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poetry
Gert Strydom, 17 july 2013
The first summer rain
My darling says look at the sky
and I see that it’s grey
and I wonder how much
she does really love me
and in the distance
I hear the roar of thunder
and how it’s drawing nearer and nearer
and we smell the rain
in which she wants to frolic
while it falls and the thunder
is coming closer and closer
and there is a light breeze blowing,
which makes her hair hang in strings
while the clouds are drawing close.
Gert Strydom, 17 july 2013
The rainbow
I saw it first,
that giant magic tree
just over the Magalies mountains
with thousands of Jacaranda trees
lining the streets acknowledging
that soon the sun would shine again.
The pepper tree in the front
of the yard took its notice
while birds started singing in it,
and the avocado tree stopped lashing the roof
and was looking at the majesty
of different colours.
That great clear rainbow was huge
spreading its beauty and indicated
the end of days of rain,
but our bedroom’s windows
were drawn close
with thick mauve curtains
fencing you off
in your own cave
which was as dark as a grave
where you hated any light
and laid in darkness
as if the fourteen day’s rain
would last forever
and the only safe place
was the big warm copper bed
and yet, outside the sun
was hanging brilliant white
in a clear blue sky
while you wished to die
and felt more blue
than the heaven above
and when I opened the curtains,
opened the windows wide,
you saw me as a member
of the inquisition
and thought that I was throwing
a searchlight in your eyes
as if I wanted to question you
and I wonder why
you wanted to spend the whole holiday
sleeping and playing dead?
Satish Verma, 17 july 2013
EMPTY DAY
take back your smile,
the fish has died in my hands;
nowhere you have touched me
deep in the brutal corona of a black moon -
my sun spots were waning:
a hole in the wind, chased
adulthood of man for a frozen
infantile mutancy
something stopped you
to discover yourself in the rage:
what was it? I am refusing to believe
something between the unbuttoned
golden flesh of a mummy,
the old version dies hard, fear escapes
from amygdalae,
in mourning, comes the rainbow
of pain, the rain lashing on window
i am melting inside a cast
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
A women with her own ways and own will (Collins sestets)
(after William Wordsworth)
There was something strange that did draw my sight
as if she was an angel of the light,
as a apparition from heaven sent
she filled more than a single moment;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
Like me she was but a mortal being
but her glance and her voice made my heart sing,
right there maybe God did not intervene,
her company was sweet, somewhat serene;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
Her lovely bright eyes did mine squarely meet
and she was sculpted perfect to her feet,
her actions was at her will, true and free
and bright like the sun she smiled at me;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
[Reference: “She was a phantom of delight” by William Wordsworth.]
Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
On a girl that I did meet (Collins sestets)
(after John Harington)
I saw a girl with eyes shining, ablaze
with cheeks much softer than a single rose
and saw her on some pleasant summer days,
broken things do not fit, she did disclose,
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
It was too early for of love to speak,
saw unhappy tears running down her cheek,
while I did not know how I did cause pain,
have no ideas of what actions remain,
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
The good deeds and words which are very kind
at times speaks to the heart, the soul and mind,
nothing rekindles a quenched desire,
less it’s some divine, Godly kind of fire;
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
[Reference: “On Isabella Markham” by John Harington.]
Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
Stealing a kiss (Novelinee)
(after George Wither)
While gentle you lie sleeping next to me
I am thinking of stealing one small kiss
and between us both, kisses must come free;
is it some robbery if I do this?
Maybe looking at you, you will awake,
a kiss will not leave you poor indeed,
but plenty more is there only to take
while many more I do constantly need,
while sleeping you smile, as if to proceed.
[Reference: “A stolen kiss” by George Wither.]
Satish Verma, 16 july 2013
TRAVELLING TO MOON
Blood and bones
become qualification
watching and being watched.
Eyes in introspection
incubation
waking the black dawn.
Anguished
blank stares, after dispossession
collapse on the hills in confusion-
umpteen times. Ontogeny
repeats filial love
after parental loss.
Monofloral we stay,
you cannot do anything
except to collect the honey.
Shot in the face, my name.
The next tragedy
begins at home!
Break the cutlery
there is no water,
frogs will not jump today.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
At the marsh
(after N.P. van Wyk Louw)
African coots and wild geese drift past
the bulrushes and bushes of reeds
and deeper in the marsh
there is something that comes alive.
As a small child I am at the tributary
and see something strange coming out of the water
and suddenly a monitor appears
that astounds me with its swishing tail
before it gets on its hind legs and touches the air with its tongue
and to me it looks like a crocodile
while another swims around in the stream
and in fright I want to yell and yell.
[Reference: “Seeikoeivle” by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
In the winter morning mist
In the winter morning’s mist
fat and tame as a chicken
next to the overgrown tree
out came the plover chick
and for a moment I looked at it
and the tiny speckled bird looked at me.
A car passed by with its lights
burning like rays of the sun
against the fog’s canopy
and on the sidewalk
the little bird came still nearer
and drops of dew glistened
on its feathered coat
and in the wide world
limited to each other’s company
was the little plover and I.
There was something to that moment
as perhaps Adam had wandered in the wild
as the bird was at ease
and around us was a kind of tranquillity.
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
When butterflies
When butterflies gambol blue-purple during Easter
everywhere in the vineyards
and bees do pollinate, read signs in nature,
and for the last time dew shines on the leaves
while the last bit of summer sun hangs hot
then I think of the sacrifice that You bring
and still the birds do sing their songs
while Your crucifixion becomes a reality to me.
Latest comments:
30 january 2026
sam53
lirycznie, optymistycznie i prawdziwie... w zgodzie
29 january 2026
Weronika
Grzech podnieść rękę na ziemię.
29 january 2026
podoba mi się beton, chociaż i asfalt też
29 january 2026
jeśli tylko
pływa kanalikami.. koło ust..
29 january 2026
Jaga
i trud najczęściej daremny. Zawsze jednak trzeba
28 january 2026
I szarosc głębsza..
28 january 2026
Beton trudniej skruszyć...
28 january 2026
witaj, dawno nie widziana..
28 january 2026
jak pamiętać..
27 january 2026
no i pamięć... och żeby nie ta pamięć, to
27 january 2026
"tylko zadrą" boli dłużej niż sztyletem...
27 january 2026
jest kilka receptur do przejęcia... ale mam
30 january 2026
wiesiek
30 january 2026
Jaga
29 january 2026
wiesiek
28 january 2026
wiesiek
27 january 2026
wiesiek
26 january 2026
wiesiek
25 january 2026
wiesiek
24 january 2026
wiesiek
23 january 2026
Jaga
20 january 2026
Jaga