your first language The folds are dense and stirring within me Enough to distraction to make my path straight. Until you become self-conscious of...

The funny man at social services
Abigail George - 2009-09-04
I do not know his name, his rank, or his serial number, The man stood at the door, waving his arms like a traffic cop To ask me whether or not he should escort me Softly smiling at his childish delight, my horror turned Inwardly to shame for him, on him, this bully, this tyrant, Authority figure, this funny, short, feebleminded man At social services, no doubt he finished school, perhaps his life Was missing haunting dreams, goals, the memory of all that I laughed inwardly, my hand...

It has not been swift
Esther van der Vyver - 2009-08-27

And what of beauty?
Esther van der Vyver - 2009-08-27
And what of beauty? The turn of the cheek The river of hair Breasts cupped and adored The biblical proportion of the hips What of all these pieces? Together they cannot be made To fit They are always too small For the palm of the hand The reassurance of rain The silver tongue of the street. Like a gambler your dice are smooth You have only the finger bones Of your hands And your downcast eyes Your mouth full of words That you darken with secrecy With your smiling intent Rain falls...

Esther van der Vyver - 2009-08-24

Esther van der Vyver - 2009-08-24

Esther van der Vyver - 2009-08-20
To stuff your little papers into the chinks between the stones. Not to wail out loud into the air but silently, folded, discreet. This is the daily prayer. This morning is a morning for poetry. Sitting in the silvery the greenish water lapping with words. Suicidal oh time is suicidal its murders itself on me the door to your house lies destroyed and the bed and those books who knows where they are and even this body is not the same body not at all that...

Lucas Ledwaba - 2009-07-29
It's August yet again The mysterious winds of the gods Will sweep through the land and Like an upturned waterfall in the sacred gorges of Limpopo So will the dust swirl through the dry air It's August again Is this not the same month that man and beast alike marvelled at the sweet innocence of your birth cry in the land of Ga-Mapangula those many moons past? August, windy August when wind, tree and grass join forces in harmonious orchestra to celebrate life when thunder...

Himeville Museum
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-07-29
I politely ignore the curator, His resonating words a foreign language. I want to feel this timeless place; let it inch over my skin. Shadows (without definition) on the walls; Soft, like the souls that once inhabited them. The passage-dressed military style; in old jackets With blazing medallions; kudu horns stand guard. I wander from room to room, to touch the curves of iron; The lace that strokes aged windowsills. And in the outside rooms, the long verandah places, Stand bone...

Sarah Frost - 2009-07-22
The French plait of afternoon hours rests soft, summery against her nape, yet the grown daughter in the lee of her parents’ house is a plangent bell, its tongue the weft of memory. She sits outside on the kitchen steps, mouth warm with tea, and observes the genteel intricacies of the English garden, fine-petalled lobelia purpling under daisies, roses that hang lissom from brittle stems, the complexity of peonies. But, the grass is a wilderness, and the trees beyond the stone...

Have you ever danced with the devil in the plain moonlight?
Fanus Rautenbach - 2009-07-22
Have you ever danced with the devil in the plain moonlight? Have you ever kissed a witch in the dark of the night? Have you ever fondled a fairy? Tell me it’s true And I’ll tell you about my love For little Boy Blue. Have you read and reread The Lord of the Rings? Have you ever listened to Harry Potter and the crow that sings? Have you liked Terry Pratchett And other bullshit too And I’ll tell you about my love For little Boy Blue. Have you ever been loved by Big Billy...

Fanus Rautenbach - 2009-07-22

Fanus Rautenbach - 2009-07-22

Gail Dendy - 2009-07-15
A moon the colour of pearl. My small son reaches towards it, the window so far open that I’m afraid he’ll fall, afraid the garden below will rush headlong towards him with unbearable speed, the hibiscus flowers in their white gowns, spinning, crane flowers and their clumpy chatter, the pittisporum waving shy green fans and the bottlebrush with its reddish candles as though a dozen meteors had travelled half the universe before burning themselves to nothing....

The apprentice
Gail Dendy - 2009-07-15
I moistened the clod of earth with my bare hands and felt how it slopped and slithered as I fashioned a figure almost complete, but still reliant on something else: the right temperature, a jolt of energy, the perfect heartbeat. Then with the breath from my nostrils I made a howling wind, and I tipped the sun so close to the pine trees that they all exploded. Not a good start, I admit. But this was the prelude to the Sabbath, so I broke off a branch...

Teenage suicide
Gail Dendy - 2009-07-15
I can handle the silence. I can find my way in the dark. I can be in two places at once if I like. People don’t know I’m a genius. I do maths all in my brain. I’m better than a computer and I know more tunes than an i-Pod’s got. I could’ve been a famous musician. And boy, can I dance and sing. Soon, everyone’ll know my name. I’ll have thousands of Facebook friends. People queueing just to take a look, wish they all had...

Moment of Love
Hanni van den Heever - 2009-07-15

Werner Botes - 2009-07-15
Feel it: the succinct sounds of the murmur: the earth opening her mouth to swallow a daughter. She is hungry for the bones the blood crying from the ground (He hears it loud and clear.) The mighty procession moving down the mountain: the plumage blinding in the winter sun. We are standing on Pride Rock in awe of death’s victory. The king of beasts said: “Hear ye, Hear ye Pompadour – that trumpet will land you in trouble: ...

For sale
Cecilia Ferreira - 2009-07-08

Blue lady
Cecilia Ferreira - 2009-07-08

Blank page
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-07-08

Mandy Mitchells - 2009-07-08

I woke up tired
I woke upToo tired to break up the windowpaneToo tired to look behind thingsToo tired to shout or to callToo tired to be ambitious Too tired to meditate and to think about my historyToo tired to masturbate Too tired to vomit Too tired to eat from dustbinsToo tired to talk about somebody's mother's whore-like lifestyleToo tired to tell the world about my conditionsToo tired to go to the archivesTo delve through piles of documents seeking for some other people's historyI woke up too tired...

Unless you know me

Like a girl
Zolani Kupe - 2009-06-26
Like a girl whose feet are bleeding and swollen From walking a long, Long distance to school Like a girl who pants in pangs and pains Because she works tirelessly Doing this and that You know these domestic chores. Like a girl whose clitoris is protruding Not because she is longing for the stick But because someone has forced himself into her Like a girl whose genitalia leak blood Not because she is in "time" But because she has been raped Like a girl who sings alone...

Zolani Kupe - 2009-06-26
Hintsa the great ruler once danced in this land He once told the settlers to fuck offHe once wagged his finger at the whitesYou have come to steal my land bastards he told themHe once called his subjects and sat them around the hearth And said to them: You must never trust those bastards He once rode his horse and went to townAnd told the magistrate: White colonisers are thievesThey steal my land; they steal my flock of sheepThey steal my herd of cattleAnd they will steal my people And it is when...

Sarah Frost - 2009-06-24

in loving memory
Gerald Erasmus - 2009-06-24

This side of the bay
Sarah Frost - 2009-06-09
- for Bryan Sunday morning, I distort. A plant deprived of light etiolates. The wintry sky arcs blue, cold as an unseeing eye, palimpsest of Sundays years ago, the child left alone, alone. You walk with us on the Durban promenade. The waves fall hard, far, there at the breakwater. On this side of the bay, the sea is quiet as a frightened girl. My child and yours ride bikes beneath the palms, while you tell me about your work with communities. A sand-dredger moves methodically...

I lie here in front of the fire
Esther van der Vyver - 2009-06-09
I lie here in front of the fire although I don’t want to I know I will get up and tidy the kitchen the flour and the plates the mess all I want to do is lie here the wood singing its green song oh my god I forgot to do homework the stew smells as if it’s done I am too tired to get up I am too heavy, too heavy to get up I think the girls are asleep swinging into their dreams like monkeys and I remember bits of philosophy random quotes that illuminate...

Blame Shifter
Werner Botes - 2009-06-09

Werner Botes - 2009-06-09

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