[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?