(with apologies to Johan Steyn)
The smiling tribal witchdoctor
with his bitter cure has got me under control,
everything does not begin and end with me:
with something he says he will fix my small thing
and I become aware, that I am different
but near to being unhappy
and aimless I walk back home.
The balance I can tell you
and now I do not walk the straight way.
My friends come to steal my things!
my wife is passable and during the day
when I whisper to Tristene and Isolde
and wake up they glare at me like wide mouth dragons
and scream that they do not “alls wille.” (do not want “to do everything.”)
I shiver when I can,
suddenly feel strange,
are unreliable for the slightest thing.
If it goes on longer I will probably cry,
make a confession to the elder
and with my conscience and face clean
I might reaffirm my vows.
This is a bad situation,
everything I am striving for, are moving to,
is unsafe against my young pen
and I have suspicions about every thing
(remember I do not talk the language
of that witchdoctor fellow)
everything does not begin and end with me:
and I live without peace and I am loose.
My life is now playing off in parts with fun,
without the absence of this and that girlfriend
and their demands in winter stir me
and I am not able to page through Chausson or Thomas.
I get time to read Rilke though
and in silence with nuances I lie and slobber.
Only taking notice of the wind blowing each day.
I whistle, after days walk straight past every rubbish bin,
know the taste of water from a urinal
and in a big jam
I am begging to get back my anguish
of cleanliness and God fearing virtue.
Let every angel that can
late at night call me in vain.
[Reference: Psigiatrie (Psychiatry) by Johan Steyn.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem