Ek onthou hoe hierdie eiland gelyk het, destyds, met sy heerlike liane
waaraan ek met my hele gewig kon swaai,
sterk groen toue in boomgange vervleg,
                                       en daar ver onder, agter die ingewikkelde skaduwees,
                                       my skerm in die son, blond
                                                   soos 'n jong vinknes,
en hoe ek van al die waters kon drink, en my
aan al die geure kon vergryp – en bo my, altyd, bont voëls
wat my met naam geroep het, en hulle neste vol van oop oranje kele
waar ek soms uit pure speelsug die kuikens uit my hand gevoer het;
want hulle is mos blind, totdat hul sien.
En dat ek ’n Ma gehad het, allesomvattend en stil.

Daar was niks aan Caliban wat lomp was nie, tóé.
Ek was 'n aperige koning van die omtes, behaard, ja, maar vol van
ontploffend taal, my lippe gekurf om alles wat ek te sê gehad het
                                                                                       van myself.
Tot die klein speelding van ’n boot in die baai kom lê het, an dááruit
stroom meteens ’n optog wesens in fluweel en kant – allerlei teksture,
kleure en gebeurlikhede: ek het dit alles mettertyd leer opnoem,
klank na klank uit die hand van die listige magister
wat sy toneelstuk hier, hier opgevoer het onder groot gebare
                             en toe spoorloos vertrek het na beter gehore.

Ek onthou hoe die eiland gelyk het voordat ek alleen geword het, ek
wat nou soos water afstroom van een bobbejaantou na die ander,
verlangend na daardie kosbare primate
                           wat my babbelend van boeke en tifone verlaat het.

Die geraamte van die houtteater staan nog in die ooptetjie. Ek besoek dit
elke dag. Ek beruik dit. In raapsels van hul pragtige gordynstof

draai ek my snags om warm te kan droom.

I remember what this island looked like, before, with its pliant lianas
from which I swung with my whole weight,
strong green ropes looping green trees, one after the other,
                                                  and far below, behind the intricate shadows,
                                                  my hut in the sun, as blond as a young
                                                                weaver's nest
and how I could drink from all the waters
and could devour all fragrances,
and above me, always, dappled birds who called me by my name,
where I fed their nestlings – and they ate from my hand,
because, remember, they are blind till they see.
And I had a mother then, encompassing and kind.

There was nothing that was clumsy about Caliban, then.
I was an apish emperor, hairy, yes, but filled with an explosive speech,
my lips curved around everything that I had found to say for myself.

Then came that day when the little toy-boat came ghosting into the bay.
From it emerged a string of beings clad in mottled velvets and lace –
textures, colours, and occasions – I was taught these very words in time
by that lisping magister who performed his play here, using spacious
gestures, and then left without a trace for better audiences in other places.
                                                                                       
I remember what this island looked like before I became solitary here,
I who flow now like pale water from monkeyrope to monkeyrope
longing for those precious primates who left me prattling
of their tempests and books . . .
                                                       The wooden skeleton of their theatre still
stands upright in the levelled dell. I visit it every day. I sniff around it.
             I enter it.
At night I roll myself up in the remnants of its plushy curtains

to keep warm.