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	Gert Strydom
	PROFIL O autorze Przyjaciele (13) Poezja (1888) Proza (37) Fotografia (5)

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Gert Strydom, 19 stycznia 2012

From the holy fire that should never die (rondine)

From the holy fire that should never die
men were send to sabotage, maim and kill
to poison, plant landmines with a deadly skill
until flaming rockets fell out of the sky,
rising up did burning wood and ashes fly
that made the glowing embers move and spill
from the holy fire.

Armed soldiers were not just driving by,
armoured cars came roaring over the hill,
screaming death until everything was still
burnt out did the last old white embers lie,
from the holy fire.

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Gert Strydom, 19 stycznia 2012

Military visit to a rural village (rondine)

Harbouring terrorists, at the dead of night
we found the right dilapidated village,
terrorists were afraid to further war wage,
the stars, the yellow moon shone very bright,
and in armoured cars we were geared to fight,
all the villagers were scared, had no courage;
harbouring terrorists

I had no great sympathy with their plight,
as to farmers and women they did damage
were planting landmines at almost any age,
huddled together the were a sore sight,
harbouring terrorists.

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Gert Strydom, 19 stycznia 2012

To the crew of a shot-out Ratel of 61 Mechanised Bn Grp (rondine)

What escape remains when you are trapped
by enemy landmine after landmine,
from the incoming shell’s wailing whine;
when boys, some just children are snapped,
in the flash when a armoured car is scrapped,
even if your bravery does holy shine;
what escape remains?

What little remains when thunder-clapped
of what someone could as a life define
when by law military service did confine
young men, whose lives death had overlapped;
what escape remains?

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Gert Strydom, 18 stycznia 2012

If she did know about my love for her (in answer to Sara Teasdale) (Roundel)

If she did know about my love for her
never again would my painful tears flow,
constantly we would still be together,
if she did know.

Like a great fountain our joy would overflow,
in all her longings there would be no other
always I would see her bright smile glow,

while daily she would small flowers gather;
even in times of cold winter and snow
we would kiss, embrace each other rather,
if she did know…

[Reference: “Roundel” “If he could know my songs are all for him” by Sara Teasdale.]

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Gert Strydom, 18 stycznia 2012

If you had been mine (roundel)

If you had been mine to love and to hold,
with great happiness my whole face would shine;
I would embrace you, kiss your hair of gold
if you had been mine.

Together we would sip the day as wine,
would live in joy until we are both quite old
while all of our days are glorious and fine.

Even if the winter days were icy cold
never would our love and loving decline,
our love would find its own joys manifold,
if you had been mine.

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Gert Strydom, 18 stycznia 2012

On a island in the sun (roundel)

You said that we would have a lot of fun,
even send me a picture where you laid
on a island, somewhere in the bright sun,
you said

I should immediately come to your aid
as your intense longing had begun,
even if I had to leave bills unpaid.

On the beach into my arms you did run
and your hair was knotted in a French braid,
of my hungry kisses you were not afraid,
you said…

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Gert Strydom, 17 stycznia 2012

With every sunny day coming in this summer

With every sunny day coming in this summer,
with each flower it’s as if God himself is here,
I find knowledge hidden between the flowers,
as something of Him, I became aware of Him,

there is rest with the sun in the blue sky,
I am not anxious; weavers are playing in the branches,
some are speckled, my life becomes serene,
in the outside air, even near the precipice

I feel healthy, as if He is bringing hope or life,
where birds are singing and every day is full of promises,
is full of love, with His love
that pierces everything, even the secrets of life.

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Gert Strydom, 17 stycznia 2012

The joys of spring (Un-wreathed quatrains)

Landing outside a hoopoe is on the lawn
drawn to the window where I am standing
demanding its hoopoe resounds at dawn,
showing off is plumes while wandering

with the orange and fawn colours glowing
with movements flowing somewhat strange
as if to arrange a gift of beauty on a wing
with its cry near to the mountain range

with perfect wit it flutters like a butterfly,
it passes by; stripes blazon the beauty of it,
perfectly it fit in the curious eye;
a stunning picture pecking bit by bit.

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Gert Strydom, 17 stycznia 2012

Of winged things (Corona of wreathed quatrains)

I. A yellow weaver

Time and again I see it fluttering
a small thing on the gate of the driveway
each day stretching, shaking its tiny wings,
while it sings, it’s as if I see it play

to portray a game that just weavers knows,
as the breeze blows it is twittering,
with feathers shining, quickly out it throws
in a own show paws and beak and its wing;

delighting with feathers yellow and sleek
somewhat meek I see it with colours shining,
with dogs wining giving me a small peek,
in the week I hear a pretty bird sing.

II. A black-collard barbet

During the week I hear a pretty bird sing
joy it brings to my old stuffy study
joy of being free, right where it’s sitting,
it sings as if it is singing only to me

very sublimely it visits me daily
in pure glee with a voice quite startling,
it sings from early light happy and gaily,
in beauty the notes keeps on ringing,

something happens and one day it is gone,
it moves on and I watch until darkness;
missing its kindness, I am the only one,
on a stone it’s out in the wilderness.

III. A thrush

To bless it is out in the wilderness
displaying goodness far from its own nest
singing at its best in pure happiness
without distress far away from the rest;

very modest I came upon a thrush
in the bush blessing me totally profound,
I did it found, in the veldt, deep into the brush,
in a holy hush I heard the loveliest sound

of unbound glory somewhere on a branch,
nothing could enhance its beauty on the eye
it was shy as on it I did then glance;
by mere chance, I heard a jubilant cry.

IV. A singing falcon

As I passed by, I heard a jubilant cry,
I felt as if I was very unworthy
in serenity it was ringing from the sky,
where high up it did fly and came to me.

Quite free I saw a forlorn bird trembling
a shadowing spectre against the blue,
reflecting its hue, it was again singing;
on a wing notes of its clear voice were true.

The sound did subdue, it was wavering,
becoming a small thing by its own choice,
it had poise with the high hill answering;
in spring in nature I heard a quiet voice.

V. A bush shrike

Not by choice I heard a very quiet voice,
a voice that was soft but still quite sublime
in its sheer prime outdoing all human noise,
turquoise the sky glowed at that time

like a perfect rhyme when least expecting it,
it did fit in its presence filled with joy,
without ploy it sang a song bit by bit
high notes it hit as a Godly envoy,

like a hidden decoy it was singing clearly,
it spoke to me, sang directly to the heart,
from the start it caught me very early,
bringing tranquillity in its joyful art.

VI. A raven

Apart from my life of some joyful art
in it did dart with a gleaming black coat
croaking like a goat, but looking quite smart,
it did depart with a sudden screeching note,

it was remote in the beyond that pleases him
getting dim past the old church’s weather vane,
like a stain, but my eyes began to swim
my sight was slim like a dirty window pane,

I felt inane and at its chosen height
almost out of sight against the blue sky,
it went by in its strong travelling flight,
it might draw me, fluttering it does fly.

VII A butterfly

When it is dry, fluttering it does fly,
to catch it I try, as it searches nectar,
near and far using its curios eye,
as a spy or like a wandering star

going over tar and inspecting tenderly
quite free acting with care, acting with grace
it does amaze finding a medley,
a sanctuary as it goes from place to place

it’s not commonplace, it’s without anxiety
that I see a lovely bright fragile thing,
thriving on a special variety
with almost piety I see it fluttering.

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Gert Strydom, 16 stycznia 2012

God have pity (roundel)

In the winter wind, death is at the window,
to the homeless its is very unkind
while its blowing blizzards of snow.
In the winter wind

it gathers whatever it can freezing find;
God have pity on them whom it blows,
even on animals that man has left behind,

when no humanity does somewhere glow,
when no bonds does men to each other bind
and unheard tears do only freezing flow
in the winter wind.