Faint whisper from far away Finland.
Swans fly through my head,
the lake lies quietly inside my chest.
Listen, for you can hear
old songs drifting slowly over the plains,
hymn and chants, nurturing milk for souls.
For my Muse
Softly, softly touch my forehead
lovely and holy you look upon me
for when I was soft with youth
you were there
for when I was old and worn
you were there
Kindly, kindly cover my head
benevolent and with compassion
you look towards me
for when I was cold and aloof
you were there
for when I was lava and fiery
you were there
Gently, gently cross my chest
forgiving and loving you see me
for when I was alone and a cast away
you were there
for when I was a cajoler and praised by many
you were there
Warmly, warmly you touch my feet
closing my casket the same way you rocked my cradle
you are here
by Anja Marais
Folk the Great
– Somewhere in a park in St Petersburg, Russia
We are all sitting around
Peter the Great.
At his feet memorial flowers still
holding on to its faded glory.
Folk songs braid with bird song
up in the tree tops.
The children carousel the heavy bronze,
even the sailors loosen their upper buttons.
Peter still proudly commands the
heavy putty grey ships,
anchored in front of his metal gaze.
The fleet stares back at the commotion
and sigh for a job well done.
we sing without pretense
we play without inhibitions
we enjoy the sun without being vain
Later as the accordion notes and the collective voices
ebb and clash with birds, footsteps and breeze –
the soldiers return unwillingly to their bunks.
by Anja Marais
The end. The beginning.
She looks tired, her face sullen
her built is somewhat smaller than
the younger generation
She is clad in coarse wool and black
her shoulders broadened by years
of hard labor and her hands
contain mountains and rivers
She never sits down she is
somehow always going forward
forward, toward, toward
Her steps are now short but still plenty
her back that of a tortoise-shell
covering its soft contents
When she passes soldiers, they salute her
The priest gives her a silent nod
The youth offers her their train seats
For she melted the steel that became
the bridges, the car
For she crushed the rocks that became
the road, the city hall
For she planted and harvested so that
you can grow
Even in her weakened state and waning last days
her footsteps keep pounding past our front doors
forward, forward, toward, toward
by Anja Marais
Ode to Kronstadt
Kronstadt, St Petersburg – 2013
(I)
the left ear of russia
the eye and brow towards the west
key that locks the gate
when you put on your white dress
only then can outsiders walk towards you
(II)
old brick and dry mortar
varicose veins of cracks in your concrete
ceilings caved under burden of ages
the plaster drip from your tired walls
children’s footsteps imprinted in your dusty streets
(III)
incense through the cathedral doors
seeps softly from the warmth within and
touches and reminded passers-by
that this scent is of ages past
its sweetness filled with faint distant voices
