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Gert Strydom, 14 november 2012
Two ibises
Sounding their horns harshly
two ibises rise from the lawn,
rise from their snail pecking
with hard big wings
slapping against the rainy air,
but neck on neck
keeping to straight formation
stretching out lifting into the wind
again they shriek at the barking dog
before swinging in flight
to a new direction.
Gert Strydom, 14 november 2012
Zebras
After the lion’s roar
I see them standing quivering
testing the air
with nostrils snorting
in a bevy of white and black stripes
being both fearful and curious
and passing slowly
in the knee high grass
with soft voices calling
at each other
and the stallion wheeling nervously
turning around its herd
and sunlight flashes over
the magnificent animal.
Gert Strydom, 14 november 2012
The cheetah [2]
In the veldt were impalas, some oribi
and kudus roam around wild
a cheetah sneaks forward merciless
without even the zebras noticing
and when they rush away bewildered at speed,
when a cloud of dust rise in their mad run
it’s as if his feet get wings
as if he rushes forward much faster
and suddenly catches up with a animal that he has chosen,
drags it down to the ground
and then the jaws of the hunter close like steel
while the other game mill around in a hundred fold.
Gert Strydom, 13 november 2012
In the Bushveldt
A crow flies croaking in the game park,
indignant about vultures that descent,
where they act out their antics, pecking,
at remains left by the lions.
I stay detecting through the open window,
and drive a day’s journey past gigantic trees of teak
drink ice cold cool drink while we talk pleasantly
and I notice zebras, elephants, a leopard and then this:
three lion cubs that eat voracious, unhindered,
and they look as innocent as small kitten
with the sun touching their fur with patches
until the male roars, makes its presence known.
A crow flies croaking in the game park,
at remains left by the lions.
Gert Strydom, 13 november 2012
The wind blows rustling through the bush
The wind blows rustling through the bush
and only it and God knows where it is going,
when it disappears and nothing move in the veldt
and when it returns some grains of dust are blown away.
An ibises raises gleaming copper into the sky
while God finds some answers for His earth,
and it chatters while big wings slam against the wind,
as it flies high over a small wooded hillock.
Guinea fowl peck along in the red grass,
after the rain some small bulbs are growing,
some lovely flowers astonish the veldt
but still this world is wounded by man.
The wind blows rustling through the bush
and when it returns some grains of dust are blown away.
Gert Strydom, 12 november 2012
A level headed gaze
I come from another place and time
and did walk as a child bared feet in the marsh
I am from a place that is different from this city
where here people and things are trampled upon
and respect, integrity and duty has disappeared
where tarred roads reach to the horizon,
where cyber lights shines like small suns at night
where dust, sooth and ash cover all things.
Here people, animals and almost every thing
has a price that is set for them
while they are involved in a tinned existence
while crowds continually jostle people out of the way
and nothing remains sacred, not bodies or even beliefs
while lives are wasted and nothing brings salvation.
Gert Strydom, 12 november 2012
The young farmer
The young farmer is not dead
the earth that loves him, still remembers him,
where his young wife was raped by barbarians
and his small toddler daughter as well
where his farm house has been burned down to rubble
and is still smoking after the mad plundering
he lies half scorched, his face distorted
and who will be able to bring some justice here?
The farmer lifts his fists against the wind,
stand against the horizon somewhat blinded,
searches perplexed for missing answers
tries to find a judgement form God
and the wind turns dust up from the red ground,
even the earth is wounded.
Gert Strydom, 12 november 2012
The child is still alive
(in answer to Ingrid Jonker)
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
the small fists of the child hits on its mother’s back
where she is carrying him
and out of control the child is crying
when his mother screams Africa and amandla
or like a Voortrekker woman with bare feet
try to find a way in the veldt to wild fruits
with snot that runs from his nose over his cheeks
where paper thin dogs run away scared
and a murderous crowd walks in the street,
but the child’s voice
is swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
The whole country is degenerating
with cities becoming hovels overnight,
in anger the child lifts his fists against his father,
throws bricks and stones that fall like hail
and his father is without a job,
while people stream in from other countries
to fill all the vacant positions
and people walk in mass riots
while they scream Africa and amandla,
the child has a blown up stomach and is emaciated
and smells of human refuse.
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
not in Soweto, or at Thembisa, or in Sunnyside
or Hillbrow or wherever,
everywhere his toddler sister is raped
to rescue barbaric adult males
from AIDS,
or for the medicine of witchdoctors
she is cut apart
and however the child is suffering
he still is alive.
The child is still alive,
his spirit nobody can extinguish,
and he grows rebellious
while education degenerates
to human rights and politics
where knowledge, own values
and religion is been unlearned
and the child realises
that he will have no kind of future.
The child hides in the shadows,
notices the civil service
see how these people act fraudulently,
how they steal from the entire country,
even in the highest councils
where suppressing laws are being passed;
the child is unseen but present
and he notices how people are being bribed,
how everyone is living for his or her own gain,
the child peeps through bus windows,
through the windows of shacks in slums
and he wonders when it will be safe again
to play carefree outside,
to feel the sun on his skin?
Each opportunity and even his freedom
is being stolen from him time after time
and cursing whores are on the street,
drug lords from Nigeria,
thieves and killers from Zimbabwe
that gather everywhere in small groups
and strangers steal opportunities
as if they belong to them.
The child that wanted to feel the sun on his skin
in due time grows to be a man,
and decide to forget his father and his ancestors,
to forget about their corruption,
has great zeal for a new place,
(somewhere on this continent of Africa)
where everybody careless and free
can lead a own life
and he moves from place to place
where he tells everybody about his ideology
until his followers grow to gigantic numbers
and continually everyone is searching for some answers,
while no starvation, robbery, murder and illnesses
does devour Africa.
[Reference: “Die kind wat doodgeskiet is deur soldate by Nyanga” (The child that was killed by soldiers at Nyanga) by Ingrid Jonker.]
Gert Strydom, 9 november 2012
Daily I do you more adore
Daily I do you more adore
and daily things do change
from what they had been before
and even if at times it feels strange,
even if some other names I do call
forever you do remain my all in all.
Gert Strydom, 9 november 2012
Daily our love grows stronger (English sonnet)
Daily our love grows stronger in me and you
as if to it there is no end,
as if constantly it becomes more true
and to each other we do not pretend
as the depth of it
grows more and more deeper still
and perfectly together we do fit
as we live by our own free will
and in your company time does fly
while in each other we are caught,
as each passing day rushes by
and our love is as it ought
as something known and true and a mystery,
as if previously we had a kind of history.
Latest comments:
9 october 2024
Jaga
Po namyśle zmieniłam :)) Tutaj widoczny tylko
9 october 2024
Zazula przy łące kuka/ gdzie rączka pani nadobna/
9 october 2024
Yaro
Dzięki za komentarz. Przyjdą zapukaj i każą
9 october 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta
o jej, jak upojnie, gloryfikująco - po co się
9 october 2024
szczęścia tylko znaczą
9 october 2024
Taki dramatyczny, ja tam nie jestem taki, spokój,
8 october 2024
Prawda :))) Jeden bardziej pasował mi do tytułu
8 october 2024
violetta
Zauważyłam:) jestem konkretna, a tak owijają
8 october 2024
ale jest i tak ładnie, mnie się wątki ciągną
8 october 2024
Marian Banaszak
dokładnie to z dwoma
7 october 2024
Melancthe
Piękne jak zawsze
7 october 2024
Samotność ukazana...
9 october 2024
wiesiek
9 october 2024
Marian Banaszak
9 october 2024
Satish Verma
8 october 2024
wiesiek
8 october 2024
Satish Verma
7 october 2024
Jaga
7 october 2024
wiesiek
7 october 2024
Satish Verma
6 october 2024
wiesiek
5 october 2024
wiesiek