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

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Gert Strydom, 16 stycznia 2012

Life is not what it seem (wreathed quatrains) (in answer to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

There’s nothing that can stop the sands of time
some lives sublime will face death on a day
nothing can stay, without reason or rhyme
existence does begrime, by destiny swept away;

great men play and live, leave prints in the sand,
they are grand, but they lead others to disaster,
as plaster impressions, difficult to understand
very underhand few can their tricks master

and faster life passes; it’s not what it seems;
as in a dream events are ever changing,
everything does not turnout as we do deem,
self-esteem does not always happiness bring,

even achieving and pursuing, may bring a end
in a world bend, while for justice we wait
with hate, on words and acts till we are spent,
while descent nothing is or even straight
.
but in our gait, if we do trust in God,
even if ungodly we act in recreation
on every occasion to the final sod
it’s quite odd, He brings a new creation.

[Reference: “A Psalm of Life” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.]

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Gert Strydom, 16 stycznia 2012

Maybe I am already somewhat half-forgotten (roundel)

As the leaves, their smell, their scent half-rotten
are with the homecoming wishing me well
maybe I am already somewhat half-forgotten.
As the leaves, their smell,

does remind me, does a thousand stories tell,
of days that will always be unforgotten
of when I was under your charming spell

of the kisses that at a time were gotten
when we did meet deep in the dell
but unforgettable, life now is rotten,
as the leaves, their smell…

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Gert Strydom, 13 stycznia 2012

At the front gate (Rondelet)

At the front gate
I saw you smell a new red rose,
at the front gate
this afternoon I could not wait
for you to come, to hold you close,
to you I wanted to propose
at the front gate.

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Gert Strydom, 13 stycznia 2012

In flesh and blood

In flesh and blood
you continually smile at me,
in flesh and blood
at times you awake a kind of glare,
you walk past as a picture
that brings a kind of joy,
in flesh and blood.

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Gert Strydom, 13 stycznia 2012

If you know

If you know
how much I do miss you,
if you know
how deep your words at times hit me,
then every glance gets meaning,
is then you know how deep my love is,
if you know…

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Gert Strydom, 12 stycznia 2012

Then I longed back to my own place

(after A. G. Visser)

I was looking at the wide ocean
while standing for moments on Table Mountain,
I saw seagulls swarm under in the bay,
when the Southeaster blew everything into a jumble;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

At the Strand I wanted to dream on my own
when a mishmash of people suddenly streamed around me
bolstering from busses, swimming in their underwear,
with one screaming deafening with a shrill voice;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

At Clifton the girls were topless
they were coaxing and I wanted to blush,
at Sea Point lights flared into the night
but in Gauteng one was waiting on me;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

[Reference: “Waar ou Heidelberg hang aan die Suikerbosrand” (Where old Heidelberg on the Sugar-bush-hills) by A. G. Visser.]

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Gert Strydom, 12 stycznia 2012

Stereotype

There is a kind of familiar stereotype
of some people all day following the sun
while their women work, you know the type,
I have seen some people having fun,

believing tomorrow is another day
promoted from tea-lady to director
and to some in the RSA, be that as it may,
but there is another kind of factor.

I have seen a man that breaks the mould
as the best accountant, being totally sharp,
and had to discard all the stories I had been told
as he had wit, was no angel playing a harp,

but he could joke, could deadlines meet;
on the ground had both of his feet.

[Reference: RSA = Republic of South Africa.]

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Gert Strydom, 12 stycznia 2012

In far too many numbers they rise (in answer to Maya Angelou)

There are many facts in history
of people both ignorant and wise;
at times I look with incredulity
at how people multiply to rise

having as many children as they can do,
with diarrhoea, living in gloom,
with blown up bellies where food run through,
living in the very red-brown dirt in doom

without a look of hope in their eyes
where president-for-life dictators govern
with an iron rod, not hearing weakened cries,
while for civilization, for food they yearn;

where platinum, gold and copper mines
are sold to the Chinese, are from the country apart,
while parts of Africa goes into total decline
and to make a living is extremely hard.

Does this poem of mine offend you?
Unfortunately I do not deal in lies,
unfortunately these facts are very true
and to some people it’s no surprise

as AIDS, poverty, pestilence runs as a black tide
that comes in unstoppable waves of pain
form which very few of the poorest people can hide,
as far too many deaths happen again and again

and from this destruction very few get clear
while for something better they constantly crave
as their daily lives are always lived in fear,
as far too many go to a very early grave.

Still people multiply to rise under blue harsh skies
in far too many numbers, to never be free,
from lives that many of them do despise,
from lives lived in constant poverty.

[Reference: “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou.]

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Gert Strydom, 11 stycznia 2012

Across the road the veldt stretches out wide

Across the road the veldt stretches out wide
where coucals calls to each other and peer around,
there are tree branches scratching against the window
and early in the morning the sun splashes on the floor
when weavers twitter in the branches,
while doves coo in the higher trees,
in the garden there is a red poppy
and I am moved by the scene.

From the kitchen comes the smell of baking rusks
where you stir the dough for bread,
the dog barks so loudly that my ears ring,
around your neck a golden necklace sparkles
with a pendant in the shape of a clover,
you smile as if you can take me along
to memories of a day in the hay
and I am moved by the scene.

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Gert Strydom, 11 stycznia 2012

Powerless surprised and blinded

The cold winter wind cries like a child
when the black ripe spreads with devastation
as if it will find no comfort anywhere
while nature acts without mercy,
cries like a girl that has lost love
when tears glitter bright in drops of dew
as a bird is without a nest, without a companion,
there is even a yearning in the cobalt blue.

When drought devours the last grain,
when lines of dust hang red-brown full of seeds
that only blows away in the rough stormy wind,
then there is no power in all your deeds,
it is even if God is leaving you alone
while you want to cling on to His hand,
it feels if nowhere you can succeed,
there is even a yearning in the cobalt blue,

people become powerless surprised and blinded,
while they see birds comfortless on wires,
they feel as if God does not love them,
they notice despair in their wives;
there is harassment, a type of hatred
that wants to fold around every heart with darkness,
destiny strikes fatally, secretly accurate,
there is even a yearning in the cobalt blue.