a Ray of sunlight
It was in the middle of the day
and the sun was high and bright,
in the deep blue African sky.
The LMG was getting heavy
and hot in my hands
and gnats were turning
round the piece of grass
in my brown bush hat.
Sweat were running
down my face
and like any other day,
a patrol in the hot
African bush was great fun
especially when your water
bottle was near empty
and your throat started to burn
and the going was fast.
The bushman tracker
was hot on the enemy spoor
and where the terrain
got more open,
we halted for a moment.
a Ray of sunlight
reflected bright like a flash light,
somewhere to the left
and pointed out an enemy ambush.
We half circled past
and attacked from their rear
and the LMG stuttered
from my hip
and suddenly the bush was clear
and the firefight was over
and an ominous silence hanged
deep in the African bush.
[Reference: => LMG=> Light machine gun. Spoor=>Track]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The spoor
We were flown in
by a Puma helicopter
hot on the tracts
of a group of terrorists
who had attacked some farms.
A Bushman tracker was in the front
on the spoor, armed with a old R1,
two of the section
was armed with LMG’s
and I carried the a short barrel R5
and it was very hot
under a merciless sun.
The tracker told us
that one of the enemy
was wounded and at places
we saw drops of blood
and it looked
as if he was dragging his leg
in the way that he walked.
The going was fast
as we didn’t want to let them pass
the chop line back into Angola
and we were at a jog.
Suddenly in the distance
there was a firefight
and some shots rang out
sounding like AK-47’s
and locking our weapons
we hastened,
not knowing if another patrol
or who or what
had run into the enemy.
When got on the scene
the wounded terrorist was dead
trampled by a African Buffalo
who gored him
before setting on its enemy’s tracts.
He was left behind
by the group
who had come across an African Buffalo
and had fired at it,
only wounding that black beast
and had run away in the front of it.
The Bushman smiled and shook his head
laughing because of the actions
of the stupid terrorists
and we were hot on the tracks
of the Buffalo
following through a rocky dried out wadi
past some bushes
and into longer grass
when suddenly the eyes of the tracker
went huge as saucers
and he turned around
stumbled past me
and dropped his gun
on the ground right
next to me
running as if for his life.
This was quite awkward
seeing a man run
who had fought numerous
firefights with me
without a whimper of fear
now running as if
the devil himself
was on his heels
but the Buffalo
had turned around
on its tracks.
I saw that African beast
with eyes glaring almost red
and nostrils wide open
and horns lowered
and knew that my rifle
wouldn’t stop it
and if I didn’t I would be dead,
but the R1 would probably
since its larger full metal jacket bullets
could rip right through trees.
It must have been the quickest
that I have ever
picked up a gun
exchanging it for mine
bringing it to my shoulder
and started firing
and I could scarcely
believe my luck
when that buffalo bull
dropped there at my feet.
[References: R1= A rifle similar to the Belgian FN. R4= A rifle similar to the Israeli Gaelil. R5= a Shorter barrelled version of the R4 with folding stock, sometimes used by paratroopers and other special force soldiers. LMG= Light Machinegun. Chop line= Cleared aria on the border between South West Africa (now Namibia) and Angola.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On a spoor
We were hot on a fresh spoor
and the bushman tracker said
that the enemy were not far ahead
when we crossed through some dense bush
under some trees
and looking up I saw something on a branch
camouflaged, dappled into the shade
and yellow eyes peered down at me
filled with rage, with energy
and astounded more than anything
I brought the gun to bear,
but the pent up energy,
melted with languid grace
right into the tree
as if it wasn’t aware of me, aware of us
and we walked on past a clearing
into the open veldt where hip high grass
was interrupted by some green thorn bushes.
A huge male lion came bursting
out of one of the bushes
with swishing tale running at full speed
and we all froze in our strides with weapons ready
and it was almost
as if the light machinegun’s trigger was tempting me
to shoot the raging storming animal down
and at that moment I was relieved
that it was not the leopard that would jump,
from one of us after another at sheer speed
and at quick succession try to kill us all
being a expert at baboon hunting
and thus at killing primates
but the tracker had signalled for all of us
to wait when he saw it
and that party of special force soldiers
was ready to kill when that lion
came to a halt with swishing tail right in front of me
and I can still smell its foul breath
when it roared with wide-open jaws
and terror hit my stomach like a mighty fist
and I could have cut it down
blasting it right from the ground
but the ferocity, the beauty of that beast
halted me as if I was watching it in a dream
and I watched its yellow fangs and pink tongue
totally motionless trying to stare it down
and suddenly it turned around
walking back into the veldt
timid and kitten-eyed
disappearing into the grass, melting into it
poem by Gert Strydom
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Under a African sky
The sun burns furious
and the harsh reality,
of a live in the semi desert
of the Kalahari
is set in my mind.
There are some bushes
growing in this arid land,
with red sand
stretching as far
as the eye can see,
but they are riddled
with large white thorns.
A Group of bushmen trackers
are gathered round a fire
and are drinking tea,
near to the huts
where they live.
It’s time to go and we set out
into the bush,
with two trackers
running in the lead.
One is carrying my R5 rifle
and we follow
in a fighting formation,
with armoured fighting vehicles
and armoured cars.
The LMG becomes heavy
in my hands
and sweat are running
down my cheeks.
Every hour or so
the trackers are changed
and we keep following the tracks,
for hours without end
and then reality is frozen.
Rpg-7 rockets whistle past
and the sound of enemy
AK-47 rifles and mortars,
are almost everywhere.
We return fire at dark dots
and every moving thing
becomes prostrate
and the dead enemy are gathered
and I feel like puking;
and some troops are smoking
and it’s just another day
under a African sky.
[LMG=> Light Machine Gun]
poem by Gert Strydom
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That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The canary that dances along the bush path must have its drummer in the nearby bush.
On A Spoor In The Desert
The blue sky was azure without any cloud
with the hot sun throwing its bright white light
in the afternoon before the coming of night
and the calls of small birds were somewhat loud
as if the vultures were mocking me
while the night suddenly did fall and was black
and the bright evening star I did see
trying to find the Southern Cross to set track
while the desert was stretching everywhere,
my comrades thirsty as never before
with enemy tracks just running here and there,
as if they were going on forever more,
in the moonlight we followed the spoor austere
like ghosts wandering about without any fear.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On patrol in the African bush
The LMG was getting heavy and hot
in my hands
and somehow the H-frame
became a part of my shoulders and back
and the stinging and unremitting African sun
was taking the last moisture out of us.
From nowhere some gnats appeared
and hang circling,
above our heads
Thirst was burning my throat
like scraping sandpaper,
but we could smell the river
and its cold water
looked inviting to us.
We were spread in an attack formation
and the squad was armed with
two LMG’s, a mortar
and R1-assault rifles.
The enemy tracks disappeared
near to the river
and we swerved to comb the banks,
to find the crossing point.
and we were at our nerves edge
and ready for fighting action.
Some tiny ripples appeared in the river
before the water at the riverside erupted
and three menacing happy snapper’s,
came fighting mad from the tranquil river.
Out of the nearest bush
an angry young lion rushed,
dragging a young gemsbok
away from the river.
With snapping jaws three crocodiles,
went for the astonished lion.
The lion roared in anger
and stood its ground,
but there were three jaws
opening and closing
with snapping teeth.
We froze and stared astounded
and saw the lion
tearing away into the bush
and the crocodiles dragging the buck
into the water.
[References=> LMG=> Light machinegun, R1 rifle=> Similar to Belgian FN-rifle]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Reaching Out
The larvea if an African fly survive,
With the bush of the African trees to share a dream;
But the animations of our lives are well exposed than thought.
Oh, the kite of Africa lies so high;
But the metablism of this larvae needs to be studied.
Up high in the air,
And the African is of the hope of reaching out to the world;
But we have to harness this strength through a thin wind.
Of such a hectic life,
With inappropriate fleshly desires of man to man;
But my people need much experiences of life to survive.
The larvae of an African fly survive,
To be drawn out of water to make a move;
And like a man who has an unbelieving wife,
Our hopes and dreams are still with us to strick the even.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Many South African tribes used extracts from the African bush willow to heal the sick.
quote by Bob Pettit
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On manoeuvres
The nature of love is dazed, unknown
like a advance into enemy territory,
behind enemy lines
where you skirmish, reconnoitre the terrain
move from thicket to thicket,
leopard crawl, catwalk
through stretches of open ground
taking the risk, always at the ready
and in the enemy’s midst
loiter in a dense bush
while watching like a hawk, relaxed
and half stupefied at the relative safety
smelling the cigars of the passing guards,
hearing them talking and walking around
without even knowing that you are there
and in the darkness to crawl back, walk miles
crossing streams and rivers
to the safety of your own camp
and in the following detail
to return to the same enemy positions,
you find the way easier, more well known.
[Reference: Map Reference by Douglas Livingstone.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On The Night Train
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by?
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry;
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling – yet so warm, and yet so cold:
"I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old"?
Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange?
(Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold:
"I'm the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when you are old"?)
In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead:
"You have seen the seas and cities – all is cold to you, or dead –
All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold!
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you are old"?
poem by Henry Lawson
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The veldt is all around me
The veldt is all around me
and I am beyond enemy lines
camouflaged, clothed in
military uniform, wearing tracking boots,
with the soles almost like
running shoes,
with a weapon in my hands
viewing, taking reconnaissance
of enemy soldiers, driving by
on pickups, in cars without roofs
in trucks waving guns
in the air and sometimes
firing as they pass by
and suddenly a young boy
is beside me
clothed in a blue short sleeved shirt
and grey short pants
looking like school uniform
but being too young for school
and walking barefoot
right next to me.
Wherever I run from bush to bush,
catwalk, leopard crawl
and hide behind bushes
getting nearer to enemy positions
he stays at my side like a shadow
running, walking and standing openly
and it annoys me
and that he keeps talking to me
as he can draw attention to us
and I say:
“Gerrie, come and lie down.
Hide behind this bushes. Stop talking.
You will draw the enemy to us.”
Unconcerned like walking in the veldt
in my young days, and being ignored
by the natives passing by
the boy looks at me
shaking his head and asks:
“Why are the enemy shooting in the air
while they drive past?
Why do they sometimes
rob their own people? ”
Realizing that it’s my own thoughts
and I look at the child again
and see my younger self
with childish innocence
accompanying me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound
and the chopper drones away
leaving me and Johnny
and a few other men
with a Bushmen tracker
to follow a enemy spoor
and suddenly we walk straight in
to a ambush, right into a trap
and Johnny is dead, shot through the head
and three others as well and it feels as if I am in hell
and I am talking to myself
trying to get my bearings while firing at the enemy,
killing some and throwing two grenades
to advice them of my serious intentions
and the enemy shooting stops, as does that
of me and my men and I smell death
and are nauseous to the point of retching
and it’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Carrion
a Enemy soldier lies motionless
and his limbs are twisted,
reaching for the last
energy of live
and a hand still holds a gun.
Blood and guts
are splattered about,
where a mortar bomb
hit home
and some flies gather.
The strong sulphur smell
mixed with fried human
burns my nose,
where smoke rises
from a shot out
enemy battle tank.
Another tank stand moveless
with its barrel
still aiming somewhere
and the remains
of its occupants hatched inside.
About a hundred Cuban tanks
and twice that much
enemy armoured cars,
stand lifeless in the African bush.
The battle scene is a graveyard
and my Ratel tank destroyer drives past,
to cross the Lomba river.
Before nightfall I fight
the darkness of my soul
and struggle with God
and to this day,
still no one can answer why.
[References: => Ratel tank destroyer=>Ratel ZT-3 (the anti-tank guided missile version) . Reference are given here to the “battle for Africa, ” fought by 61 South African mechanized battalion group and 32 South African battalion group against four brigades of the Soviet-led FAPLA forces (the 47th,59th,16th and 21st brigades) in Angola in August 1987.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Bush
A Bush in the middle of a group of tree,
slowly decaying and dieing it shall be.
Turning from green to brown,
getting nothing jsut a frown.
No animals in it nest,
for it is not like the rest.
Everytime it gets a bit more green,
it's a great big scene.
But it always gets browner in the ends,
all alone without real friends.
While all the trees green and thrive,
all the bush does is simply die.
poem by James Pritchard
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Through the thick African bush
Through the thick African bush
a troop of soldiers patrol
with black painted faces
and webbing with ammunition bags
strapped around their chests
and h-frames, water bottles
and weapons in their hands
and death
as a comrade leaves
its tracts with them.
They do not ask any questions
in a v-formation they move along
they move along
and death takes its toll
of the enemy
and eats like a cancer
on the soul of everyone
that carries its instruments.
Small like ants
they tread tracts
in to Africa
and their buddy gets wings
and grows as far as they go
and bloody and dark and grim
it spreads over the whole continent
and brakes out
everywhere across the earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
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A painting a hieroglyphic an epitaph
I painted the trees as birds in flight
Wings pressed against the hour glass
The bird clock stirring
Under the television light
And the ' green bush' was a green bush
And the bush was a bright ray of light burning
I held my passion
Claimed a name for naming
Untrod, unfelt, half seen territory
Making walls my strangers
Making mountains
Captains of my heart
Heroic summits
Left clouds dreamers
And streamers trailing dove tail
Old engravings
Unknown Heiroglyphics from another life
There admist the whirling pools and crackling laughs
The sun and ease of day break
Were the broken, unspoken stones lye amidst the,
Epitaphs!
yvette m smith poet of uk
july 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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A hunting expedition
Far off in the bush veldt near to Marken,
where the red sand lies like sea sand,
a young hunter on a day
takes a old.303 rifle with open sights
and walks following a tracker,
that they call a guide,
past green thorn trees
with long white camel-thorns
to where a impala
is standing against a hillock
and he aims for a headshot
and I say to him: “shoot for the shoulder-blade”
but he doesn’t listen
and when the shot resounds
the antelope lowers its head
and the bullet whistles away from a rock plate
with the antelope
running away in a red brown stripe
disappearing into the bushes
and the bush veldt sun
burns without mercy down on us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Benjamin Bandicoot
If you walk in the bush at night,
In the wonderful silence deep,
By the flickering lantern light
When the birds are all asleep
You may catch a sight of old Skinny-go-root,
Otherwise Benjamin Bandicoot.
With a snout that can delve and dig,
With claws that are strong as steel,
He roots like a pigmy pig
To get his evening meal,
For creeping creatures and worms and roots
Are highly relished by bandicoots.
Under the grass and the fern
He fashions his beaten track
With many a twist and turn
That wanders and doubles back,
And dogs that think they are most astute
Are baffled by Benjamin Bandicoot.
In the depth of the darkest night,
Without a star in the sky,
He'll come to look at a light,
And scientists wonder why:
If the bush is burning it's time to scoot
Is the notion of Benjamin Bandicoot.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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