Lucas Malan Poems

Verskans in Duchess Court het sy behou:
antieke meubels en ‘n wankel waardigheid;
ná vyftig jaar as vroedvrou ook die slag
om mense aan te trek. Hier bewaar sy foto's,
ou joernale en haar pyn in fyn besonderheid.
Die Royal Albert-teeservies (as bruid
by Ansteys uitgekies) gebruik sy net vir teas
soos dié - and all the snacks I made myself.
Nou, dis die lounge waar ons gaan sit -

but let me show you something at the back
- verskoon die deurmekaarspul hier, ek maak
mos klere ook - designer stuff - die plek
raak vreeslik omgewoel; and then of course
is Lindy altyd tussenin. Sit down! Now sit!
Sy raak so opgewerk, jy weet. En hierdie hek
het ek gekry vir veiligheid. Maar kyk
net daar: Jy sien tot in die ewigheid. Now
have you ever seen a view like that?

This dress I made for Marguerite. Sy was
vanoggend hier - Miss South Africa of '68.
Nooit getrou nie, weet jy dit? And still
as beautiful, although she's put on weight.
Poor girl. Ek wonder tog . . . Oh, never mind,
dit ís maar soos dié dinge gaan. Now come,
let's have some tea. Ken jy dié? Earl Grey.
Gavin bring vir my, uit Londen, altyd vars.
He's with the SAA, a gentleman and very kind -

Die sonvlak skuif, sy maak nog tee. Ons praat
oor dit en dat: My husband died in '83, how sad
for me who had no kith or kin. But then,
you see, the Lord provides: klein Lindy hier
is nes ‘n kind en altyd ‘n plesier. Maar wat
sal van haar word as ek - Sy praat, en onderwyl
verdwyn die lig om ons. It's getting late,
merk sy, but don't go yet! You have to see
the view at night! Ek swig en ons gaan kyk:

Die stad lê soos ‘n see en brand ontsteek
in uitwasse rondom die kern, buitewyk -
dit flikker geel en giftig langs die naat
waar here-rif en agterbuurte skei: ‘n melkweg,
afgeruk deur swaartekrag. Dit is die plek
van mense dié, van drif en eensaamheid. Sy kyk:
You know what this reminds me of? Ek luister
en vertrek. Maar ingebed in daardie metafoor
(a cemetery alight) sien ék ‘n ou plasenta
oopgevlek - swart, en terminaal besmet.
...

Ensconced in Duchess Court she managed to retain
some antique furniture and a precarious dignity:
and after fifty years as midwife also the knack
of charming people. Here she preserves photographs,
old journals and her pain in specific detail.
The Royal Albert tea service (picked out
at Anstey's as a bride) she uses only
for teas such as this - and all the snacks I made myself.
Now, this is the lounge where we will have our tea.

But let me show you something at the back
- please excuse the mess round here, I am
a dressmaker too, you know - designer stuff -
the place gets terribly untidy; and then, of course
Lindy's always underfoot. Sit down! Now sit!
She gets so worked up, you see. And this gate
I had installed for my security. But just take a look
out there: You can almost see eternity. Now,
have you ever seen a view like that?

This gown I made for Marguerite. She came
round here this morning - Miss South Africa of '68.
Never married, do you know? And still
as beautiful, although she's put on weight.
Poor girl. I wonder, though . . . Oh, never mind,
that's, after all, the way things go. Now come,
let's have some tea. Do you know this? Earl Grey,
which Gavin brings from London, always fresh.
He's with SAA, a gentleman and very kind -

The sun is shifting, she makes more tea. We speak
of this and that: My husband died in '83, how sad
for me who had no kith or kin. But then, you see,
the Lord provides: my tiny Lindy here
is like a child and always such a joy. But what
is to become of her if I - She speaks, and all the while
the light around us fades. It's getting late,
she notes, but don't go yet! You have to see
the view at night. I go along with her to look:

Like a sea the city lies, incandescently inflamed
in outgrowths round the core, the outskirts -
like a nocuous yellow flicker along the seam
dividing elite and deprived neighbourhoods:
a Milky Way torn off by gravity. This is a place
of people, of passion and loneliness. She looks:
You know what this reminds me of? I listen
and then leave. But embedded in that metaphor
(a cemetery alight) I see an old placenta
splayed out - black and terminal with blight.
...

Wanneer die Diereriem na die stand
van die Bul beweeg, word die nagte stil
en die aarde koud. Die geil wildedruif
het algaande rooi van skaamte opgekrul
en skud nou bedees haar nuttelose drag
blare af. Vrugloos was dié stok se jaar
en sy brand nou so stuk-stuk af.

Die bol, die struik, die boom en blom
het ‘n saak met die stand van die son;
maar die kleiner een, die silwerling
van die nag, ons wufte maan - wat
kan sý met ‘n stuiwer bring?

Ag, sy grimeer maar na gelang van dit
wat die Bul verlang. Saans bak sy mooi
broodjies, volrond, en sy gaan haar gang;
sy doen gewoon en gedra haar fatsoenlik
- soos dit ‘n kieskeurige dame betaam
wat van groter dinge weet; sy wat kuis
bly wag op die koms van die Ram.
...

When the Zodiac revolves towards
the sign of the Bull, the nights grow still
and the earth grows cold. The rank wild grape
gradually curls up in her blush of bashfulness,
timidly casting off her ineffectual robes
of leaves. Fruitless was this vine's year
and piecemeal she is now burning down.

The bulb, the shrub, the tree and flower
have a concern with the position of the sun;
but the smaller one, the silverling
of the night, our frivolous moon - what
ha'penny's worth can she bring?

Ah, she titivates herself to please
the Bull. At night it's time for humble
pie, full-rounded, and she goes her way;
as always she behaves respectfully
- as befits a fastidious lady
who knows of greater things; she who chastely
keeps waiting for the coming of the Ram.
...

Die ruising van die see in ‘n skulp
is eintlik - soos almal weet - náklank
van die pols en stulp van die lyf
se taai en langslewende kramp.
Net ‘n ruising, met voorbedagte rade.

Steur jou nie te veel aan dié geluid
nie, al sê dit ook wat; dis net ‘n blyk
dat jy kandidaat sal word - mettertyd -
vir die lasvrye vaart oor die Styx
na die ouwerf van ‘n maan- en sterreryk.
...

The murmur of the sea in a shell
is in truth - as we all know - the echo
of the push and pull of the body's
tough and most enduring spasm.
Just a murmur, by purposeful design.

Do not take too much notice of this sound,
no matter what it says; it is merely a clue
to your candidacy - as time comes round -
for the burden-free journey across the Styx
to a realm of moon and stars far older than you.
...

Gestadig soos die son bedags versink,
kom nagpersoneel hul aanmeld vir diens.
Stiptelik ook die suster, formeel gevat
in uniform, met rooi epoulette toegerus -
embleem van haar gesag - teken sy
haar vir die nagskof aan. Sy glimlag;
dit word van senior personeel verwag.

Loer by die privaat saal in. Alles wel?
vra sy innemend onbesorg. Sorrie jong,
die skemerdop sal eers moet wag,
ons detox nou. Tik ‘n regmerkie aan.

Kort daarna sal sy ‘n trollie begelei
wat medikasie bring, die drup se stand
aanstip en moederlik wys: Sluk dit tog,
ou drommel; daar's nog ‘n stuk of agt
wat hier in die gang op my wag -

so dryf haar pasiënte ‘n stil nagsee in,
een na die ander chemies verdoof
en binne-aars gereinig van - knus
versorg vir minstens ses uur lank.

Tot die oggendlig buite begin lek
aan die skemer se grys membraan,
wat die slapendes wek om hul wonde
opnuut te voel klop en attent te maak
op die allerverskriklikste gruwels
wat daar buite wag.
...

Gradually, as the sun goes down,
the night staff clock in for duty.
Punctually the sister too, formally attired
in her uniform, wearing red epaulettes -
emblem of her authority - signs herself in
for the night shift. She smiles;
it's what's expected of senior personnel.

Peeks into the private ward. All going well?
she asks, endearingly unconcerned. I'm sorry,
but the nightcap will have to wait for now,
we're detoxing you. Ticks off an item.

Shortly thereafter, pushing a trolley,
she brings medication, records the status
of the drip, maternally gesturing: Swallow it
now, you oaf; down the passage there are eight
or so more awaiting my ministrations -

and so on the night sea her patients drift away,
each in turn chemically anaesthetized
and intravenously cleansed of - snugly
taken care of for six hours at least.

Until the outside morning light licks at
the dawn's grey membrane,
waking those asleep to feel once more
the throbbing of their wounds and be aware
of the most dreadful of horrors
waiting out there.
...

Die duiwe het weer nes kom maak. Slordig,
soos hul manier maar is. Vredeliewend hier
op die stoep, in vlegwerk van ‘n druiwerank
tussen blare hul tuis kom maak. Kortstondig.

Hulle slaap nou in pare, soos dit hoort. Rustig.
Luister hoe die ganse buurt oor hul lot nadink,
ons beskeie naastes wat vannag veilig kan slaap;
dalk nog die hele seisoen, net-net beskut en lig

opgevang in ‘n halwe kalbas van stokkies en gras.
(Wie onthou nog die vier wat laas jaar hier was?)

Hier slaap hulle nou, die sagte blou geveerdes
wat naglank van die heilsame Melkweg kan drink
en roerloos droom van ‘n nageslag ongedeerdes,
terwyl die Suiderkruis onverbiddelik sink.
...

Pigeons have come to nest again. Untidily,
as they usually do. Peacefully here
on the stoep, in the latticework of a vine,
amongst leaves making themselves at home. Briefly.

They sleep now in pairs, as they should. Serenely.
Listen to the whole neighbourhood considering their fate,
our modest neighbours who can sleep safely tonight;
perhaps for the whole season, only just protected,

lightly held in half a calabash of sticks and grass.
(Who still remembers the four who were here last year?)

Here they sleep now, the soft blue-feathered ones,
able to drink all night from the wholesome Milky Way
in motionless dreams of their progeny unscathed,
whilst the Southern Cross unwaveringly plummets.
...