Frank Meintjies

Frank Meintjies Poems

Go hard, go easy;
the hills set
in the folds of an orange afternoon
a country rises from the mist
...

dressed in allover blue
the clocking of your card
momentary freeze-frame
before
...

during the week nelson mandela died
death lost its sting

a small yellow bird came
...

they are out tonight
white paint conceals their oh so normal faces
the wild chanting
hides well their normalness and neighbourness
...

from the bottom draw
i withdraw my things
wrapped in a piece of musty cloth
...

We write what we like
because
when some of us die
or disappear, like jensma
...

(my homecoming)

you get off the train
step into a griminess
...

8.

the languid lion lifts his mane
tattoo-like scars on forelimbs & face
the aftermath of many scraps, once to the edge
of life; an easy-like-sunday-morning gaze
...

9.

A surface of quotidian streets
and slow steps
the time, with few seekers
too many defenders
...

The queen
came walking
down the generations
down terraced times
...

My childhood photo
black white grey sepia

So little remembered
...

Frank Meintjies Biography

Based in Johannesburg, Frank Meintjies works in the field of social development. Frank's creative writing has been included in several South African anthologies. He also frequently contributes to the world of poetry through participation in readings. His latest poetry collection (2015) is Unfettered Days.)

The Best Poem Of Frank Meintjies

Poem For Nelson Mandela On His Latter Years

Go hard, go easy;
the hills set
in the folds of an orange afternoon
a country rises from the mist
in the morning

ah, rolihlahla
who has taken the seed
that you have sown?
did roots germinate
as tendrils of young minds?
do children, some plump & many wasted
smile & nod, do they know?

the people, the times, the lives
those hoping, those without hope
the literate & illiterate, those with a light in the eye
the hunger, the want
the weariness from despair of the millions unborn
you came & to them
you spoke words
of truth & relevance

the child in you
fought with sticks
the young man donned boxing gloves
& later (there was)
a street-fighter
for freedoms of a people

your great work
is begun
your great work is a tall tree
on a hill
your exploits have reached a pause
on the crest of the amotola

a figure in the mist
that looks like you
like the man
from the house of dalindyebo
mouths words
isixhosa, afrikaans, isizulu, setswana, sepedi, sanscrit, song of the khoi…
so many tongues,
the languages of love
eyes to the distance
to the spaces & gazes within

[ in this dream, i am a bird
bearing a twig
a green slip
in its beak ]

a man
wearing a barbed-wire crown
a shirt woven from veld flowers
& black pants, neatly pressed
a tall man stands on a hill
looking out
on a sea of land — mzansi, afrika
... the world?
calling, signalling, beckoning, waving?
‘for now, my work is done, ' he says

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