Ingrid Jonker Poems

The child is not dead
the child raises his fists against his mother
who screams Africa screams the smell
of freedom and heather
in the locations of the heart under siege

The child raises his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who scream Africa scream the smell
of justice and blood
in the streets of his armed pride

The child is not dead
neither at Langa nor at Nyanga
nor at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station in Philippi
where he lies with a bullet in his head

The child is the shadow of the soldiers
on guard with guns saracens and batons
the child is present at all meetings and legislations
the child peeps through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
the child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child who became a man treks through all of Africa
the child who became a giant travels through the whole world

Without a pass
...

Bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
ʼn spieël het gebreek
tussen my en hom

Soek ek na die grootpad
om daarlangs te draf
oral draai die paadjies
van sy woorde af

Dennebos herinnering
dennebos vergeet
het ek ook verdwaal
trap ek in my leed

Papegaai-bont eggo
kierang kierang my
totdat ek bedroë
weer die koggel kry

Eggo is geen antwoord
antwoord hy alom
bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
...

Bitter-berry daybreak
bitter-berry sun
a mirror has broken
between me and him

I try to find the highway
perhaps to run away
but everywhere the footpaths
of his words lead me astray

Pinewood remember
pinewood forget
however much I lose my way
I step on my regret

Parrot-coloured echo
tricks me tricks me on
until I turn beguiled
to retrieve the mocking song

Echo gives no answer
he answers everyone
bitter-berry daybreak
bitter-berry sun
...

Jy't my gekierang Dolie
jy't my gefop
my hart o appelliefie
verdroë in sy dop

Die predikant sê agge nee
my ma sê agga gwaan
my ouma dink weg wêreld
waar kom ons ook vandaan

Maar Dolie bokkie baby
jy't my verstoot
al maak ek ook my daggies
nes kuikens vir jou groot

Al gee ek jou die dagbreek
se rooywang-vy
jy't laasnag - o my attatjie!
met ‘n ander man gevry

My brakhond en my mak uil
tjank groot en wyd
maar Dolie bokkie baby
ons tjank een woord altyd
...

You've tricked me Dolie
you've cheated me like hell
my heart o little gooseberry
has shrivelled in its shell

The pastors say oh surely no
my mum says go away
my granny thinks oh heavens
our help has gone astray

But Dolie bokkie baby
you turned me down it's true
in vain I grow my little days
like chickens all for you

No matter that I offer you
a fig with day-break's tan
last night o my attatjie
you had another man

My tame owl and my mongrel
they howl through nights and days
but Dolie bokkie baby
we howl one word always
...

vir Simone
Op die groen voetpad
van die horison ver
om die aarde skat,
stap 'n ou man wat
'n oop maan dra in sy hare
Nagtegaal in sy hart
jasmyn gepluk vir sy oop knoopsgat
en 'n rug gebuk aan sy jare.

Wat maak hy, mammie?

Hy roep die kriekies
Hy roep die swart
stilte wat sing
soos die biesies, my hart
en die sterre wat klop
tok-tok liefling,
soos die klein toktokkies
in hul fyn-ver kring.

Wat is sy naam, mammie?

Sy naam is Sjuut
Sy naam is Slaap
Meneer Vergeet
uit die land van Vaak
Sy naam is toe maar
hy heet, my lam
Toe maar, die donker man

Mammie . . .

Toe maar, die donker man
...

for Simone
On the green footpath
of the horizon far
around the earth little one,
an old man trudges who wears
an open moon in his hair
Nightingale in his heart
jasmin plucked for his buttonhole
and a back bowed down by his years.

What's he doing, mummy?

He calls the crickets
He calls the black
silence that sings
like the rushes, my sweet
and the stars which throb
knock-knock my love,
like the tiny little beetles
in their thin far ring.

What's his name, mummy?

His name is Hush
His name is Sleep
Mister Forget
from the Land of Dream
His name is hush
he's called, my sweet
Hush now, the darkling man

Mummy…

Hush now, the darkling man
...

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 Sharpeville
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
...

Waarom luister ons nog
na de antwoorde van die madeliefies
op die wind op die son
wat het geword van die kokkewietjies

Agter die geslote voorkop
waar miskien nog 'n takkie tuimel
van 'n verdrinkte lente
Agter my gesneuwelde woord
Agter ons verdeelde huis
Agter die hart gesluit teen homself
Agter draadheinings, kampe, lokasies
Agter die stilte waar onbekende tale
val soos klokke by 'n begrafenis
Agter ons verskeurde land

sit die groen hotnotsgot van die veld
en ons hoor nog verdwaasd
klein blou Namakwaland-madeliefie
iets antwoord, iets glo, iets weet.
...

Why do we still listen
to the answers given by the daisies
to the wind to the sun
what has become of the little kokkewiets

Behind the closed forehead
where perhaps a twig still tumbles
from a drowned springtime
Behind my word killed in action
Behind our divided home
Behind the heart locked against itself
Behind wire fences, camps, locations
Behind the silence where foreign languages
fall like bells at a funeral
Behind our land torn apart

sits the green mantis of the veld
and dazed we still hear
small blue Namaqualand daisy
answering something, believing something, knowing something.
...