A plea to the conqueror

It is bricked up, you know, 
my heart; it's fortressed shut 
and securely protected
against pillager and thief. 

Not because it is valuable
as such, for what could
a ruined heart be worth 
on the blackmarket of love?

It is just that it is sensitive, 
the exposed nerve endings
filamenting from the shattered 
pieces and open wounds. 

That's why, you see, the bricks
and buttresses, the moat and all. 
Thus I besiege of you to seize 
this siege and cede your loot. 

For surely a cracked and broken 
clock is hardly worth the effort
of such a vigorous campaign 
with so little wealth to gain. 

Art of War

Fingers—the virile cavalry of my hands—graze
over the lush mountains of your calves, gain ground
over muscled thighs, sink and anchor in the bulged
lotus pedestal of your centred hips.

With your foundation so seized, victory is assured:
My lips need merely fingertip your heaving chest
or my tongue but scarcely wet the pulsing of your neck
and all your hesitant suspension collapses.



... Sanko Lewis

en ek wonder hoekom / and I wonder why

en ek wonder hoekom

soos om 'n bok af te slag stroop jy gedetermineerd my uit my klere uit,
strooi my hemp en belt en broek en onderbroek en kouse in die wind,
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie terugdeins voor jou jagtersmes nie.

wanneer jy my om die nek vat en met jou erektiele tong die vagina
na my long volstop en ek terugval soos 'n verslaande op 'n slagveld
en myself aan jou oorgee wonder ek hoekom ek nie veg vir asem nie.

ek word wakker met my eiers genes in die bak van jou palm
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie bang is—só met die weegskaal
van my manwees in die greep van jou manlike hande—nie.

ons trek aan—jy maak 'n wurgtou van my das, skuif die mambakop tot teen my keel,
vou my kraag plat teen my skof en vee onsigbare stof van my skouers af, 
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie jou bloeddorstige nabyheid vrees nie. 

jy hou my bebloede ontwortelde hart soos 'n vrou se tiet met hard-
handige verkoestering vas en ek wonder hoekom storm ek nie om
dit uit jou selfversekerde greep soos na iets kosbaars te gryp nie.

and I wonder why

like slaughtering a steer you determinedly strip me from my clothes, 
scatter my shirt and belt and pants and underpants and socks to the wind, 
and I wonder why I'm not recoiling from your hunter's knife.

when you take me about the neck and plug with your erectile tongue the vagina
of my lungs and I fall back like a conquered on a battlefield 
and give myself up to you, then I wonder why I'm not fighting for breath.

I arise with my eggs nested in the pot of your palm 
and I wonder why I'm not scared—so, with the balance scales 
of my manliness in the grasp of your manly hands.

we get dressed—you make a noose of my tie, push the mamba head against my throat, 
fold the collar flat against my nape and wipe invisible dust from my shoulders,
and I wonder why I'm not frightened of your bloodthirsty closeness.

you hold my bloodied uprooted heart like a women's tit with hard- 
handed nurturing and I wonder why I'm not storming at you to 
snatch it, like at something valuable, from your confident grip.



... Sanko Lewis

Ek het nie my hart op 'n someraand verloor nie

'n Vryvertaling van A. E. Housman se “I did not lose my heart in summer's even”


Ek het nie my hart op 'n someraand verloor
terwyl rose oopbars met die maansopkoms nie:
maar met pluime om die voete en lood in vlug,
in bloed en rook en vlam het ek my hart verloor.

Ek het my hart verloor aan 'n soldaat en vyand,
'n kêrel wat—al het hy probeer—my nie kon dood nie;
wat nog in aanval my sabel reguit ontvang het
en gelag het en sy hand na my gesoen het en gesterf het.



... Sanko Lewis