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poetry
Gert Strydom, 6 january 2016
A room in the past
It is a kitchen with a big settee,
and big old coal and wood stove,
a big table where the whole extended family
ate great meals, sat chatting for hours
sounding to outsiders
like a riot
with a fire burning joyously
or only having comforting glowing coals
and at eleven in the morning, or four
in the afternoon
tea in porcelain cups, sometimes Swiss roll
or her own fruitcake
soaked in brandy
and baked to perfection was served.
It was a place where my grandmother
was bigger than life,
a lady born from Scottish ancestry,
but more an Afrikaner than me
with a true belief in the creator God,
where her love was a dazing light
till one sad night, leukaemia finished her years,
stripped her from me
while I was away at university
and the family
had never been the same again
like it was then
and suddenly that kitchen, that house
was stripped bare from furniture,
was painted and sold
and somehow I was the only one
who did not get
any last words from her.
Gert Strydom, 5 january 2016
The secret room
In the big old white house against the hill
my mother had a pantry, a secret place
which she locked,
where she kept ingredients
for cakes, cookies, ginger beer
and all the lovely surprises that she made
and there were baking powder,
icing sugar, raisins, cherries
and dried fruit
and sometimes I would wiggle
the lock open
with a small piece of wire
and just looked at the shelves
with stacked things,
in the twilight of the room
trying catch the great smell
of everything around me,
but wouldn’t dare to touch a single thing.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2016
System
It was a fractured miscarriage.
The system groaned like a huge cow.
We milked her till human thirst chopped the teats.
I belong to no glamour,
my faults burn like classics.
Total freedom will come
when I am through.
The dates creep under the skin, I faint,
The tiny minims shine on my lips.
The symbols crash.
Me and my shadow bubbling with
the smell of poems,
I come back to arguments.
To justify the Armageddon
of first & last love.
How could it happen?
The fear has death, as a lover.
I sleep with it every night.
The demolition of memory, it sweats like a black cloud.
There is no religion in desires,
choiceless destruction of each dawn.
Gert Strydom, 4 january 2016
It had been a hell of spring with the sun hanging scorching
It had been a hell of spring with the sun hanging scorching,
with nature longing in the flowering season
for the rain that had not come and the days turned over and over
while everything did dry out in record summer temperatures,
while the heat did daily creep higher and higher,
while in the yard flowers and vegetables did continually wither
and on the plains cattle and sheep did die of the drought
while I was still praying for rain to fall
to the God of the universe
and at times the rain did pour down before the heat did come again
in a exhausting summer and I am astounded
that everywhere there still is life,
that buds did appear out of the earth
so as if God was secretly active.
Satish Verma, 4 january 2016
Path Of Destiny
The questions haunt
the genes who could’t stay
in flesh and a womb.
A winter moon picks up
the forgotten trail.
Night slaps a white cloud on my eyes.
A face swims on a lake.
A splash of color.
A yellow leaf falls
on the path of destiny
the moon enters a tree.
Burden of arithmetic shifts.
I take a break from my pain.
A star twinkles hesitantly
outlines a shadow.
I watch a violet flame.
The fear sprints.
I run towards a non-truth
Revenge of love overwhelms,
journies to zero pain.
Inward window opens to more queries.
Life revisits, ignites the dark spaces.
Intimate trust melts like lava.
Gert Strydom, 3 january 2016
The marsh
African coots fly up black in the marsh
and long-tailed widow birds hang
somewhat tempting as if I can catch them
and I am startled as plovers do bombard me
but the marsh does tempt me past them
with a own unknown insistence
till where a Cape monitor peeps like a crocodile
and scared I run back, right across the maize field,
do drive away a group of baboons in my fright,
rock rabbits do run in all directions,
donkeys do stampede out of my way,
the dogs of the neighbours do howl,
the round gate does spin around
and I do not wake mother, as it is Sabbath.
Satish Verma, 3 january 2016
Holding The Poems
The moon scrambles on
the fragrance of the trees
I think of humility & grace.
think of the secret of death,
honey of life and survive
by holding the poems.
I will ask myself
not to invent the echo of tomorrow.
In my aloneness
I watch the dancing of words,
the white tract of thoughts
without thinking. There are
no holes in heart, still the
numbers build the nest.
The abstract arguments of depression.
Lull before the explosive creation.
Movement of grief
is footfall in dark night.
We always blamed the self image
without perfecting our contents.
Liberating self from
bare hands was the theme.
We could bring the screaming moon
to rest upon our souls.
Satish Verma, 2 january 2016
Shifting Sands
Using me,
I take a refuge in desire.
‘Seeing act’ strangulates.
I suffer in the mists of defeat,
there is no evidence.
One attachment catches the conflict.
The fading light of moon burns my pillow,
transcripts impenetrable theme.
Conceiving a problem
in the shifting sands, life seeks
a view of words and enjoys the discreet
meaningless movement.
We play the game again & again,
feed our egos. Study the sorrow
and give charity to the torn flags
of pride and hunger.
The fear does not end,
the looking does not stop.
Each answer leaps to a grief.
The chronicle of squeezed holocaust.
we were hurting each other
humming a song.
Violence of non-violence was more evident.
Satish Verma, 1 january 2016
To Go Back
Let me think without thoughts
to measure the mind, feel the crunching of words.
Time to know the meaningless life.
A flock of sufferings; they were all over
and I was looking at me.
In deep sorrow to go back into myself.
Where were you
in the forbidden void of silence?
The fountainhead drops the legends.
The effort to shift the truth is painful.
I am baffeled by the blinks of lies.
Nothing appears to be real.
Wounds transcend the flesh.
Here I am to feel the blindness of fate
the collapsed roofs of faith,
will discover a new god.
Dry and bright speech
describing the healing touch.
I refuse a diminutive role
of firewood to zip a smokeless fire.
Gert Strydom, 31 december 2015
For my darling, with New Year
At night when the darkness folds around me
and I do hold you tightly
I hear a swarm of mosquitoes flying away
and in dreams I do meet you again.
You are the one that I do love
as if from the beginning
you have been destined for me
and I do wish every beautiful thing
with joy that is braided into your days,
that the days that do come
will have love, bravery and peace
far past the days of old age
as everything that is lovely
I want to say to you.
Latest comments:
13 april 2026
Sorrowhead (ex Cheval)
Dziękuję wszystkim za odwiedziny! W sumie komentarz
12 april 2026
Jaga
Krzewy tarniny w skupisku pachną wiosną i przyciągają
12 april 2026
Coraz trudniej. Chce się zatopić w marzeniach/
12 april 2026
Gdy nie wiadomo o co chodzi, to chodzi o pieniądze
12 april 2026
Czasem klej potrzebny duszy/ gdy we łzach i
12 april 2026
sam53
coraz trudniej o takie prawdziwe, czyste ....
12 april 2026
to znaczy wg koloru, czy wg płci?
12 april 2026
kiwam głową na tak :))
12 april 2026
za mało gmatwu-gmwtwu, a za dużo kleju... pozdrawiam
12 april 2026
zgadza się... moja juszszsz ukojona :)
12 april 2026
na sobotę :)
12 april 2026
Weronika
Może.
12 april 2026
Sorrowhead (ex Cheval)
12 april 2026
wiesiek
12 april 2026
Jaga
11 april 2026
Sorrowhead (ex Cheval)
11 april 2026
wiesiek
11 april 2026
Sorrowhead (ex Cheval)
11 april 2026
Anthony DiMichele
11 april 2026
Anthony DiMichele
11 april 2026
Anthony DiMichele
11 april 2026
Anthony DiMichele