Rika Cilliers

Poet and author of 5 poetry books

Herkenning The following translation (by Bertie du Plessis) is an extract in Rika's fourth and last volume of poetry, Spirakel (Spiracle), pp 57- 58, and refers to the painting, titled "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" by Bertie du Plessis, 1990 airbrush acrylic on canvas 80 cm by 120 cm. In the possession of Dr & Mrs BP Botha 'No Polaroid can equal your airbrush in consummate shimmering... the other flowers rage colour rich uninhibited, violating boundary and circumference; meticulously blown up, but therefore unrealistic: so smoothly executed they shrill against textures of decay - against so much mortal "flower-hood" 'And you, whom I recognise for a flower, in this accidental encounter, making small talk, inspire me to reciprocate, to paint what is as yet outside the frame but even so already encapsulated: 'first the iris flaps its wings, then withers, thin veins lose their tensile strength falter, unable to bear the flower's weight, sap evaporates, leaf after leaf curls back unto themselves and dries into a cheroot then, more tender than the very first bud, praying mantis, with breath bated in a spiracle morphs into a twig settling on my palm.'

Soewenier Haak my hart aan geen poskaart of almanak van boerinne in versteende idilles met kopdoek en voorskoot, geheup om 'n oes van aartappels; kersvers foto's van lig- priemende katedrale – eeue oue verwisseling van stillewes (vermy o.m.: snuisterye, streelstowwe, gesteentes, gekodeerde, geblikte, gebottelde beloftes) vir my wat rusteloos tussen einders bly, bring van jou tog: die koors en koelte van 'n vergeleë hemel met brokke wolk en skadusleepsel; die rowe van vergange winters in ontsapte stamme, 'n deurskynblaar se spartel aan die ontwykende lente vol gefluisterde lewe in weeïge woude wat kruin en vermolm, en, in mere, water wat om vingers slib … Ook: iéts van die swart aarde wat gis oor gekelderde lewe, ingegrys in bewasemde vertrekke, broeiende komberse en omhelsings – tot die filigraan van takke sneeu aftik teen nóg 'n ruit, geluidloos smelt en net forensiese duimdrukke van liefde, grensloos – soos orals elders – verjaar in die stof tussen pleister en stene mag ek vra (om die klippe wat blind bly, die voëls sonder naam, blom sonder kleur, die vreemde sillabes wat sonder inhoud val in die grys negatief van die verbeelding): hoe ánders brand daardie vure? hoe kil skyn elektriese lig ook dáár op weerbarstige vel, hoe sag die raakvat van vereelte hande? bly wondbaar ook daardie monde? talm suur en stysel op die tong, skroei konjak die slukderm tot in die lende? en jy, vervaarde vriend, wat reis- brosjures rakel, met stem wat styg oor soeweniers, vra roekeloos: wat wil JY hê? wat moet ek vir jóú bring?