To a life happily lived and with great strength. For my sweet friend and her wife, her best friend, her beloved.
Unable are the Loved to die
For Love is Immortality.
Emily Dickinson.
— Woman, bisexual, poet, white, affluent, introvert.
In 1994 Nelson Mandela read anti-apartheid’s poet Ingrid Jonker’s poem out aloud during his address at the opening of the first democratic parliament.
She was one of my dad’s favourite poets and he read us her work in ‘t Afrikaans when we were kids. The English translation, slightly changed by me, is at the bottom.
Die kind is nie dood nie
die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy moeder
wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur
van vryheid en heide
in die lokasies van die omsingelde hart
Die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy vader
in die optog van die generasies
wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur
van geregtigheid en bloed
in die strate van sy gewapende trots
Die kind is nie dood nie
nòg by Langa nòg by Nyanga
nòg by Orlando nòg by Sharpville
nòg by die polisiestasie in Philippi
waar hy lê met ‘n koeël deur sy kop
Die kind is die skaduwee van die soldate
op wag met gewere sarasene en knuppels
die kind is teenwoordig by alle vergaderings en wetgewings
die kind loer deur die vensters van huise en in die harte
van moeders
die kind wat net wou speel in die son by Nyanga is orals
die kind wat ‘n man geword het trek deur die ganse Afrika
die kind wat ‘n reus geword het reis deur die hele wêreld
Sonder ‘n pas
.
Maart 1960
The child is not dead no
The child waves his fists at his mother
Who shouts Afrika shouts the scent
Of freedom and of heather
In the spaces of the beleaguered heart
The child waves his fists at his father
in the march of generations
who shouts Afrika shouts the breath
of justice and blood
in the streets of his ferocious dignity
The child is not dead no
not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his head
The child is the shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles armoured cars and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and treaties
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts
of mothers
this child who just wanted to go play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass
.
March 1960
Turn to poetry:
Boy broken on sidewalk
Sidewalk broken beneath boy
– Lillian Allen, “Broken”
The boy is broken on the sidewalk
The sidewalk is broken beneath him
His colour is back (not black)
Because it was washed out
Worrisome for his aunt
Whose leg was taken to save her life
No, not diabetes but from shrapnel Flying
What have we forgotten to say
to give the heart ease
Just out of diapers when learning to walk
the body seeks an inherent language of peace
What do you wish to be?
Happy, I’m sure
You may ask;
Whose voice is in my head, so fully formed?
So old and heavy with pain and venge
Behind the lead(er) passage is set
Funeral is the badge
Language now frozen symbols
Symbols like bells calling
Calling to the divide
Fists and blows and broken
Splayed like shrapnel on the sidewalk
Fall away fall away
What do you wish for the world
What do you wish for your heart
Boy broken on sidewalk
Sidewalk broken beneath boy
Awesome poetry from all over. 