Posted by: Robin Hawkins | July 22, 2016

Nestled into a corner of a road-curve next to the path I walk every day on my way to work is this tiny little “accidental wetland”. It started off a few years ago as a poorly drained mudpool between two roads, and with time various reeds and other “water-plants” have established themselves and have now become a rather pleasant little wetland populated by quite a range of birds and frogs and things that provide a charming soundtrack to my morning walk. There are hundreds of woven warbler nests and myriad little finches that are just starting to warm their vocal chords as the sun just hints at rising over the buildings, and the symphony of chirps, bleeps and croaks from the invisible frogs just puts a spri8ng in one’s step, no matter how chilly the morning. I find such little pockets of indomitable nature to be such a fount of optimism in an urban sprawl fast being redecorated with plastic shopping bags, acres of glass shards and broken beer bottles and a sprinkling of discarded condoms, with a dash of melted rubber and metal scrap. Not too many miles to the West we have the wasteland that once was the thriving Milnerton wetland, with its now extinct populations of fish, water-fowl and all the various creatures that go with that. That once heavenly spot is now a desolate stretch of dead water, thanks to the over-taxed sewage system that leaches human shit into the water-table. No sign of living fish anymore, and the birds one may see are simply passing through. Yet here, in the middle of urban Bellville, this little Eden has evolved all on its own. Okay, there are no fish, as the “pool” is fed only by a small spring that comes and goes with the rains. But there seem to be a lot of other species slowly moving in, judging from the volume and diversity of sound that one hears as one rushes passed, huddled into coats and beenies as we make our reluctant way to work. Like the cows and goats roaming the open spaces near my home, such glimpses of the green that once was the peninsula give one hope.

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | August 23, 2011

The Comfort of Stone

There is great comfort in stone:

in the immovable flow of grain

in the grey certainty of landscape

solid as a history engraved yet fluid

in a play of light. Histories, after all,

are written to order by today’s race-leader.

Such foundations float on time

to bring stark granite certainty

with all the flaws of immobility.

Such is the comfort of bleak stone.

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | August 23, 2011

onwillig pedagoog

Ek is onwrikbaar pedagoog,

daai ou met te fyn, effe bitter oog.

Die lot weeg swaar,moersswaar,

dog vind my oog onmiddelik self die glips

(die blerrie goed spring sommer van die blad

hier voor my geestesoog, o fok.

Ek is en bly maar pedagoog.

Posted by: ammiemoon | July 13, 2011

Sout in die mond

panfluite hinkepink teen omkeer-gedagtes
met ‘n onewe sleur teen skewe duine,
waar branders druis teen sout
skulpgruis verrinneweer teen fluweelwanghout

en die ewige dors –
die onwrikbare dors na jou.

skeerbuik getorring teen halfmas winde
uitgehang teen blou se wit gebleikte vettigheid
wat plaasklong-spoeg teen taai
die ommeswaai van dooiety wat sleeplig swik

en die ewige dors –
die onwrikbare dors na jou.

‘n bloedsloop horison
uitgehang aan hakiesdraad van môre
se prematuur winterson;
waar bolmakiesie mis op mis op mis
gewyd verby die vuurtoring skif

en die ewige dors –
die onwrikbare dors na jou.

© 2011 Almarie Truter.

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | June 24, 2011

wolkop paradoks

wolkop paradoks


dis paradoks op grootse skaal

die hunker na my seun my bloed

my groot beloning vir ‘n afgesloofde lewe

die opbou van verwagting, uitasem wag

vir daardie skewekop klop

wat my hart so goed al ken

die min gesels om woorde

tussen ons onnodig en

nooit gedagtes presies afbaken nie

die min gesels omdat ons al

die pouses meer waardeer

omdat dit vir my lekker is

om my net in sy stiltes te kokon

soos in warm fluweel


en dan’s dit oor en hy is tydelik hier

en tydelik terug en die leemte sak

soos mis oor Tafelberg my hele wese toe

hoe is dit ooit die moeite werd

en tog hoe durf ek dit nog vra

hoe durf ek my ooit wegdraai

van daai klein oomblikkies geluk

al weet mens uit die staanspoor uit

dit gaan tog maar weer ent kry

kort voor lank om my te los

in skaduwee van behepte selfverdriet.

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | June 24, 2011

Resurrection Man

                                                       Resurrection Man


I shall not go weeping to my grave.

Neither shall I go with wonder,

nor weighted down with expectation,

fear or guilt rusting the gilded gate.


Rather shall I shed my calloused skin;

ease the curdling flesh from bone

like a silken shrug of tears

to salve the weeping at my grave.



Resurrection men: Early grave-robbers inEdinburghwho supplied corpses to the medical school for studies in Anatomy. Corpses were frequently smuggled into the University in casks of whiskey, which was then sold cheaply, hence the term, “rotgut” for bad whiskey.

Posted by: De Waal | August 18, 2010

How to get into heaven

Falling into conversation

with a minor angel,

I learned quite a bit

about rugby.

The angel only had

a hundred years

to talk to me,

and still a lot to do,

so we changed the subject

to spiritual matters.

According to the angel

heaven is a modern place,

more advanced in fact

than the latest here on earth.

And in order to get in,

you have to book,

by reading the right books,

and more importantly,

understand the ununderstandable.

Then sift through all you’ve read,

the angel said.

In there is a piece of entry code.


Click here to listen to the poem

How to get into heaven

Posted by: De Waal | August 13, 2010

Nuut op Vers-krit!

Erla stap die purperwinde binne (Afrikaans naam van "morning glory")

Daar is ‘n paar nuwighede

op Vers-krit wat jou ervaring hopelik aangenamer sal maak.

1. Klank. Jy kan nou na gedigte luister hier. Jy kan ook jou eie gedig in klank plaas. Kyk na my verduideliking verder ondertoe (11 Julie geplaas).

2. Kort kommentaar. As jy klik op “comments” sal jy links onder ‘n geel sterretjie sien met die woord “Like” daarby. As jy daarop klik, verskyn jou ikoon by die kommentare. Dis ‘n lekker lui manier om aan te dui dat jy hou van ‘n gedig. (Haai, dit tel nie as “kritiek” nie, hoor!)

3. Twitter. Kyk heel onder in die paneel regs. Daar sien jy “Poetry en poësie”. Onder dit is daar ‘n paar tweets. As jy daarop klik, word jy gevat na my blog waar die betrokke gedig verskyn.

Geniet die nuwighede!

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | August 3, 2010

slow swing dance – ode to a double bass

slow swing dance – ode to a double bass

slow dance ritual swing so close

hands fingers massage new strung neck

as I revolve, caressing spinal melody

from space from god from you

from god knows where or what

bass-line baseline on which to hang

the flesh of love of lust of sweet

desire my flesh my lips insatiable

in memory of pliant breasts

of hips full clasped between my thighs

of bridged sighs under the chords

pressed from this pale maple board

to sound through wire and walnut

resound in pulse passed passion

precise as punctuation on a page.

double stop, then slow bow drawn

across  tension wound and honed

to fretless pitch – a blue crescendo

in this pent up night of longing –

no midnight morse relief no

blessed starlessness the black paled

into shimmer grey by harbourlight

rocks casting off-black shadow

dappled face of ageless cliff and silvered stream

under a sickle moon stage left

i dance the predetermined dance of lovers

tonight in pale moonlight in memories

engraved into rough fingertips

and softer lonely lips and echoes

je’t embrasse this long necked lover

with its strings its bridge its fingered

skeleton of song from deep within

eyelids gently locked in dreams of you

Posted by: Robin Hawkins | August 3, 2010

diwali of your dance

diwali of your dance

you should be scribed on finest paper

dressed silk, rice or web-thin onionskin

with smooth cut peacock feather quill in

panther ink so textured black

every thought, word, song of you should melt

in golden sunrise onto veined membrane perfect

sensuous to touch and fluid as quick mercury

evasive to caged images of craft


you should be danced in crystal chandeliers

in earthen lamps of sunflower and over

eggshell floors to every rhythm of my being

pictured beyond mere seeing

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