Antjie Krog’s poem

I have been reading Antjie Krog, and this poem seems to have been written for me, for M’e Mpho, and for all of us who stick our dying noses up into the plums:

bronze bull of Lavigny

by Antjie Krog

the upright stance is wearing him down

the forever-young torso is getting to him

his over-indulged chest is slipping in between

his legs as he drags the blonde fields uphill in


a remembered act of bliss–his hide skinned

by seasons of poets feeling him up for metaphors

his balls rust forth, his thighs shuffle

protectively around the sweet decomposing


chamber of lust. what is he to do now–this

sad solitary bull? his tail sprained. one horn

gone. his body has become one dumb

eroding dump of fear among the trees. he


knows the great collapse is here and pushes his dry

derelict snout up among the mauve pertblue plums.



About Kendall

Aging drama queen (former professor of theatre) writes, takes pictures, and messes about.
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3 Responses to Antjie Krog’s poem

  1. Ann says:

    I see why this poem would talk to you, dearest Kendall, rightly so. I see totally, I feel the bull’s fatigue and yours. And I pray for the Ocean to restore your bodies.
    Thank you for the poem. Here’s one of hers which I like a lot. Seem like people and land are one.

    Where I become you (1)

    you come to win me over
    at the other end of the world
    I hear your call
    shivering night blue and blindly
    bound by radiant bones

    with you my head bitingly cold

    unwillingly hairgrown
    you begin to unfasten the I from the self
    the inviolable once
    you let loose in many

    loosening one piece from another
    so that the bonds seem incessantly to unfold
    in the unbearably co-writing
    breath of unsundered roses

    to dis-
    the I
    from the also-I
    the you
    from the almost-

    listen, you say, how un-
    fathomably it grieves,
    the profoundness of love

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