travel to an island....

wandering down memory lane..... madagascar....

Saturday-night

I am totally inspired by all the creativity, dare and fun out there
here are a few of the sites you must visit:
http://blissfulb.blogspot.com/

http://homeshoppingspy.wordpress.com

http://wordpress.com/tag/osborne-and-little-garden-grove-fabric/

http://www.2c.com.au/about.cfm

http://www.lanaloustyle.blogspot.com/

write off

April was a bit of a write-off...
very stressful - retrenchments at work
Mom went in for a hip-replacement
friends going through rough & stormy seas
No-bonus declared
I canceled on a friend's wedding invite - flew to JHB - giraffe. impala, elephant, waterbuck, kudu, wilde beest, hippo, foxes, etc etc in Bakubung Bush lodge..
skin packing up and breaking up (out!)
husband working around the clock
not really sure if I'm coming or going
nor where I'm heading

imperfect love

frustration reaching out with calloused hands to
gently touch the loved one
only to hurt them with the
coarse blistery caress
well-intended hug only conveys disappointment and regret
etched into your skin
the broken world
imperfect

how then can you love perfectly
and share your heart's most pure intention
without getting a shard stuck in the others' ?







extract by Anaïs Nin:

"I am floating again. All the facts and all the words, all images, all presages are sweeping over me, mocking each other. The dream! The dream! The dream rings through me like a giant copper bell when I wish to betray it. It brushes by me with bat wings when I open human eyes and seek to live dreamlessly. When human pain has struck me fiercely, when anger has corroded me, I rise, I always rise after the crucifixion, and I am in terror of my ascensions. THE FISSURE IN REALITY. The divine departure. I fall. I fall into darkness after the collision with pain, and after pain the divine departure."

and my favourite sensual inspiration:

March days return with their covert light,
and huge fish swim through the sky,
vague earthly vapours progress in secret,
things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,
grey lurchings of the ship of winter
to the form that love carved in the guitar.
O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,
dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,
to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,
so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,
the sea forget its cargoes and rages,
and the world fall into darkness’s nets.

Pablo Neruda



how I wish this release
with you
for you and to you
how I yearn for this beauty to fracture your
glass cage
and let loose the
naturally
wild
animal which
you were meant
to
be



For him, from me

Love poem

two hearts which beat as one?
impossible
two thumb prints cannot perfectly meet
in absolute synchronicity
which you
aspire to
on your wedding day

Only to find the smallest difference
sets you further apart than
north from south
on your road
to
realisation
that all you have

is an attempt
a human
broken attempt
at meeting in the middle

but the road you walk on is cobbled with
trust and will
and determination

and the walking-stick: blind faith
that you'll get there



Maria

Rumi and Pablo Neruda

man searching for spiritual treasure
could not find it, so he was praying.

A voice inside said,
“You were given the intuition to shoot an arrow
and then dig where it landed,
but you shot with all your archery skill!
You were told to draw the bow
with only a fraction of your ability.”

What you are looking for
is nearer than the big vein
on your neck! Let the arrow drop.

Don’t exhaust yourself like the philosophers,
who strain to shoot the high arcs
of their thought-arrows.
The more skill you use, the farther you’ll be
from what your deepest love wants.

~ RUMI


another gem:

Absence I have scarcely left you When you go in me, crystalline, Or trembling, Or uneasy, wounded by me Or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes Close upon the gift of life That without cease I give you. My love, We have found each other Thirsty and we have Drunk up all the water and the Blood, We found each other Hungry And we bit each other As fire bites, Leaving wounds in us. But wait for me, Keep for me your sweetness. I will give you too A rose. Pablo Neruda

Monday - night

"If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come." -Chinese proverb

I have found this gem on Oriah Mountain Dreamer's blog.

xxx

poems for him

You are my emergency kit
you are my pleasure
You are my longing and my
sustenance
and my joy

M

_________________________________________________________________

like a slowly sad smouldering cole
like the whisp of a match
that was lit
a couple
of
seconds
ago


Maria Swanepoel


___________________________________________________________________

I love you quietly
subtly
evenly
like bloodflow
constant
warm
life-giving

decision-tree deluxe !!!

happy thoughts

broken barriers
blissful beauty
bondage and release
but
night comes
and starts to sing for
me

inspired by Rilke

My dierbare draf-maaitjie het hierdie oulike"Happy-thoughts" lysie gemaak vandag- toe ek bietjie af was:
kyk net hoe oulik !!!!

"bambi…wit tulpe……kombers en boek onder groot koelteboom in die lente…travelling…sjampanje en goeie geselskap…poetry…franse musiek…warm somers aande met krieke in die agtergrond…thai cooking lesse…art exhibitions in klein ateljees in ‘n hoekie van die stad…rooiwyn en cabaret…mooi foto’s…urban klere… Kamersvol op Lourensford…


nuwe polo…top biling…
pekanneut kaaskoek…
jou blog "

Inge- you rock babes!

one day two days three days

Poem for him

where there is love and coffee... and
laughter


and the food is burnt and so is my fingertips
and it doesn't hurt

The weeks are such neat little boxes
Each bow-tied, with myriad moments and stings and songs

The boxes stack up quickly.
when you blink- you have a pyramid of 7.
What are we building and do we like/ endorse the end-product?

life... and death

The previous two poems were an attempt to make sense of a tragic and sudden fatal sky-diving accident of a Paarl-lady in her 30's.
She is leaving two young boys behind. Lorenzo and Luca.

It made me think... what we leave behind... our legacy.
the lingering smell of our personality

May this be a special time of Love, with Valentines' now an after-thought, of love in all its forms and flavours.

the last breath

It can be a slow and quiet sigh
It can be an ear-piercing scream
But death, like a dream...
does not seem real

It is not something you can feel
It is rather
the absence
of something
of life
of breath

No circumstance or place inappropriate, it comes
when it wishes
It comes before you can give the good-night kisses
or before you can hang up the wet washing
or before you can write your thanks on a card

however we prepare
it is always abrupt
and cruel
No trial run or practice session
but is always there, in the background
waiting
for our predestined hour
to utter the last
silent
sigh


Maria

Sunday-night

The moon is a strange colour
The night has an eery sound
Premonition plumps the sun's distant cousin
round

what is bigger than death?
Our most fierce argument or wishes are
petty and trivial
and words... embarrassingly flimsy
against its finality

Nothing to say
Nothing to do
but a prayer of silence
we may offer




Maria
31 Jan 2010

Friday night

The bliss of not having to be anywhere
but here
The freedom of not having to be anything
but myself
here
with my husband

The blissful choice and privilege of being in love

back

Thanks to the generous and tender care my husband bestowed on me while I was semi-unconscious with tummy-bug,
I am now back in the land of the living.

wonderful not to have pain
to eat whatever you feel like
to walk down the stairs without fear of fainting

Thank you, Doctor Perold
Thank you husband and friend, Chris

Now some dishes as I had Bible Study group at our house tonight.
M

Wolseley

Pity yee who have not discovered Wolseley ♥

It is a small gem of a Breedekloof-village. dierbaar. Wholesome. It is the place where I can really let my mind roam, where the thoughts cannot escape beyond the mighty mountain-range. Before I go all soppy.. it is also the home of my mom & dad. The beginning and end of my life, the solid rock and the wispy cloud, the below and above.

I love that at 29 I can get back into bed with my book (in my mom's bed) and that she will join after she's watered her herb-garden. Life is beautiful.. and slow... and I don't want to go


I enjoyed lunch in Ceres with my youngest sister and stitched some hand-towels with my mom for a creché she is co-running in the poorer side-of town... everything is peaceful.


Maria

Friday morning at the taxi rank

When I was young, the taxi rank was a scary place.
Durbanville's wasn't quite as scary as Bellville's and I assume there were even more terrifying ranks of which I was unaware.


It was a place we had to visit weekly to get our darling Grace. Grace really was our home's saving grace on a Saturday-morning.
Scary place why?
It was full of noise, language and smell unlike anything my tranquil home resembled.

It was foreign.
This morning, 12 years later, I drove to the taxi rank to pick up Sanna.


Background for the reader:

The arrangement was that Sanna would help me out every second Friday, starting today. She has never been to Durbanville.We met in my office (where she pleaded for extra work as the cleaning-company she works for pays very little) She had instructions to get off at the Durbanville-Taxi rank and I'd be waiting for her from 07.45am - 08.15am. I explained that I had to leave at 08.15am, so as to NOT be late for work. And I even went further:

If I am late for work, I don't get paid (ok, not QUITE the solemn truth, but it drove the point across) and then I cannot pay her. So it works like a little domino-game.
I thought she got it.

From 07.45am to 08.15am, I had a very different experience than 12 years ago.

Firstly: it is colourfull. The ladies look amazing (traditional gear) and the garden -boys look fresh and energetic.

There is a definite social order/ranking to be noted:

A taxi-driver is the equivalent of a prince. They walk around like they own the region. The younger ladies who pitched up in the prince's carriage, waiting for their evil stepmom's to come pick them up, (sorry it was just too easy to say that) are the little princesses, who will grow up to be the queens of the estate. (Queens earn the best, as I later heard)

Another element to this scene which struck me, was the calm sort of orchestrated chaos. Ladies chatting, probably comparing the attitudes of their employers and how that translates into their pay-cheques, or talking about the kids, or the neighbours' kids, etc. The princes are trying to find the parking spot closest to the food-distributing caravan.

The caravan ( which cannot be roadworthy even if it tried ) is stationary and serves coffee and "pap and vleis" as I hear one prince asking the next if he wants some.

Some sit inside it like a gypsy café and others order from ( what I assumed was once ) the sleeping quarter's window.

But they look like a tight-knit community. Two princes are crouching (investigating something of concern under another's vehicle ) They look like two qualified mechanics: they debate and give advice.

In contrast: there are large 4X4- vehicles parked to one side ( they are also waiting for their Sanna's ) and there are slick sexy sports cars, also on the look-out from a Gucci'-framed view for THEIR Sanna's. But we all park away from each other (one empty parking space in between for courtesy sake, like in church) and the Sanna's are all chatting away, like sisters, standing closely together: sharing life.

fascinating

My Sanna didn't pitch, or her taxi broke down along Durban Road or I missed her with 2 minutes.
Who knows.
But I gave another Sanna a lift to Murray-street, where she works 5 days a week for a "lazy madam" ( her words)
fascinating.

What a colourful morning all before 08.30am
cheers for now

i write to establish a rhythm

... we write and write to try

reach

for the sense

in the chaotic day

and make peace with the pace

Maria

Wit Warm Woensdag

Kaap

warm

warm

warm

Poem for Lizel

The winged- spirit leads you to the fire
Whispers in your ear while she fans it.
Scorches away the warts and illusion
T’is the same angel holding out her hand
Balm of Gilead
Guides me through the furnace and ash
To the cool calm of daybreak

Again and again



For Lizel Stephen

Tuesday 12th Jan 2010

Something magical about a Tuesday... like it laughs in the face of Monday.
It does not have the century-old burden of "Monday"-ness to it.
___________________________ ________________________
I get up easier , I drive to work like a normal person (sticking to the speed-limits, giving way, etc) I even read some poetry before the first recon is due


To hang bare light bulbs from a ceiling
simple cord will always serve;
it's only the poet who must hang
by his glaring white spiral nerve.

- Andrei Voznesensky


Life’s instructions: breathe, eat, sleep, smile
Yet the modern man did not master even one of those
We think and move in a drunken haze and
collapse
puzzled
by the lack
of quality
of living


Maria Louw

from the little book my sister gave me for Christmas

Dream lofty dreams,

and as you dream, so you shall become.

Your vision is the promise of what you shall one day be;

your ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last

unveil

James Lane Allen

Poem

One mouth: word sound
One mind: opens
Let him who have ears; listen
let him who have words; speak


MLouw






the meaning of life...
Life is the meaning
and one should gracefully bow and thank
but I stomp my foot
and I want more
I yank the host's arm
and scream like a 7-year old
I want more
I want more
crazy and disrespectful



Maria

between me and you

between me and you
Only words
vowels connecting
Consonants illustrating
landscape of my mind
taking a stroll
through yours




Maria Swanepoel

words

a recipe of letters
strung together: home baked bread
A billion recipes
Author: the mind

If the mind loses it's footing, trips.. falls....
word-food goes sour, rancid
inedible, unrecognizable
rendering the
chef
alone





Maria Swanepoel

Poetry on a Hot Saturday-morning

words

My language, my words
My tools, my bridge
from my heart and mind
to the next

colourful walkways between friends
highways at work
fantastical forest for soul mates

but your blunt and senseless
hammering of opposing words
the confusion you use
to chop at
the bridge of camaraderie
is
inexcusable

Maria Swanepoel

Weekend-memory

Lovely weekend spent walking around Stellenbosch with minor headache from dinner-party of the night before. ( My best friend got engaged and the rock on her finger sparkles with the same clarity as her beautiful mind. )
The thrill of the little decor-shops and tree-lined streets with its café - culture quickly rejuvinated me.
Lourendford Deli.

This is an exquisite chapter on its own. Good friends and good food. The stuff dreams are made of.
Thanks Ronel for hosting me.
It was great great Great.

I promised some poems... so they are on their way.

I should always have an ee cummings poem at hand

because you take life in your stride(instead
of scheming how to beat the noblest game
a man can proudly lose,or playing dead
and hoping death himself will do the same

because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt
(and consequently dare to climb the sky)
because a mind no other mind should try
to fool has always failed to fool your heart

but most(without the smallest doubt)because
no best is quite so good you don't conceive
a better;and because no evil is
so worse than worst you fall in hate with love

- human one mortally immortal i
can turn immense all time's because to why

e e cummings

almost lunch time

Why is it that small things amuse me ...

like chasing an accounting entry of R124.65 while I should be looking at the R84m budget which we are wrapping up for year-end.

That is not called working smartly.

at all

Another item of distraction is the recent go-ahead I received on our planned European holiday ( Sept 2010 )

and of course I have to HAVE to find out what/where the really tucked -away / off the beaten track spots are in Germany.

Today

Now

I have to find the perfect little village which Top Billing would want to visit next....

Ok- gotta get back to work....

Back to School

Back to School (uhm) work I mean....

It is two worlds clashing.. like angry waves....

The zen of holiday and taking things one notch slower ( and smelling the flowers so to speak ) versus the frantic angry traffic and the irritable PA in the office with her maddening little squeak of a laugh.

Out goes your intention of being kind, generous and graceful in 2010.

But I run after my thought and my good intention like a High-street shopper to the opening doors of after-Christmas-sales.

I want it

I want the quiet spirit, the calm spirit, the solid goodness of ... home baked bread? and proper coffee... not the canteen's excuse for caffeine-kernels....

but no matter

I am determined.

Will keep you posted.

It is, only the first hour :)