Stap vir sielsiekes

Daar word—soos in ’n wasige droom—geloop,
op ’n oeroue voetslaanpad
deur ’n bos, deur ’n woud;
en tussendeur smarag en jaspis,
olivien en goud
drup die son
in slierte stroop.

[Dié beskrywing is te mooi
vir die donkerrooi van depressie.
Maar, helaas, dié wandeling
het in die somer gebeur,
nie die herfs nie.]

Daar word onthou: mistige beelde
en buikgevoelens word krits-krits met elke trap
op die wandelpad herkou: herinneringe
tot bolusse gekou en met heimwee afgesluk
en weer onderdruk vir ’n ander keer se stap
deur bos, of woud, of strandlangs
onder ’n laatmiddagson
wat soos ’n oorrypvrug
uiteindelik val, rol, kneus,
skielik skimmel en vergaan
(of onder ’n koel middernagmaan
wat weet hoe om te terapeut
wanneer die hart nie woorde het nie).


... Sanko Lewis

Serenade everything—everywhere

Serenade everything—everywhere

A translation of my Afrikaanse poem "Besing alles—alom"

“Self,” I order, “ensoul a verse: breathe over words

and let them live, let them sprout out of nothing

like desert flowers; let them gluttonously gape

like featherless chicks with an obese hunger for worms

and the great, open, wide heavens; let them jump off the page

like zebra foals after a thunderstorm: black striped letters

galloping clip-clop across white paper.

Listen, Soul, scribble or type or thumb a festive verse

for all that live—and ever lived—

an inspiring ode to words and possibilities.

For who’s to know if the sun

did not perhaps extinguish moments ago?

Thus, mortal man, before the cold darkness arrives,

serenade everything—everywhere.”

... Sanko Lewis

Give me your hand

Give me your hand

A translation of my Afrikaans poem "Gee my jou hand"

give me your hand, show my your palm:

I want to navigate the rivers thereupon,

follow the salmon to the spawning waters,

anker my skiff at that fruitful place

where silver reeds dance like nymphs 

in the streams under the fullest full moon; 

take my hand as sacrifice:

burn it on the altar of your heart

and let the incense vine upwards

towards that faraway secret lair

from where muses pigeon myths

to scribe and stonemason;

let’s hold hands like old and your lovers:

for whom clasped hands are an embrace,

for whom interlaced fingers are lustful bodies,

for whom holding hands is a covenant—

let our skin bacteria shake hands,

explore each other, know each other, and cross-pollinate.

... Sanko Lewis