voorgeskrewe gedigte / prescribed poems graad 8 … · of zn stukkie strooi. dan sonder rede,...
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[1]
VOORGESKREWE GEDIGTE / PRESCRIBED POEMS
GRAAD 8 DOGTERS EN SEUNS
Broeis hen (George Weideman)
Niks so buierig as ‘n broeis hen nie.
Uur na uur sit sy, ‘n geveerde sfinks,
haar blik geboei deur ‘n halmpie gras
of ‘n stukkie strooi. Dan sonder rede,
tuimel sy uit haar nes, met ‘n feeksskreeu
wat die werf deurpriem.
Behoorlik beheks is sy nou,
haar rok van swart sjiffon
wyd gelig. Sy vit, sy vloek, sy laster;
sy werskaf in die los sand en bedek
haarself met as en roet. Vloog
plotseling op. Los ‘n blerts mis
en kloek terug nes toe. Closet feminis.
GRAAD 9 DOGTERS EN SEUNS
Bure agter mure (Sunette du Plessis)
Bure
Allerhande soorte
Daar’s snaakses
en rares
Normales
en nares
Maar onmisbaar is die bure agter mure.
Dit leen heeldag
[2]
Dis uie en meel
Teruggee
kan hul min skeel
Dit kuier soos toffies so taai
Maar raai
onmisbaar is die bure agter hoë mure.
Baklei soms dat die vonke spat
Maar môre
weer pellie-pellie
af in die pad
So onmisbaar
vir mekaar
die bure agter grysgrou mure.
Meeste is doodnormaal
asvaal gemiddelde mense
draai om die sente
sug oor die rente
sukkel met adolessente
Maar onmisbaar bly die bure
agter baksteenmure.
Sou hulle ‘n boek oor óns wil skryf
het dit presies dieselfde om die lyf
Ook vreugdes
en kommer
ons baklei ook sommer
Ewe normaal
Almal net bure agter soortgelyke mure.
GRAAD 10 DOGTERS EN SEUNS
[3]
Die weg van wysheid (Jelleke Wierenga)
My pa sê ‘n mens wat wys is,
wys nooit dat hy wys is,
want hy weet dat hy eintlik niks
weet nie, hoe wyser hy word.
En hy sê as ek wys wil word,
moet ek ophou vinger wys
na mense wat ek dink wys
moet word, soos ek dink ek is.
Maar ek kan nie help nie;
ek kan hulle nou maar eenmaal
nie verdra nie: al die massas
mense – dik, dom en difficult.
Maar nou mag ek glad nie wys
dat ek so onverdraagsaam is:
‘n wyse mens wys net wat hy wil hê
mense van hom moet dink.
Daarom, sê my pa, moet ek maar
in ‘n politieke rigting gaan:
die dik, dom, difficult politici
poleer mos gedurig hul wyse beeld.
GRAAD 11 DOGTERS EN SEUNS
[4]
Lettergreep (Jeanne Goosen)
Ek wou ‘n gedig skryf
maar in ‘n reël het die woord
arachne
soos ‘n ongenooide gas binnegesluip
Miskien is sy honger
het ek gedink
en haar met die woord ‘vlieg’ probeer voer
Sy het nie ag geslaan nie
maar blink drade oor die bladsy begin spin
Alles wat ek wou behou
het sy na haar vangnet gelok
en dit letter vir letter verslind
totdat net die woord ‘arachne’ oorbly
En die woord het lewendig geword
Dit het op ‘n lyn gaan staan
taai aan my pen begin knibbel
en geprul:
Sjuut
Te veel woorde
Te veel woorde
GRAAD 12 DOGTERS EN SEUNS
[5]
‘n vigslyer sterf (Vincent Oliphant)
die takelwerk word afgetakel
stadig sien sy geliefdes hom inplof
die bekende vlees na binne stort
hulle sien hom steeds stof word
iets wil huil oor die bros vel
wat soos dun seil oor brose stokke lê
oor die mond wat iets wil sê
die gewig van lug
is vir die hand te swaar
die lyf
nou klein en seer
met byna alles reeds verleer
net die oë bly groter staar
soek na raad teen al die skade
na die genade van sag gaan
na verstaan
OPE MANS EN DAMES
[6]
Besoekersboek (Fanie Olivier)
op die sel se mure het iemand uitgekrap
(of liewer: ingekrap): sy naam en al die dae
van sy duskantste verblyf. gaan mens op stap
deur duikweë stasies onder brûe bly draai die vrae
wie was dié peter? Waar kom pam vandaan?
hoe het die vriendskap tussen brian en ed begin?
sou w.a.l. se ouers hom meer as normaal geslaan
het? hoe lank het lieb sy liesbet bemin?
ek loer na die hiërogliewe. ‘n boer het my gewys
waar jagtonele oorgebly het teen die krans.
vóór in die gideons se bybel ‘n lang lys
lesers wat hul teen sterflikheid probeer verskans.
‘n kind hoes seer: ‘n lam huil stomgemaak. Ek skraap
moed bymekaar: ek was hier en hier het ek geslaap.
PRESCRIBED POEMS
[7]
GRADE 8 GIRLS AND BOYS
Holiday (Carolyn J Turner)
I remember the sea
The sea
Moaning, rumbling, grumbling, roaring
Playing like a lion on the sinking yellow sands
Pouncing and retreating in a swell of white-green passion
And dying, dying.
I remember the night
Serene above the water, pulsing deep below
In a dark disguise of moonlight
Fluttering over silver sands and fading
Fading into dimness far away.
I remember the sun
The burning warmth of human flesh on silky dunes,
The gravel heat beneath two weary feet
And the scorched, parched throats
Choking dry.
I remember the day
The glorious journey into the sunset,
The sea and nights and sun
The summer heat and weariness and rest
And happiness.
GRADE 9 GIRLS AND BOYS
[8]
CIRCUS OF FRIENDS (Damian Harvey)
From the first day of term, we were
Like a magic circle it seemed.
We were cool, we were top,
We were cream of the crop,
Meant to be friends to the end. We were
Unbreakable, unshakeable, un-sepa-rateable,
‘Til those Mean-ones muscled on in
And divided our act with their power to pull,
Tearing friendship limb from limb.
Knife-like words were expertly thrown,
But always hit too close for comfort.
Never piercing the skin or breaking the bone
The damage went deeper within.
I became acrobatic
And bent myself double,
Jumping through hoops just to please.
I braved it alone
On the high-wire of friendship,
But mixed loyalties always weigh heavy.
Then while juggling it all,
Without the aid of a net,
They cavorted around me like clowns.
And tripping each other they trapped me with ease
And brought our great act to its knees.
Just at the time we needed each other,
[9]
Our friendship was falling apart.
And as I frantically tried
To break the fall,
Like lions,
They went straight for the juggler.
GRADE 10 GIRLS AND BOYS
Alfred and the Phone–Boxes (Ian Reid)
Alfred wanted to use phone-boxes
for changing into something magnificent.
He knew it was possible, because
Clark Kent could do it – sap to ZAP!
What a crowd-stopper: the sight of Super-Alf
stalking from the booth with bright cape flapping,
limbs a-ripple, gleaming like a Dulux testimonial,
and even more so
his torso!
With a mere flick of his chest
he’d speed aloft, zipping through the dazzled air –
No such luck.
Always the phone-boxes were occupied,
filling up with words and dead weight.
No room inside.
Often it was his grandfather
who’d got in there first, and was trying to grow
lettuce and silver beet, and build stone walls
taller than wide.
Once Alfred was explaining his problem to Grace,
[10]
telling her this heavy tale of booths
crammed with the rocks and veggies of his past,
when she pointed into the distance;
and as her other hand rested on his arm, he saw
a phone-box quietly levitating, up, up and away.
GRADE 11 GIRLS AND BOYS
Penguin on the Beach (Ruth Miller)
Stranger in his own element,
Sea-casualty, the castaway manikin
Waddles in his tailored coat-tails. Oil
Has spread a deep commercial stain
Over his downy shirt front. Sleazy, grey,
It clogs the sleekness. Far too well
He must recall the past, to be so cautious:
Watch him step into the waves. He shudders
Under the froth; slides, slips, on the wet sand,
Escaping to dryness, dearth, in a white cascade,
An involuntary shouldering off of gleam.
Hands push him back into the sea. He stands
In pain and silent expostulation.
Once he knew a sunlit, leaping smoothness,
But close within his head’s small knoll, and dark
He retains the image: Oil on sea,
[11]
Green slicks, black lassoos of sludge
Sleeving the breakers in a stain-spread scarf.
He shudders now from the clean flinching wave,
Turns and plods back up the yellow sand,
Ineffably wary, triumphantly sad.
He is immensely wise: he trusts nobody. His senses
Are clogged with experience. He eats
Fish from his Saviour’s hands, and it tastes black.
GRADE 12 GIRLS AND BOYS
The archbishop chairs the first session (Unknown)
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
April 199, East London, South Africa
On the first day
after a few hours of testimony
the Archbishop wept.
He put his grey head
on the long table
of papers and protocols
and he wept.
The national
and international cameramen
filmed his weeping,
his misted glasses,
his sobbing shoulders,
the call for recess.
[12]
It doesn’t matter what you thought
of the Archbishop before or after,
of the settlement, the commission,
or what the anthropologists flying in
rom less studiesd crimes and sorrows
said about the discourse,
or how many doctorates,
books, and installations followed,
or even if you think this poem
simplifies, lionizes,
romanticizes, mystifies.
There was a long table, starched purple vestment
and after a few hours of testimony,
the Archbishop, chair of the commission,
laid down his head, and wept.
That’s how it began.
OPEN WOMEN AND MEN
The Sensitive Philanthropist (D. J. Enright)
If I give you money,
Give you baksheesh,
Will you stay away
Until next week?
Since money talks
We don’t need to,
Neither you to me
Nor me to you.
[13]
If I give you money
Will you make sure
That the others keep away,
Without me giving more?
Will you promise
To put to flight
All your legless colleagues
By day and by night?
If I give you money
Will you agree
To hide your stump away,
Where I can’t see?
Will you state in writing
That it was done on purpose
And doesn’t really hurt,
The arms, the legs, the nose?
Can’t I send a cheque
Regular each week
By registered letter,
So we need never meet?
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