Church Street, Pretoria
Right down the street the traffic lights are green
and a couple of homeless men stand around a fire
in a half drum and ambulances and police cars scream
while they past rows and rows of flats for hire
and a couple of kids stand smoking at the stream
and this is reality, the heart of the city.
On the sidewalk pedestrians walk in crowds of men,
women and some children, some booted up to the knee
others with mini skirts short enough to condemn them
and my city stays lovely to me.
People queue for fried chicken, fish
and chips at shops and cafés and the smells fill my nose
and tomatoes and onions, lamb and steak are fried with a hiss
and in the traffic an angry speed-cop tries to retain his pose
when a minibus taxi almost runs him over, gives him a fright
at a flickering traffic light
and cars stream by into the coming night.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The city has a deadly wound
The city has a deadly wound
and on the street without a place to go,
sits an old man and his old wife
and their small white dog.
I see a blonde girl watching cars,
to buy a piece of bread
and her face tells that she has problems
and I wonder how she washes
the dirt of the road from herself?
a Red haired guy sleeps in boxes on the sidewalk
and at a traffic light there’s children that sniffs glue.
At another traffic light
there’s a couple with a baby,
that stands in the hot sun
and is dependant on motorists for their fate.
Just before a traffic circle there’s a man
with short pants,
where day after day
he sells koeksisters.
a Man with dark glasses and a hat
strokes his guitar
chord after chord and sings sad songs
and I see that his hat is empty
where he is in a small alley
while minibus taxis hoot the whole time.
Taxes are getting higher
and everybody has to bare the brunt of it,
but the poor are on the street with their pain
and wait for the misery to pass
like flowers trying to blossom in a desert
and they are surprised and scarred by life
and wait in vain for a place in the sun.
[Koeksisters=> a Baked delicacy with syrup in it.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bus ride at night
At quarter to five
the driver refuses,
that I get on a bus
in Burnett street
because it is already full.
There are men, woman and children
and we talk various languages
while we wait for the bus
and I see a car guard
dancing in the street
while he does tricks like a clown.
We wait on the next bus
and the afternoon passes
and the bus is very late
and it stays away
and just Putco and North Star busses
stop at other places.
At dusk the bus appears
and it’s got a double deck,
but is also full
and on the top level the roof is so low
that I bump my head
while it draws from the curb.
There’s no place to sit down
before we travel halfway to the city
and there’s a crowd of people around me
and we sit tight against each other
and in the front a child is holding onto a bar
while she licks the window with her tongue
and try to draw spit lines.
The bus braids through cars,
but it takes longer than an hour
to ride two stages
and a woman calls her husband
to pick her up at church square.
In Visagie Street the cars stand in a traffic jam
and it becomes night
while we wait in the traffic
and I embark from the bus
and twist through the pedestrians
and everywhere there are people
that stand in dark corners
and alleyways
and shout at each other in foreign languages.
At Church square I see stars in the sky,
but uncle Paul looks friendly
while the lights
of a few cars passes by
and I see how his men
are protecting him
and there’s nobody else in the street
and I wonder what to do
if the last bus has already left.
I wait at night at a bus stop
and an old black man
comes and stand near me
and we are both glad,
to catch a ride
on the last bus.
The bus is lighted brightly
And it’s comfortable and hot inside
and I see the zoo passing by
just before the bus stops for me
and red lights
disappears in the distance
and the evening wind tugs at my jacket,
but my house is near.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Johannesburg
There are mini-bus taxis everywhere
hooting, swerving, stopping anywhere
and people on the street
shouting to each other
as if they are not
in talking distance,
but as if everybody is deaf.
Some hawkers are selling
sweets, cigarettes and newspapers
while others are cooking maize,
porridge and eggs.
Youngsters stand next to
parking meters showing
open parking spaces
and demanding money
to watch vehicles parked there.
Some hobos sleep
in tattered blankets
and smell of wine
and liquor and the sick
sweet odour or retching.
Prostitutes walk up and down
street corners in mini skirts
and t-shirts
with nipples showing through
and have hello smiles
plastered across their faces.
Some gum sniffing children
beg at traffic lights
with twisted arms and legs
and other beggars
have posters wishing you well
or telling you to go to hell.
People queue in lines
waiting for busses
and some stand smoking
while they talk
and businessmen, lawyers,
soldiers, secretaries
are walking quickly past
with briefcases, satchels,
and handbags
and on the sidewalk
there is urine,
blood, vomit, some rotting food
and smoked cigarettes
and everywhere signs
of a city in a country
that is falling apart.
poem by Gert Strydom
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City Of Beggars
The sky is always blue in the city of beggars
There is not much green in the city of beggars
There are buildings being built so fast in the city of beggars
In every corner that you encounter
The city of beggars are growing so fast
And in the city of beggars lives 30 million people
The air is not that good in the city of beggars
Because of the factories and the cars
The city of beggars never sleep
The noise goes on 24 hours a day
It is not safe to walk in the street of beggars
Because you can get robbed and killed at any time of the night or day
The traffic is chaotic in the city of beggars
Thanks God there is no snow in the city of beggars
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Heat In The City
Bumper to bumper traffic in the heat of the city
The air is thick and dusty full of smog and gritty
Dirty Yellow Cabs contributing to noisy confusion
While a hot dog stand on the corner sells profusion
The pavement is sticky reflecting the heat in waves
Throughout cars are swallowed by hot asphalt graves
Overcrowded busses spit out passengers one by one
While temperatures are rising with an unforgiving sun
Vegetables and fruits for sale covered in dirt and grime
On the sidewalks of the city bait flies in the mean time
People rushing downstairs to the Metro escaping the heat
Only realizing that it is just as bad and by far no retreat
A broken fire hydrant provides the illusion of cool relieve
But only street children bathe in the grey water taking leave
A lonely traffic cop damp with perspiration looks atrocious
Hot sweaty faces wait for his signal resentful and ferocious
Curriers on bikes with sunburns between cars are speeding
Steaming masses waiting for the light before proceeding
The smells of the hot city are overpowering and very strong
Torturing its inhabitants without sense of right and wrong
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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City Of Worcester
Worcester, the city of noise,
Walking along these city streets,
Seeing people busy,
pacing,
Cracked city walks,
Aged city houses,
Beautiful city air, '
Never seems to be a minute to spare,
As cars stream along,
Cops and fire trucks pass down my street.
Loud children playing in the streets.
As I walk down the street of mine,
I hear parents yelling at their children.
Dogs barking as you walk by,
Houses that are old and crusty,
Men and women fighting.
This right here is the city I was born in.
The City Of Worcester!
poem by Cassandra Prew
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Night was coming
Night was coming
with a piercing huge orange sun
breaking through
white and black clouds
in the west.
It found a gap
and the sun was hanging
like a orange ball
above the street
and it was blinding.
Cars passed barely visible
above the orange glare
and some had already
turned their lights on.
The sun dipped down
below some trees
and for a time
it glowed behind them
and soon it would be dark
and the first stars
were already appearing
and a full yellow moon
was rising,
but below bright lights
was already burning
right across the city
in colours of amber
streetlights
green, yellow and red
traffic lights,
blue lights flashing
on police cars
and almost every bright colour
caught on neon signs
while people came and went
to different destinations
some smiling and relaxed,
others in a hurry
and some others
locked in a world of their own.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Crosstown Traffic
You jump in front of my car
When you know all the time
That 90 miles an hour Girl Is the speed I drive
You tell me it's all right
You don't mind a little pain
You say you just want me to take you for a drive
You're just like CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
So hard to get through you CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
I don't need to run over you CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
All you do is slow me down
But I'm tryin' to get on the other side of town
I'm not the only soul who's accused of hit and run
Tire tracks all across your back I can see you've had your fun
But a-darling
Can't you see my signal's turn from green to red
And with you I can see a traffic jam straight ahead
You're just like CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
So hard to get through you CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
I don't need to run over you CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
All you do is slow me down
But I got better things on the other side of town
Yeah Yeah Crosstown traffic
Look out LOOK OUT Look out Baby
Coming through CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
Yeah Yeah Look out CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
Yeah Yeah LOOK OUT Look out Look out Baby
CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC LOOK OUT YEAH
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To me you are
To me you are the woman
that walks up and down
at the traffic light
and smiles almost shy,
when I look up
and still give a view
of her breasts
To me you are
the hunger and pain,
that I hear in the voices
of children in back streets
where they loose all courage.
To me you are
the crippled gum sniffing children,
that swing walk
with eyes without hope.
To me you are the vagrant,
that struggles along shuffling
and worries about the next
sleeping place and food
and smile without teeth
when he gets a few coins.
To me you are the beggar
who stands unobserved
at a busy traffic light,
while cars are streaming past
where nobody knows or comprehends
his despair.
To me you are the drug dealers
who hangs out in clubs
and look whom they can still catch,
with their contaminating
deadly poison.
To me you are the street thug,
that brakes car windows with bricks
and steal the valuables of people
and sell it at only a Rand or two.
To me you are the criminal
that steals cars in the streets
and are happy
with the despair,
that he is dealing out unscrupulous.
In reality you are the big city
that gives and takes,
where people live like termites
past each other
and rowed in,
as if others do not exist
To rather stay far away from it all
and to get rest and peace there
at times wants to take predominance,
but I love you
like a husband does his wife.
In you is where
some people still build dreams
and wish and live
and have an own place.
In you I see children
giving bread to birds
and people,
giving money to car guards.
In you are places
where people are making a living
and really help each other
and still I believe,
that in places in you
there are more good than evil.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Busy Town
Suburban streets filled with baseball hats
People living in suburban flats
Cobweb shops filled with queues
People rushing round wearing out shoes
They are all rushing by
No one sees me cry
Car in jams at intersections
On corners people taking collections
Suburban garages filled with little cars
And people smoking big cigars
Archways hanging over loos
While cars pass in lines of twos
People pass with blind eyes
Telling stories in their sighs
Parking meters in military lines
Traffic wardens handing out fines
Suburban underground thoroughfares
Factories smoking skyward airs
Crowded corporation buses
Corner fish ‘n’ chips shops selling husses
Dozens of stuff collared shirts
Caught up in office works
Poor Porter on the trains
Trying to help passengers who complain
The busy town ignores
All who live in there
It turns its back
On old and young
And keeps its song
Hidden away and unsung
(date written unknown)
poem by David Harris
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Pretoria
I look at a city,
a city once modern, new
and progressive, the cultural centre
of a nation
but now poverty
and mismanagement
is taking its toll.
Where ten years back
people could live in its apartments
now is a ghetto,
with prostitutes on the street,
primitive men urinating against buildings
and teenagers walking with ghetto-blasters
playing music at full volume.
Where at traffic lights
windows are smashed with bricks
and valuables are stolen,
parked cars are taken,
where cars are hijacked
with the barrel of a gun
and cars are even stripped
at the police grounds.
A capital city in a country
that has thrown its borders
wide open to the rest of Africa
and every criminal
has headed there
and gangsters live in paradise
but in the suburbs
people still are making a living
in fortresses guarded by dogs
and security devices,
with panic buttons
for the nearest rent a cop
and people still pray
and go to work and play
as if crime is the norm
and the inadequacy
of the new government
doesn’t really matter.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Crosstown Traffic
You jump in front of my car when you,
You know all the time that
Ninty miles an hour, girl, is the speed I drive
You tell me it's alright, you don't mind a little pain
You say you just want me to take you for a ride
You're just like crosstown traffic
So hard to get through to you
Crosstown traffic
I don't need to run over you
Crosstown traffic
All you do is slow me down
And I'm tryin' to get on the other side of town
I'm not the only soul who's accused of hit and run
Tire tracks all across your back
I can see you had your fun
But darlin' can't you see my signals turn from green to red
And with you I can see a traffic jam straight up ahead
You're just like crosstown traffic
So hard to get through to you
Crosstown traffic
I don't need to run over you
Crosstown traffic
All you do is slow me down
And I got better things on the other side of town
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have a friend that rides a Vespa
I have a friend that rides a Vespa
and at traffic lights
he quickly flashes past several cars.
Under the saddle of his motorbike
his gun is loaded
and on the back
there’s a notice
greeting people in Aramaic.
Just where he comes
he first unsaddles
drawing out his gun.
One day he was standing
with his weapon
in his hand
and I heard a traffic cop say
to his mate:
“ stop swearing
a messenger of God is near.”
poem by Gert Strydom
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Most of your precious jewels were stolen [1]
Most of your precious jewels were stolen,
your car’s window smashed
by a black man with a beanie hat,
who grabbed your handbag
from the seat next to you
were you were parked between two cars
at a traffic light.
The thief ran into the minibus taxi rank
and you were too afraid to follow
into that maze
of black travellers.
Even you cellular phone was taken,
along with your purse, identity document
and driver’s license.
You called me from the nearby
plumber’s shop
and I drove quicker from Johannesburg
to the centre city of Pretoria
than the Police could
from a few blocks away.
Every precious jewel you had,
the emerald engagement ring,
the ten-centimetre broad gold armband,
your string of pearls, two rings
with three carat diamonds,
the charm bracelet with the big five
that I collected golden pendant
by golden pendant for you,
even my Rolex watch was stolen
and some golden Kruger Rands,
earrings, rings and bracelets
that I cannot recall anymore.
You were crying and shaken
and I tried to comfort you
and entered the minibus taxi rank
trying to find discarded documents
or something,
but without avail.
When the police came
they were too afraid
to search the taxi rank
and said that its dangerous
and when I told them
that I had searched it already
they were astonished
and they told you to report the crime
at the nearest police station
if you wanted to make a case
and drove away with their yellow van.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Most of your precious jewels were stolen
Most of your precious jewels were stolen,
your car’s window smashed
by a black man with a beanie hat,
who grabbed your handbag
from the seat next to you
were you were parked between two cars
at a traffic light.
The thief ran into the minibus taxi rank
and you were too afraid to follow
into that maze
of black travellers.
Even you cellular phone was taken,
along with your purse, identity document
and driver’s license.
You called me from the nearby
plumber’s shop
and I drove quicker from Johannesburg
to the centre city of Pretoria
than the Police could
from a few blocks away.
Every precious jewel you had,
the emerald engagement ring,
the ten-centimetre broad gold armband,
your string of pearls, two rings
with three carat diamonds,
the charm bracelet with the big five
that I collected golden pendant
by golden pendant for you,
even my Rolex watch was stolen
and some golden Kruger Rands,
earrings, rings and bracelets
that I cannot recall anymore.
You were crying and shaken
and I tried to comfort you
and entered the minibus taxi rank
trying to find discarded documents
or something,
but without avail.
When the police came
they were too afraid
to search the taxi rank
and said that its dangerous
and when I told them
that I had searched it already
they were astonished
and they told you to report the crime
at the nearest police station
if you wanted to make a case
and drove away with their yellow van.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Along the streets of Paris
As twilight diminishes the day’s hope,
The street lights beep alarm,
The crowds throng the rushing pavements,
Cold winds chilling their strawberry cheeks,
The traffic horns pierce the strained ears,
Pedestrians brush past,
Their cigars smoking up desires,
The church bells cry reassurance,
As I run through the streets of Paris,
Alone,
Aching for the pillow,
Yet dreading,
A night of broken dreams.
There are people
There are people
that claims the street as their own
and stand
at parking places on the sidewalk
and do no work
but to look after cars.
If you park there
and ignore them
and do not
want to use their services
you immediately
become a racist in their eyes
and they will make a scene,
threaten to damage your car,
or make sure that it’s stolen
or so they tell you
since they believe
that you owe them something.
Some spray soapy water
without invitation
on the front window
of your car
when you stop
at a traffic light
and wipe it off
demanding a price.
I wonder why the education
is still lacking
since they have already
got their liberation
and just as odd
these people are ignored
by their compatriots in government
as if they do not exist,
while the country
falls slowly
but surely to pieces.
There are people
that claims the possessions
of others as their own
and at night
prowl around in the streets
shooting, stabbing
and robbing
and estranging people
from their cars.
l’Envoi
Still I wonder where
the problem lies
and would really like
both of my cars back
and I do not know
about white people
that sneak around
in black neighbourhoods at night,
hijack cars,
brake windows
and demand possessions
with loaded guns.
All that they do,
is try to make a living
or hurry away in their leaving.
{Reference: “First liberation, then education.” Political slogan of the ruling party.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Cul de sac
At the parking
of the Ok-bazaar / Shoprite in Springs
a one-way street runs out
straight into a traffic light
that cuts a T
into two directions.
This morning the traffic light
is blocked
by a crowd of rioters
that comes from the right side,
from where I want to go.
The police block the road
to the left with a car
and some policemen walk along
with the uprising.
There’s a foreman, instigator
or head man
walking in front
and he hops up and down
and shouts something to me
and he comes straight in my direction
and it looks as if the devil is in him
with a crowd
of revolting barbarians following him.
Nobody is going to drill me
with bags of rubbish
and tree branches
or throw pieces of glass
in front of my tyres
and the light is red
and the rioters are half mad
and my motorbike has a lot of power
and its boss cannot wait.
The policeman says stop
but can hardly
look out for himself
and what about me?
I drive past
going straight for the leader
and give a lot of gas,
my motorbike
can cut fine corners,
although it’s past the back
of a police car.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The day is dying in a local town
Rose petal pink, orange tingeing into white-grey
the evening twilight fades away,
the soldiers, from general down,
the lawyer, the city lark, accountant, the office clown
are disseappearing into the enclosing dark,
the homeless man, the vagrants sit smoking
in the municipal park,
with a few mucho men joking
in the packed bar, the evening star
glitters her hello, shines down
across the hugely deserted town.
Crème liqueur, dark red wine
are whirling in glasses of lovers,
mistresses, in the hands of men,
some lovely women
and a few local swine
who cavort and dine
and some are cold as cadavers,
intent on getting more
than their money’s worth
from those that they adore
and pour more and more
whiskey and wine.
Tyres burn embers from the road,
light dwindles with the day
traffic lights shine brightly green, amber and red
some drunks, some fighting men goad
each other in the local pub
while prostitutes walk around ready to play
asking, “hey what’s up? ”
ready to take any paying man to bed
to lie any way, even inverted
but most places are totally deserted
except the local houses
where lights gleam, people gather with spouses
caged behind bars, steel palisades with dogs patrolling
with no police cars rolling or anybody strolling.
The skyline dwindles into dark night
and street light after streetlight
appear like cheap cosmetic jewels
with curtains in windows flapping like towels
forgotten on the washing line
and everything declines into rest
while busses, trucks, trains and machines
are doing their best to work on
and everything human disappears and is gone
while unknown lights keep passing by
are passing in the dark sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Beayty Of Gauteng
Auto shining on the street
The TelkomTelecommunication tower
The CellC tower container at southwest of Johannesburg
Vodacom tower a night shining
With the shine light of the nation tour attraction.
The Lucs flats my hero,
The beauty of my soul,
Standing behind Parktonain hotel,
My so called hotel.
Attraction of the roaming lights
Of the cockroaches traffic cars.
Ooh, the wonderful song
In the soul of my heart,
Fabulous bell of traffic alert
Through Rissik & Smith Street.
The nice place Gold Reef city,
The ultimate king of holidays.
Soweto the rainbow
Thembisa the promise of legend
Alexander Looting of natural people.
Mine dump aside the road
Proving Gauteng a place of gold,
A Precious metal of death.
Prostitution on every corner
Two meter is a longest distance.
Everyone seems to be a hero
Hero of dying and surviving.
Thai is Gauteng the place of happiness,
The place of sorrow
And the place of death and surviving.
I love to hate Gauteng.
poem by Murendeni Mulaudzi
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