Nostalgie in September

My drome is sopas terug van die droogskoonmakers
op hierdie sombere Sondagoggend
waar die son treur in lang slap skaduwees
wat spruit uit die wortels van bome en voete.

Tortels weeklaag jou lepel
wat onlangs heel terloops sy weg na die dak gevind het.
Ek was nog nooit lief vir tafel maniere nie (fok jou Emsie Schoeman).

Die vrou in die straat se rooi rok koggel my,
Ek onthou oopgebarste granate in skemerings op jou ouma se plaas
en honde wat die sap van ons ellemboë lek.

5 minute musings: The strange thing about compliments

I knew this guy once. Smart as a whip. Reckless. Strange-looking. He intimidated me in ways I reserve for the holy men of religions - inexplicable, powerful and frustrating. It was his birthday on the day I (finally) met him after a long social media friendship. I bought him a tequila and pretended that we are old friends.

Years later I saw him again. He was with friends. "This is Frederika. She is the smartest girl I know and probably the smartest girl you'll ever know", he introduced me. I was falling with my bike for the first time. Did I feel flattered? Yes. Do I repeat his words in my head whenever I feel self-indulgent? Yes. Does he still have that strange power over me? Can he still make me listen without even calling my name or attention? No. He ruined his own glow. He became mortal. He stepped on his halo like newly-wed Greek men tend to mistreat their mothers' crockery.

That is the strange thing about well-intended compliments by these men - they invite you onto the pedestal. All of a sudden we are equals by their own permission on the only level that no societal norm can take away from you. Whether founded or proven or not at all, we are suddenly staring each other right in the eye.

That is the strange thing about compliments.

Werp jou skulpe op die see

Streel die rug van die rots en
voel hoe sy stories jou vingers kielie.
Moenie lag nie, luister.

Luister na hoe die langafstand-gesprekke
stotter deur gekonnekteerde lug,
soos die snikke van vaag-bekende begrafnisgangers,
op hierdie snikhete dag.

In die steriele kamer van die leë stad le my lyf langs stories wat ek hoor, maar nie verstaan nie.

Dis die kaalte van die vlaktes en
die ongenaakbare son wat my verdruk.
Die aandwind bring nuwe asem en nuwe stories.

Luister na die fluisterstemme in die skulpe. Fluister terug; as jy nou moet.

Onthou jy die gedigte van Breytenbach,
op bankies wat tuis sou lyk voor 'n kerk?
Die plankies is sedelik vasgetimmer en met 'n kuise blou tot onder die ken gekleu(r).
Ek is seker daardie blou moes baie boude se stories aanhoor.
Die boude sou die blou nooit vergeef,
as dit maar net kon praat.

Ek werp my skulpe op die see.