the screen
the keyboard
the small room
the closed door
locked door
closed window
blinders keeping
the sun away
a chair
an empty stomach
......
Everyone is a poet, writing life’s daily lines with the sole of their working shoes
Even as the shore waves and the winds of time strive to erase your poetic beauties
Never carve any hopeless woe, but engrave even in your grave, the epitaphs of hope and
Never miss your chance to write in the hearts of those you meet
Everyone is a poet whose poems are neither erased by death
Nor by elegies of life, odes for others, and even the blanks between
Even when no known cobbler can repair the grooves of those old, worn soles
Never forget the Cordwainer who makes new shoes and creates new poets
......
Run wild
That was the motto
Of course it didn’t address
running wild
in the streets
and away from angry shopkeepers
and the police
and rival gangs
and betrayed friends
......
In the vast expanse where sages dream free,
Lies a realm of serenity, cleared sky.
It's a canvas bare, where the heart can see,
And the mind finds solace, hard to deny.
The clear sky, a purge of the earth's clutter,
A breath of fresh air, a sweep of the hand,
Where chaos is hushed, and disorder is butter,
Smoothed over by the quiet, expansive land.
......
In crowded streets where silence often reigns,
A friend appears, a light amidst the gray.
His laughter breaks the weight of heavy chains,
With every word, he clears the clouds away.
No jewels worn, nor titles to proclaim,
Yet in his gaze, a warmth that feels like home.
Through stormy nights, he whispers, “You’re not lame,
For in this world, we’re never meant to roam.”
......
In crowded streets where silence often reigns,
A friend appears, a light amidst the gray.
His laughter breaks the weight of heavy chains,
With every word, he clears the clouds away.
No jewels worn, nor titles to proclaim,
Yet in his gaze, a warmth that feels like home.
Through stormy nights, he whispers, “You’re not lame,
For in this world, we’re never meant to roam.”
......
Ingrid Jonker se poësie is 'n spel van lig en skadu,
delikate woorde wat die siel aanraak.
Sy verken liefde,verlies en die menslike ervaring,
met 'n subtiele hand wat pyn en skoonheid saambring.
Haar verse is 'n fluistering in die wind,
'n refleksie van die wêreld se kwesbaarheid,
waar elke woord 'n diep emosie dra
en elke streep van haar pen
'n verhaal vertel.
In marble halls where hope and dread are knit,
A sanctuary stands, where life's fierce war is fought;
A citadel of balm, with potions lit,
Where pain and panacea in a dance are caught.
The odor of chloride, a bitter bloom,
Hangs in the air, a somber litany;
Chambers resound with the sick's funereal gloom,
Yet in this keep, champions battle silently.
......
In serpentine veins, a slither of glacial ooze,
A venom so cold, it chills the very muse,
It pulses through a chest where once beat fire,
A scorpion's frost, to sear and to inspire.
It nourishes the vulture, wings of night,
A raptor's gaze, a cold and bitter sight,
Its heart a desert, devoid of tender rain,
Yet thirsts for warmth that never comes again.
......
In criticism's gaze, a scythe, a sculptor's hand,
It carves the marble of our soul, it maims.
A specter 'mongst the living, stark and grand,
It whispers, "Perfection's breath is but a flame."
The critic stands 'pon pedestal of ice,
With quill a sword, in ink, he draws his blood.
Yet, in this dance of death, what form of vice
Lurks 'neath the veil of words that cut like mud?
......