As I stand in my cage,

constrained by walls of dust,

unseen by the  masses.

I, sentinel unseen.


To you, I’m but an eagle on a perch,

scanning the horizon –

No thought unturned,

Nothing unseen.


To sit, solitary.

To stand, alone.

As time moves –

a silent tide.


I eat music

and spew art.

I drink oblivion

and birth poetry.


Long nights drip from my pen,

woven stars from silver thread.

Petals of blood, and love.

A solitary heartbeat.


I dance pain,

throwing beauty around.

I wear tears

and millstones, like pearls, around my neck.


I breathe the dust

of forgottenness,

an unseen pillar.

Guardian of thought, unseen.


I am the unseen.

My trails of art,

a veil slightly pierced.

Meagre witness of my being.


Tears are naught.

Only frustration remains.

Marks left on paper,

Still cry my silent tears.






Soekie 15-11-2016


My tears fall,

like soft summer rain,

but it’s the winter of the heart.


Once more, I stand on life’s pier.

A lonely figure in the mist,

A pitiful phantom.


Now, your time has come –

the journey where I cannot follow.

Already the whisper: “Let me go”


Once more, death’s veil will fall.

Of water and mist,

Of silence and sorrow.


Today I lost my shadow.

Today my arm was severed.

Today my heart stopped.


I grabbed my chest.

I bent over.

In that moment my tears contained all the world’s sorrow.


This, life’s vertigo:

No up, no down,

No forward or backward.


The way is shut.


And so, you pass into memory –

Of dreams and whispers,

of sleep and death.



Jy was die naaste wat iemand soos ek ooit aan ‘n kind kon kom. Dankie vir al jou liefde. Jy was my ou skaduweetjie. Ek sou enigiets gee om jou net nog ‘n klein rukkie te kon vashou.

Jou ogies het deur my ruite gekyk,

Jy het vlindersag my mure afgebreek.

Jou hart het myne – beseerde soldaat – gesteun terwyl dit voort gehunkepink het –

tydelike rus in die lopende herstel.





My life’s breath


Slowly I make my way

across vast plains of stone.

I share the benefit of shelter

in palaces I do not own.


Slowly I weave my silver chain –

String-of-pearls for no one’s neck.

Glassy baubles, not to adorn.

Lacy cards within my deck.


Beauty is my spider’s craft.

It gives me life’s breath.

Perhaps, not to share therein,

I weave of love and death.



Om te dig/ To write Poetry


(English version of poem at bottom of page)

Ek wil dig

van die dag

toe digtery

my gedagtes bevry het.


Ek dag ek kan dig,

elke gedagte vaspen,

maar daai een gedagte

sit vas in my pen.


Waar dan heen?

Wanneer dan?

Dis waar

wanneer die waarheid uitkom.


Soms bly ek staan.

Daar is sommiges, te dig om te verstaan

waaroor ek dig.

So, ek laat staan hulle maar.


So ‘n gejaag na wind

wat waai waar hy wil.

Hy waai my

na my wil.


Gister het ons nog gedink, gedog,

geweet, maar weer vergeet.

More sal ons weer probeer,

maar dan weet ons nie meer nie…


To Write Poetry

I want to write poetry

about the day


freed my thoughts


I thought I could compose,

pin down every thought,

but that one thought

is stuck in my pen.


Where to then?

When, then?

It’s true

when the truth comes out.


Sometimes I just stand.

There are some, too thick to understand

what I write about.

So, I just leave them standing.


All is just a chase after wind

that blows where it will.

It blows me

toward my will.


Yesterday we were thinking, we thought,

knew, but then forgot again.

Tomorrow we’ll try again,

but then we won’t know anymore…