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


 
Nuwe skryfwerk | New writing > Poësie | Poetry > English > Published poets

Published poets


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When the Priest Preaches
Angifi Dladla - 2010-10-13
When the Priest Preaches When the priest preaches hell, he always revives that holiday our school visited the abattoir. Little boys in short pants, little girls in long dresses – all with pens and notebooks. Teachers at the sides, senior teachers at the back; headmaster leading to the place of slaughter. Between the stench of blood and praises of knives, cries of animals unsettle our virgin heartbeats. In corridors of steel, men goad, shove forward dementedly – live carcasses...

notes on jade mccutcheon’s lecture
Anton Krueger - 2010-10-07
notes on jade mccutcheon’s lecturejade mccutcheon seems frail, as though she’s growing more ephemeral, as if she’s letting her self go ... jade mccutcheon says selves can’t be separated the idea of my self and your self is false, because there is only one self ... she says peter brook wants connections between audience & actors – a single vibration, the performance of self beyond the material: we are all the same here in this room. jade mccutcheon says...

schreckliche schnheit
Anton Krueger - 2010-10-07


red-winged starlings
Toast Coetzer - 2010-09-28


Christ re-entering Cape Town
Gérard Rudolf - 2010-02-10
He was taller than I imagined. ● He looked fit and lean, holding Winnie’s hand, waving at the crowd with the other. ● New suit. Crisp shirt. Tie. ● A hot day. ● Sunday. Blistering. ● A no-man’s land wedged between past and future. ● He looked like everybody’s grandfather, didn’t he? ● We watched on TV as his motorcade snaked towards the city. ● People lined the highway all the way from Paarl into town. ● They cheered and laughed...

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: 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...

Obituary for Afrikaans
M Labuschagne - 2009-10-27


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...

Remembering
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...

Marie-Antoinette
Fanus Rautenbach - 2009-07-22


Cleopatra
Fanus Rautenbach - 2009-07-22


Meditation
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...

Blank page
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-07-08


Always
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-07-08


Day
Sarah Frost - 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...

Circles
Gail Dendy - 2009-05-20


Lightning
Gail Dendy - 2009-05-20


Café Neo
Sarah Frost - 2009-05-20
So there we sat on the deck of the Café Neo, two red-winged starlings showing up, and the mist rolling in from the rocks across the way. I pushed my bag, ready to spill its fullness, under my spindly chrome chair so that it could give nothing away. You showed me your website, brimming with complexities, awkwardly brushing dust from the laptop screen. I held the Windhoek lager coolly erect in my hand. Your green eyes sized me up. The combative clink of bottle necks. ...

Language
Marius Crous - 2009-04-16
Language1 1let us pray together in a languagethat has the sins within itof tortured teenagers maimed mothershanged husbands servile security policemena language that never wanted to be humaneon the pulpits in lecture halls in classroomsnewspapersnever wanted to cry out against injusticelet it be purifiedmake it a language of mercystripped bare and sublimethat speaks of wrongs in the time of skullsset it free like a victimtied to a chair against his willsomewhere in some dark office towerso that...

Charles B
Gillian Schutte - 2009-04-09
I am no longer afraid of the me that resides In you Or the you that resides In me You are a fat whore and I am a bum with a way with words We can throw our discontentTogether Against the fetid walls ofOur existenceAnd then get lost in messy sex Finding ourselves Old and still fighting in grimy sheets We'll Fight and fuck into the early hours For however long it lasts Coz nobody really cares Except our cat perhaps And that is only because she needs to be sure Where her next meal is coming from...

L is for ...
Gillian Schutte - 2009-04-09


Just
Gillian Schutte - 2009-04-09
I find it that much Easier To write About the dog poo On the shoe of myLife Than to write aboutyour spontaneousLaughterAnd the way it tickles me Pink When you find me funnyIt is easier to Hate The Paedophiles who have Populated My nightmaresAnd projected into my DreamsThan to write about the warm KissMy little boy planted On my cheekThis morning When he thought I wasAsleepI am more incensed by the Shouting ManNext door and theScreaming of His martyrThan I am by your CuttingOff Of my powerAnd the...

Poem – Boring (from things that bore me)
Gillian Schutte - 2009-04-09
I have no interest in yourMundane Political speechesYour narcissistic social Niceties as Bland as riceYou bore me silly with yourPettiness Tasteless expectations and Immutable argumentsAs stagnant as a month-end bank queueYou spew your thoughts at meIn the longhand of your angstAs if I have any interestIn the incessant Blow by blow account of Your life which isNothing more than a stringOf bad Relationships Tax Returns andImpossible sentimentalitiesAs poorly rendered as The late night show Please...

Untitled
Gillian Schutte - 2009-04-09


Day
Sarah Frost - 2009-03-11


I don’t look for you anymore!
Percy Mabandu - 2009-03-11
I don't look for you anymoreYour echo has left my wonderAnd your silhouette is not with every strangerYou are not in every distant laughterBecause I don't look for you anymoreMy sandwiches no longer have your handI love their flavour far from you And you're not in every flower's scentI stop and savour them safe from you Spiced potatoes and rice are an unlikely blendI'm home with other veggies and tofuAway from the taste of youMy records are mine againYour memory croons me no painSad...

Old man river
Percy Mabandu - 2009-03-11
(Read in 2006 at E'skia Mphahlele's birthday clelebration. Also used by Tutu Pouane in her forthcoming album.)Old man River knows my name.The odyssey of his flowing speaks of my joys and painsThe glitter in his blackness whispers unspoken hopes and menacing fearsTouching every spirited ear.He trickles and tumbles with a fragile silenceThat overwhelms and devours to sanctify.So that every rhyme from every blood lineThat holds a mic may shine his light. Old man River knows my name.The odyssey...

A poem for Lesedi (Four Seasons trumpeter)
Percy Mabandu - 2009-03-11
Rhythm child of my daySurfing brass lyric into a hip swaggerThe proud sound of our rested fathersYou dance us into a multicolour scamperThe sound swirl of singing sagesYou are the soil's son of our agesWail us a willing song into the windBe my willing wizard with a metallic limbSlaying us a demon for love's reasonWith a slithering sermon of the 5th seasonBecause "Four" can be a lousy prisonTo pilgrims in search of an extra auditory prismHere we are jazzed into a bouquet of song...

Redemption
Sarah Frost - 2009-02-25
No false redemption here. My words are not to win you. They are not even to convince you I have talent. A sea of women's faces look up from the anthology cover, but it is mine I seek; the small trusting girl, smiling through sadness from behind glass – just a photograph on a dressing table now. I want to find that girl, who is not lost, who lives in me still, who speaks through this poem. This night, rain dripping like tears from the eaves and my...

Muse
Sarah Frost - 2009-02-25
"When I was young I misunderstood The Muse. Now I am older and wiser, I can be glad of her As one is glad of the light." May Sarton My muse is a dark man, Vermeer’s Centurion, print hanging harrowed behind a door, sterner than Celtis Milbraedae trees looming across the windscreen as I drive past Pigeon Valley, night air a tumult in my hair. My muse is a failure I must move beyond: primal, this severing from a tormentor, too close. I follow the stranger walking...

Glimpse
Sarah Frost - 2009-02-25
At the dam that Christmas day the father takes a digital photograph, and shows it to her, offering a rare view of tenderness. The boy combing out his mother’s hair as she throws her head back, glossy as a sunbird and laughs. Later, they walk to the valley’s edge and it’s her turn with the camera. Wild fuchsia frames the father, a stoic Buddha, cross-legged on a rock, boy in lap, staring down the wind. They tell him the story of how the valley was formed: years...

Looking away
Sarah Frost - 2009-02-25
From a window she stares out to sea as thirty-three and a half years ago she focused on the pillar next to her mother’s hospital bed, refusing to look at the new baby bundled in her arms that her father had brought her to meet. How unaware of her the green shelf of medicines seemed. Now, she watches a silvery-grey flank of ocean roil, reflecting a mackerel sky. The wind is coming up. "Have you had storms here?" she asks her sister, whose children she has...

Seen
Sarah Frost - 2009-02-25


Summer afternoon
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-02-17


Untitled
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-02-17


Waiting for shooting stars
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-02-17


Onion layers
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-02-17


Things that remain unsaid
Mandy Mitchells - 2009-02-17


Love is blind ... ?
Siyabonga C. Khumalo - 2009-01-13
Love at first sight was when our eyes established a connection, your heart called out, my ears rang but I couldn't pick up a line.That picture was worth a thousand words but I couldn't even pay attention so I asked you to lend me you ear and I'll pay you a visit with great interest.My heart told me it was written in the stars 'cause the signs were there and that's why we have the same star sign.People told me love is blind when I swept you off your feet, that's why we never...

Alex
Diana Ferrus - 2009-01-13
(for Alex van Heerden who died tragically on 7 January 2009) Always on the roadsteering another's heavy loadyou swerved and stoppedand sped away from life's miseriesYou drove the underdogs to the seawhere they could bathe and blissfully befor moments heavily embalmed in sea saltthat would last until the rains of the next seasonwould come to lay them bare.Your place was not hereyour time was not nowyou existed long ago.It was in the charm of your smilethe wisdom in your eyesthe echoes of your...

Talisman
Sarah Frost - 2008-12-18
TalismanThe e-mails bring voices of poets, whispering stories of their craftat the edges of a vast silence,small lights flickering across an implacable sky.A storm within her, and yet bringing the trouble forth,is like birthing a stillborn: struggle, pain,and then dead weight.The poem pushed out on to the screen, distorted.She knows enough to remain in the darkness though,not to avoid the seat that holds her like a mother,to allow the night - cool, sage, still - in through the opened door.Bringing...

Bellwood
Sarah Frost - 2008-12-18
BellwoodShe drives past bulls behind fencesto reach the cottages thatsit primly at the water's edge.Purple flowers adorn the dry hillside,amethysts around a sun-burnt neck.A pin oak extends delicatelytowards the sky. Horses mull.Earlier, on the open road her car flanked a trainas it probed the landscape, like a man entering a woman.On her stereo, Alanis Morisette's lyrics blare"this is in praise of the vulnerable man."The words summon his face like an avatar:sad clear eyes, thin-lipped...


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