As die voorprater van Bittereinder kan Jaco van der Merwe self 'n ding stukkend rym. Hier deel hy die werk van sy gunstelingdigters.
1. Saul Williams - Coded Language
Cid Corman - Lees die gedig "It Isn't For Want" hier.
now the words walk backwards, back to the beginwards, to the woods where the first fire of begin began and – would you be so kind as to swing shut the door? thank you – and the sun sank sentences of light to the dim and dimmer and dusk and dark, and look: that is a planet that shines bright with the liquid silver of the sun – this is not night, we are merely in the shadow of the earth as the sun burns americans and canadians and peruvians and colombians right now there is a blue whale breaching off the coast of sri lanka which looks with a wet eye and a flat smile at venus and thinks: that is a planet that shines bright with the liquid silver of the sun – this is not night, we are merely in the shadow of the earth, and look, an iridium flare off a satellite, and stars, the soft songs of stars rain down their thoughts onto the open throat of the sea which is here dark and there light and full of fish on underwater footpaths, some deep, some shallow, some wide, some narrow and there are valleys there, and troughs, mountains and split seams into which our devices can peer and sample from and deduct: this is deep mud, this is a fish with a lantern on its head – ok, we have to go back up for air now, and at the same time, the blue whale folds the ocean back over its nose and dives deep down towards where the thoughts of stars have coalesced to be pages torn from a book on which words have sifted down gently in the shapes of butterflies and birds and bats which now, elsewhere, in real life, flit from rocky overhangs in haphazard fashion in search of the covert insects of night skies, and fly from a protea bush in the kouebokkeveldberge to alight on a lichen covered rock, grey and white and orange, to call for a friend, a lover, a wife, a husband, and flit and flap, the butterfly goes, downwind, hurtling towards where its tongue will uncurl its glorious whip and insert it into a microscopic tube from which it will lick, quick-quick, the sweetest of things from which it will create a further life, a little worm, a small button attached to the underside of an outeniqua yellowwood-leaf in the woods, the begin-woods where the first begin of fire began, where our skeletons stretched and our skulls expanded to invent the spear, and art, and killing, war, empathy and love, immigrant boats and coastal guards, security guards and gods, just gods, just unjust gods, enough unjust gods to justify all of our weaknesses, all of the most terrible things we can do with our hands – in order to cut off a hand you have to hold it with a hand – but also, when we stop to be ourselves, and simply become the children of our mothers and we return to their homes, in the rooms where they sit, and we let our hands rest in the laps of our mothers to be held by theirs, then we hold the hands of all the mothers who ever lived, and the men who loved them and the parents before them and the children after them and then we are in the tidal pool at kidd’s beach, the emergency room at groote schuur, in an aeroplane above the equator fast asleep, wide awake in the sun at the cricket with half a watermelon on our heads and we are in the clouds around high peaks, we are snowstorm and sand, we are footpath and road, horse-saddle and bow and arrow and we travel around the rims of the weak hearts and gather speed and then slingshot into the great open plains, where the woods once stood.