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De Waal Venter Poem
I last-touch
the tiny giggle
of the hand that carelessly lets go
a moment of a horizon-less lifetime.
And she lifts her head
encoppered curly hair
framing the face
that uncle Chagall will want to possess on canvas,
Raphael will woo with the charm of a Reborn man,
Renoir will gently daub in moving light.
I take away the giggle
and delicately arrange a small place
for it to nestle off to sleep
among the most gentle, manly words
I can release from my heart.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
The cloudscape changes
and floods excited crowds of sunlight
on a patch of playful sea,
turning fat green hills
into toyful bumping buses.
The wind turns her back,
shows me her cold white legs,
striding away.
The land is blackgreen,
the sky is dark coffee;
there is no exit sign.
She rips open the sky, the wind,
with a naughty laugh,
she breathes sea sand through my hair.
I do love you after all, she sings softly;
old apricot flavoured philosopher,
you ancient jingly bag of thoughts.
I love you
even though I cannot take you
yet
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
Word catcher
cages words
in poems.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
The first needles were of bone or wood,
perhaps inspired by the pine's green ones.
People sewed skins together,
shaped them around their chests,
their arms, their legs
to hug the warmth
to their bodies.
When the white giants
grudgingly began to step back
into the howling hell
where they came from,
needles became bronze
and later iron;
people learned
to weave threads together,
crosswise, up and down
to make cloth.
Now needles are shiny steel;
they embroider flowers,
became hollow to drink blood,
to stream drugs into arteries.
Now they bridge
sickness and health,
life and death,
as we crowd each other,
dancing awkwardly
on the points of needles.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
The silk lines billow far out
in the thin sky
saturated with light blue sunshine.
I hold them together
in my left fist
on my hi-tech chariot;
my right hand twists
and we are loose from earth.
The silken lines undulate
over continents;
gallop the golden stallions
as I observe the people
releasing the flavours of their foods
the clench of cereals, the delights of fruit,
the iron of flesh, the sere of burnt blood
coming to me in a gracious sine curve.
It seems nothing has changed much
since the first chariot chase;
men still do not look
me straight in the face,
building dynasties on the sherds of others,
constructing palaces
to supply the noble rubble
on which to found new fallacies.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
In 1950 the boy's world
was mostly populated by women.
Men were there as well
but they were like forces of nature
dark, incomprehensible, moving around
making deep sounds.
Women had red painted nails,
they had permed hair,
they had bosoms
smelling of babies.
They spoke often, mostly pleasantly,
their words left a dryish lipstick taste
on the boy's lips.
When they kicked off their high heels
the damp odour
of their nylon stockinged feet
had a strange allure.
There were little girls,
small feral things
with glittering, gathering eyes
and they sometimes bit.
The boy wanted one of these
but did not know how to acquire her.
So he touched her hair
and she slapped him away.
That night he slept with the sting
of her eyes
cuddled in his arms.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
Yesterday when I killed her
she looked into my eyes.
You go before me, I said
as I drove the spear
between her ribs into her heart.
I think you forgive me, is what I said.
She folded her legs
and met the ground.
We skinned her
and left her head and some entrails
for the wolves,
but I saved her tongue.
I will cure her dappled skin,
soft as a woman's hair
for that agile girl.
I will give the gall
to old shaman.
Thank you for your meat,
swift woman, your soul
now running freely with the herd.
Tonight in sleep
when I have gone to the other world
I will use your eyes to see me.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
Yesterday at the braai
I watched the smoke
lifting on swirls of hot air.
I thought it was a good idea,
so I told myself I was light.
At first I wobbled unsteadily,
satiated with smoky, fragrant air,
but eventually I slowly left the ground.
First I drifted sideways,
and then I floated higher at a slant.
I waved my hands
to turn myself horizontal,
and studied the ground below.
Roofs surrounded by trees
made a suburban patchwork,
blue and greenish flashes
indicated pools.
The blimp in shorts and sandals
that was me, drifted far below the clouds.
People were dots in their back gardens
doing Sunday things in their casual clothes.
I felt the need to wee, and did.
I don't think a single drop
reached anybody below –
nobody looked up,
people rarely do.
Note
"braai" = "barbecue"
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
Wild joy filled me,
but I don't know why;
perhaps it was
the young woman
I imagined,
picking up discarded clothes
in the bathroom
with her skinny hands,
her hair loose, falling over her eyes.
She pulled the bathroom plug
and cleaned the ring
with a long-handled brush.
She mumbled a song to herself
and got up from her knees
with a small grunt.
She was wearing a bra
that pinched a little on the left.
I liked the way her eyes
turned the colour of whisky
when she looked into the light.
Outside the door
there was nothing;
not even the vacuum of space –
she hadn't imagined it yet.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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De Waal Venter Poem
Dark brown and warm
next to the coal stove.
Red glinting hot
through the cracks.
Food smells
hold my hands,
caress my head.
Yes, I can walk
to the door.
The road is lightening up,
curves down
to the river.
I walk alone
swinging my arms
for the first time.
Down there
songs are sung in green,
games are played in light,
jokes are made in red, orange;
blue girls' voices
talk about me.
OK, I'm coming.
Copyright © De Waal Venter | Year Posted 2008
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