Poem
Charl-Pierre Naudé
Pieced together
“I know the feeling,” my friend chuckled,going through a divorce.
“But bring those midlife woods
to the Karoo, here you’ll find yourself again,
where the half-desert sports a green fold
and its ancient leather glove lies inside-out.”
He talks like that, my poetic friend.
So I freewheeled down the valley and into a village
founded on the floor of a prehistoric sea.
Past a wagon sunk in on its axle –
the car’s brights shining full on a willow,
a huge, suspended vegetable chandelier
beaming in the bend: one of the Big Five . . .
and on the snow-globe of a church, shaken up
for a second with bats and owls.
A place of roots, where the clock hands are all stuck
on a forgotten event in the past.
“Strange,” I say.
My friend shrugs nonchalantly:
“Just the customary hour for folk around here
to look at the clock. Nothing is inexplicable.”
Palaeontologists have a field day here, I’m told –
one of the most fertile bedrocks of mammal fossils ever,
as old as the dinosaurs. Truncated creatures
prised from the stone are held together with wire
and matchsticks keep their jaws open, in a little museum.
“Soon you’ll feel pieced together,” my friend assures me.
“No prying claws of a shrink for this town.”
Days pass. The roof contracts, expands, smacking –
primordial ghost rain beating in the silver.
“Heard before I came that my grandfather was born here,” I say.
He left the valley when he was eight in an oxwagon,
rather late in life, to emerge for the first time
from the seabed of Gondwanaland.
“But time,” says my friend.
“ . . . was different then.” – Anyway, not long before
or even thereafter, the settlers fought and hunted
an age-old tribe of yellow people who’d been living here.
You only have to glance at the names on the graves
to know who didn’t really perish in this place.
“Scientists now believe that Time’s an illusion – a construct
to render bearable the impossible,” my friend says:
“That the future and the past happen simultaneously.”
“An odd thought that those vanquished Bushmen might
still be in our midst.” I lick my fingers. Lamb of the Karoo.
“Odd, indeed. They’re just invisible,” (my friend says). –
In the matchbox houses, on theír side of the Divide . . .
A town cut in half. Like me, midway through.
And instantly I picture the timeless setting: the dust boulevards,
packed stone walls, thorn-bush meadows, under primeval water.
On higher ground my grandfather timeless now,
and the San chief, conversing. Old buddies; interest: eternity.
Me and my friend too not a beard-prick older, catching
the first fish, with the chief’s daughters, just like yesterday.
Lamb and lion stuff. Science, that meets the Bible.
Pure paradise. And I almost feel “pieced together”,
swigging the last vineyard balm: “See you in the morning.”
“Yes,” my friend says, and gets up too, as if reading my thoughts:
“The fossil museum, a post-natal unit.” We laugh . . .
A comforting thought, that everyone who’d lived
in the valley in times past, is still with us in the present.
I get into bed. The nights here’ve been good to me.
This could be what’s called “integration of the psyche”.
Except for those dreams I’ve been getting.
They can’t possibly be my own.
© Translation: 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
In een stuk
In een stuk
“Ken die gevoel,” grinnik my vriend, besig om te skei.“Maar bring jou ‘donker woud van Dante’
Karoo toe, hier sal jy weer jouself vind
waar die half-woestyn ’n groen vou maak
met sy huidhandskoen binneste buitetoe.”
Iets in dié trant, my poëtiese vriend.
Ek luier die vallei af en en ry die dorpie binne,
wat weg lê, op die vloer van ’n prehistoriese see.
Verby ’n ou wa wat sak op sy as.
Die motor se kopligte skyn op ’n wilg,
’n reuse planteluster wat hang in die draai
en pulserend straal: een van die Groot Vyf;
op die memento’tjie van ’n kerk, sy vlermuise
en uile ’n oomblik lank opgeskud – ’n sneeubol.
’n Plek van wortels, waar die horlosies gaan staan het
op ’n vergete dag in die verre verlede.
“Vreemd,” sê ek.
My vriend haal sy skouers op:
“Dis maar die uur hier vir mense om na
die horlosie te kyk. Niks is onverklaarbaar nie.”
’n Geil kleim vir paleontoloë, vertel die dorpenaars my –
van die rykste rotsbeddings soogdierfossiele ooit,
so oud soos die dinosaurusse. Afgeknotte stukke ou dierasie
losgewrik uit die klip word aanmekaar gehou met hegdraad
en vuurhoutjies sper die kakes oop, in ’n mini-museumpie.
Sê my vriend: “In ’n week’s jy weer in een stuk.
G’n wroetende sielkundige vir hierdie dorp nie.”
Dae gaan verby. Die sinkdak trek saam, sit uit, smak –
spookdruppels oerreën wat klop in die silwer.
“Gehoor voor my vertrek my oupa is hier gebore,” sê ek.
Hy’t die vallei vir die eerste keer verlaat toe hy agt was, op ’n ossewa,
nogal oud om op te staan – vir die eerste maal –
uit die seevloer van Gondwanaland.
“Tyd,” sê my vriend.
“ . . . was ’n ander storie, daai tyd.” In elk geval,
nie lank voor daai tyd, of miskien daarna, het die Boere
’n oerstam geelmense hier gejag en uitgewis.
Mens hoef net na die name in die begraafplaas te kyk
om te sien wie nie werklik hier gesterf het nie.
“Wetenskaplikes glo deesdae dat tyd ’n illusie is – ’n konstruk
om die onmoontlike draaglik te maak,” sê my vriend:
“ . . . Dat die verlede en toekoms gelyktydig gebeur.”
“Sou dit dan beteken daai uitgedelgde Boesmans . . .
is vandag steeds met ons?” Ons lek ons vingers. Lam van die Karoo.
“In ons midde. Net heeltemal onsigbaar,” (sê my vriend). –
In die townshiphuisies, anderkant die groot skeidslyn . . .
’n Dorp middel deur – soos ek, deur my lewe.
En oombliklik stel ek my die tydlose toneel voor: die breë stofstrate,
gepakte klipmure, doringbos wei, onder voortydse water.
Op hoër grond my oupa, tydloos nou, in diepe gesprek
met die San opperhoof. Ou vrinne, belangstelling: die ewigheid.
Ook ek en my vriend, geen baardsteek ouer, besig om die wêreld
se eerste vis te vang, saam met die chief se dogters, nes eergister.
Die lam en die leeu. Wetenskap, wat die Bybel ontmoet.
Louter paradys. Ek voel sommer “in een stuk”
en slaan nog winderdmedisyne weg: “Sien jou môreoggend.”
“Ja,” sê my vriend; staan ook op en, asof hy my lees:
“Die fossielmuseum, ’n kraamsorg-eenheid.” Ons lag.
’n Vertroostende gedagte, dat almal wat in die vallei
in vergange tye geleef het, steeds met ons in die hede is.
Ek klim in die bed. Die nagte hier is goed vir my.
Dis miskien wat bedoel word met “integrasie van die gees”.
Behalwe vir hierdie drome wat ek kry.
Dit kan onmoontlik my eie wees.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
Poems
Poems of Charl-Pierre Naudé
Close
Pieced together
“I know the feeling,” my friend chuckled,going through a divorce.
“But bring those midlife woods
to the Karoo, here you’ll find yourself again,
where the half-desert sports a green fold
and its ancient leather glove lies inside-out.”
He talks like that, my poetic friend.
So I freewheeled down the valley and into a village
founded on the floor of a prehistoric sea.
Past a wagon sunk in on its axle –
the car’s brights shining full on a willow,
a huge, suspended vegetable chandelier
beaming in the bend: one of the Big Five . . .
and on the snow-globe of a church, shaken up
for a second with bats and owls.
A place of roots, where the clock hands are all stuck
on a forgotten event in the past.
“Strange,” I say.
My friend shrugs nonchalantly:
“Just the customary hour for folk around here
to look at the clock. Nothing is inexplicable.”
Palaeontologists have a field day here, I’m told –
one of the most fertile bedrocks of mammal fossils ever,
as old as the dinosaurs. Truncated creatures
prised from the stone are held together with wire
and matchsticks keep their jaws open, in a little museum.
“Soon you’ll feel pieced together,” my friend assures me.
“No prying claws of a shrink for this town.”
Days pass. The roof contracts, expands, smacking –
primordial ghost rain beating in the silver.
“Heard before I came that my grandfather was born here,” I say.
He left the valley when he was eight in an oxwagon,
rather late in life, to emerge for the first time
from the seabed of Gondwanaland.
“But time,” says my friend.
“ . . . was different then.” – Anyway, not long before
or even thereafter, the settlers fought and hunted
an age-old tribe of yellow people who’d been living here.
You only have to glance at the names on the graves
to know who didn’t really perish in this place.
“Scientists now believe that Time’s an illusion – a construct
to render bearable the impossible,” my friend says:
“That the future and the past happen simultaneously.”
“An odd thought that those vanquished Bushmen might
still be in our midst.” I lick my fingers. Lamb of the Karoo.
“Odd, indeed. They’re just invisible,” (my friend says). –
In the matchbox houses, on theír side of the Divide . . .
A town cut in half. Like me, midway through.
And instantly I picture the timeless setting: the dust boulevards,
packed stone walls, thorn-bush meadows, under primeval water.
On higher ground my grandfather timeless now,
and the San chief, conversing. Old buddies; interest: eternity.
Me and my friend too not a beard-prick older, catching
the first fish, with the chief’s daughters, just like yesterday.
Lamb and lion stuff. Science, that meets the Bible.
Pure paradise. And I almost feel “pieced together”,
swigging the last vineyard balm: “See you in the morning.”
“Yes,” my friend says, and gets up too, as if reading my thoughts:
“The fossil museum, a post-natal unit.” We laugh . . .
A comforting thought, that everyone who’d lived
in the valley in times past, is still with us in the present.
I get into bed. The nights here’ve been good to me.
This could be what’s called “integration of the psyche”.
Except for those dreams I’ve been getting.
They can’t possibly be my own.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
Pieced together
“I know the feeling,” my friend chuckled,going through a divorce.
“But bring those midlife woods
to the Karoo, here you’ll find yourself again,
where the half-desert sports a green fold
and its ancient leather glove lies inside-out.”
He talks like that, my poetic friend.
So I freewheeled down the valley and into a village
founded on the floor of a prehistoric sea.
Past a wagon sunk in on its axle –
the car’s brights shining full on a willow,
a huge, suspended vegetable chandelier
beaming in the bend: one of the Big Five . . .
and on the snow-globe of a church, shaken up
for a second with bats and owls.
A place of roots, where the clock hands are all stuck
on a forgotten event in the past.
“Strange,” I say.
My friend shrugs nonchalantly:
“Just the customary hour for folk around here
to look at the clock. Nothing is inexplicable.”
Palaeontologists have a field day here, I’m told –
one of the most fertile bedrocks of mammal fossils ever,
as old as the dinosaurs. Truncated creatures
prised from the stone are held together with wire
and matchsticks keep their jaws open, in a little museum.
“Soon you’ll feel pieced together,” my friend assures me.
“No prying claws of a shrink for this town.”
Days pass. The roof contracts, expands, smacking –
primordial ghost rain beating in the silver.
“Heard before I came that my grandfather was born here,” I say.
He left the valley when he was eight in an oxwagon,
rather late in life, to emerge for the first time
from the seabed of Gondwanaland.
“But time,” says my friend.
“ . . . was different then.” – Anyway, not long before
or even thereafter, the settlers fought and hunted
an age-old tribe of yellow people who’d been living here.
You only have to glance at the names on the graves
to know who didn’t really perish in this place.
“Scientists now believe that Time’s an illusion – a construct
to render bearable the impossible,” my friend says:
“That the future and the past happen simultaneously.”
“An odd thought that those vanquished Bushmen might
still be in our midst.” I lick my fingers. Lamb of the Karoo.
“Odd, indeed. They’re just invisible,” (my friend says). –
In the matchbox houses, on theír side of the Divide . . .
A town cut in half. Like me, midway through.
And instantly I picture the timeless setting: the dust boulevards,
packed stone walls, thorn-bush meadows, under primeval water.
On higher ground my grandfather timeless now,
and the San chief, conversing. Old buddies; interest: eternity.
Me and my friend too not a beard-prick older, catching
the first fish, with the chief’s daughters, just like yesterday.
Lamb and lion stuff. Science, that meets the Bible.
Pure paradise. And I almost feel “pieced together”,
swigging the last vineyard balm: “See you in the morning.”
“Yes,” my friend says, and gets up too, as if reading my thoughts:
“The fossil museum, a post-natal unit.” We laugh . . .
A comforting thought, that everyone who’d lived
in the valley in times past, is still with us in the present.
I get into bed. The nights here’ve been good to me.
This could be what’s called “integration of the psyche”.
Except for those dreams I’ve been getting.
They can’t possibly be my own.
© 2004, Charl-Pierre Naudé
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