Pillage

By Antjie Krog

In Pillage Krog develops her familiar themes of family, body and land but this time in the harsh light of pillaging, whether being done by nature, humans, or old age. The poems reveal a painful fragility and yet also finding comfort, a nourishment in remarkable moments of beauty: the delight of an egret in a vlei, watching over a young child who is discovering the world around him, and remembering the raptures of love. 
Pillage is translated by poet and translator, Karen Press.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human & Rousseau
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9780798183550

Antjie Krog

Anna Elizabeth (Antjie) Krog is op 23 Oktober 1952 in Kroonstad gebore. Sy is 18 jaar oud toe haar eerste digbundel, Dogter van Jefta, in 1970 verskyn. In 1972 verskyn Januarie-suite en dit is in 1973 met die Eugène Marais-prys bekroon. Sy behaal 'n BA-graad en honneursgraad in Engels (1973) aan die Universiteit van die Vrystaat. In 1976 verwerf sy 'n MA-graad in Afrikaans aan die Universiteit van Pretoria. Haar digbundel Jerusalemgangers is in 1987 met die Rapportprys bekroon en in 1990 ontvang Antjie die Hertzogprys vir poësie vir Lady Anne. In 1993 is sy aangestel by die tydskrif Die Suid-Afrikaan, en in 1995 begin sy as politieke verslaggewer by die SAUK te werk. Antjie lewer van 1996 tot 1998 verslag oor die Waarheids- en Versoeningskommissie. Sy verwoord haar ervarings oor die proses in Country of my Skull wat in 1998 gepubliseer is en wat met onder meer die Alan Paton-toekenning vir niefiksie en die Olive Schreiner-prys ontvang. In 2003 word die bundel Met woorde soos met kerse, wat haar Afrikaanse vertalings en herbewerkings van poësie uit Suid-Afrikaanse inheemse tale, en een van die San-tale, bevat, aangewys as die wenner van die Suid-Afrikaanse Vertalersinstituut se driejaarlikse wedstryd. Kwela Boeke publiseer in 2004 die digbundel Die sterre sê 'tsau' en dit haal die kortlys van die M-Net-prys vir poësie vir 2005. Kleur kom nooit alleen nie is in 2001 met die eerste RAU-prys vir skeppende skryfwerk bekroon. Sy is sedert 2004 'n buitengewone professor in Lettere en Wysbegeerte aan die Universiteit van die Wes-Kaap.

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Antjie Krog

pillage

Translated by Karen Press

Human & Rousseau

About the layout

The layout of poems in this digital edition of pillage may differ from that of the printed version, depending on the settings on your reader. The layout displays optimally if you use the default setting on your reader. Readers can experiment with the settings to have the poems displayed differently.

for John – as always

1.

it no longer comes to me

it no longer comes to me

the sound

the sound of a poem

no longer comes to me

*

luxuriantly the summer spreads her windblue scarf

it billows with apples, roses and sheaves

in the old orchard plums hang like dark apprehensions

swallow your heart, my love    we’re eating blades of grass

*

a bulbul snuggles up    a goshawk

sways in the silverleaf almond

a world taking its leave is all that pierces

through so many saddled words

oh, my squandered language and chasm of verse

the bells of the western church

peal like cassocks through the wet night

*

how lost we slip through our own hands

how perverse the daylight in your lashes

when last were we liverbrown with desire

leekgreen in our own deeds

when last a new field of air

and our prey cochineal red

we no longer practise that wakefulness

*

flames spark like blossoming sword lilies

eyeball white the virus flares

fire sizzles deep in the lung sacs

hissing blood bubbles through aortas

*

the nervous systems of the winter trees

hang dead still in the fallow air

the cancerous nests of doves

the scrofulous weaver nests

*

it no longer comes to me

everything is iron    everything has congealed

I read how others write:

clove brown, Prussian blue, and creamy, creamy your neck

your long, long, long legs fill me with fury

but to me?

to me it simply no longer comes

once I belonged to the ones on fire

now my voice wants to drift

it trembles repulsively clammy with care and forgiveness

writing retreat

dearest

on a strange, depressing, rainy day

I left you

are you aware that I miss you?

that I left summer behind for winter?

would that I met you

suddenly coming round a corner

you’re in my books with your consent

how are you?

how often I think of you

that you should be here

as always I wait for news

to transform everything my eyes see

take everything audible into my mouth

the inward curl of your navel

the lightlap of larynx

poetry relates the sacral as night falls over the earth

I discover it one misty morning in May

light, but no sky

seeing, but no distance

a sort of chasing after dreams

and what do I discover:

formed by a thousand leaves and grasses

hanging in the air?

a tunnel    a road

a corridor of drops of light

as if you came across a place for the first time, too late

every movement already broken by the railway track

birch trees deny any orientation

of pain and deliverance

of being lost in thought and seized with fear

it has happened: the moment of ending

little of our sweet weariness has remained

just insects digesting our pasts

what are you doing? probably reading on your cellphone?

we’re entering a new era, a different kind of fear

something invisible    I just write what I can

please, don’t forget that I will never forget you

without giving you notice

it’s when I’m away from you

it’s when I’m away from you

that I’m suddenly overwhelmed

by a fear: what would my life

be like without you?

because suddenly I see you from a distance

how now at home you

go your own precise, inconspicuous way

with your silver ponytail down your back

and know how my whole life long

I’ve been able to depend on you

on your judgement

your stubborn moral compass

your unyielding empathy

your inflexible understanding and respect for me

your X-ray insight into my deepest decay

your brusque language

your soft heart    your hard tongue

and that from wherever to whatever

I can always and always

come back to you

and that you’ll be glad to see me

I know also that inside

you’re filled with worry and stress

your powerlessness that you keep to yourself

and that sometimes, when you’re alone, you think

that I never loved you enough . . .

that I chose you as a refuge

and not as the consummation of fiery love

I embrace you through all the barriers of the poem

I have no patience with such spiteful slurs

I refuse to mine for arguments and proofs against them

I only know that the mere thought of you somewhere in the