Ghost from the war
A military base close to the border
that divides our country from that of the enemy,
a tent through which the wild wind
at gale force strength blows red sand,
pressed into a war by politicians
who decide about the destiny of men.
A trench where enemy soldiers,
women and children lie shot dead,
ripped apart by hand grenades
and mortar bombs
and from the outside
it looks like patriotism, national interest
for which you do service
but on the inside you are caught
by destiny
where other people like gods
take decisions that have an impact on you.
Dead are the innocent,
bystanders, a young man
who hasn’t even come to age
and there are flames
that burns right through the thorn bushes,
where a Ratel armoured car is burning
and I wonder about the presence of God,
about the lot of man
and the thorn bush burns, the whole veldt
is in flames.
Being lost makes me sober
while I try hard to forget
of the havoc that I know,
how war ravages, destroys, tramples
and how easily people die, especially those
that doesn’t really deserve it
and everybody are settled into
just another number and name.
[Reference: Ghosts from the call by Japie S Strydom:
“ a fortress,
a trench,
a tent,
an institution
for the mentally insane;
Big syllables on the outside in large characters type:
GET EVERYTHING HERE IN HUGE QUANTITIES
From the outside
a shadow that falls without end
from the inside a prison.
Being bound,
lost,
day long working, trying to remember,
remembering to withdraw,
to spend time, by writing meaningless sentences
wondered, though about:
mother,
our home,
brother
no Father.
a command,
a decree,
An invitation to recognize,
identification of:
a soldier
a man,
a boy,
still somewhat a child,
killed.
Killed between the branches
of a burning umbrella-thorn bush
almost like Moses with God,
but burnt right out of his boots
almost not stopped burning
with white phosphor that doesn’t want to die
I saw again today:
In the thick bush
man
– returned to earth
in the stomach blood of a boy
mixed with sand.” (My English translation.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
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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The havoc of war
a Smoking and burning
enemy battle tank
stands stopped in its tracks,
like a metal coffin
with its occupants
still hatched in.
a BRDM enemy armoured car
is encased by leaping flames
and the phosphoric burning smell
is churning in my guts.
Some dead Cuban soldiers lay
cut from the stem
mangled in blood and guts
and the machinegun is still chattering
and I wish to be,
in another place and time
than to be a part
of this slaughtering.
a Bleating Gemsbok rushes past
trying to outrun the flames,
that leap through the field
while the machines of war
brings death to the living.
Shot after shot is fired
at killing range
and it’s hot and deafening
inside the Ratel,
but the wind
brushes through my hair
where I stand
in the top hatch
and trees and bushes
sweep past
as if screened in a movie house.
Enemy armour keeps exploding
and my voice sounds strange
and unfamiliar to me,
while I give directions
for the next killing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I am happy to be alive
The African sun is white hot
in the bright blue sky
and the fresh wind
jerks on thorn branches
and blows the red dust up,
where dead enemy soldiers
lie on the battlefield
At places there are burned out tanks
and armoured cars
but so many people are reaped
that shock waves even hit Havana
where women and children
keep on crying.
Thorn bushes make fat round shades
and those of the higher trees
are stretched out longer,
while one of the officers
draws lines in a little black book
through names.
White powder are thrown over the dead
lying in ditches
and hang burning in the air
for anyone that inhales it
and there are flies everywhere,
but nothing can dissipate
the smell of death.
Further away three puma helicopters land
in big brown dust clouds
to pick up our few wounded
and the brigadier looks complaisant,
where he smokes a Camel
and are talking with a commandant and a major.
Everywhere around me lie Cubans and Fapla
shot to pieces, burned, maimed
and there are body parts and ponds of blood
that meets my eyes
and my three-day-old beard itches
and my eyes are tired and red
while sweat runs in small streams
down my cheeks
and I am happy to be alive.
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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My buddies (a reply to Boris Slutsky)
All young white men at a time
was forced into the military, into war
or had to serve a three year jail term
and most of my buddies came home,
but some did not:
Parachuting into a enemy camp
there was one close friend that died,
the other three I hardly knew
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
seven hundred and fifty
enemy SWAPO and Cuban casualties
and on one patrol one close buddy
stepped on a landmine
were blown up and no one else was hurt,
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
the enemy that had lost
little lest than a full platoon.
In Angola when we met enemy armour,
turned FAPLA / Cuban divisions
under Soviet leadership into junk
I saw a Ratel armoured car
that was trapped in a landmine field
that had been shot out
with the holes
were enemy tank projectiles went in
and every one inside was burnt, incinerated
if not blown to bits, turned into ash
and it had been only one of eleven
armoured cars
and troop carriers that was lost
some of only thirty-one soldiers dead
but there was pain that flashed through me
when I saw it
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
four thousand seven hundred and eighty five killed
on the Cuban/FAPLAN side,94 tanks
and hundreds of enemy combat vehicles destroyed
and now no one thinks
of the sacrifice that all of these soldiers made,
of the hundreds of thousands
of returning citizen force soldiers
who were nuts, bomb happy
with post traumatic stress syndrome
or whatever you want to call it
as to the government it is
an incidental small thing,
that happened in a distant past
as if the ex-soldiers are non-existing,
even seen as apartheid criminals by some.
[References: Buddies here used as name used in the South African Defence Force for comrades. Ex-soldiers here used instead of war veterans, as in African circles the word war veterans has got a new derogatory meaning connected to it. My Comrades by Boris Slutsky.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Waiting on the barbarians (a reply to C.P. Cavafy)
Called up for armed military service
hundreds of thousands white boys
are forced into a war
of whom I am but a single one
and with all battles won and even the war,
with the enemy forces shattered,
thousands of Cubans killed,
almost a hundred enemy tanks shot out,
hundreds of enemy armoured cars destroyed,
even the soviets admitting that no victory
against us is possible
the man with the bold polished head
doesn’t surrender, doesn’t even sell out,
no, he gives the whole country away
and gets a Nobel Prize for it
he opens the prison doors for the leaders
of bomb planting killers
to walk to freedom
and we and the world expect the barbarians
who used burning tires as necklaces
to appear
and out steps a man, dignified
and also receives a Nobel Prize
for his charity
and now years later the damage is done
with affirmative action
and nobody that is white who still has a job
realizes the impact of it,
that it is just another kind of racial discrimination
and slowly but surely in the long run
every white person is forced to into poverty
and the bold man sees himself
as a hero,
is viewed as a type of messiah by some
and the utmost traitor by others
and I wonder where the barbarians are
who torched living people?
Since they did not come but for one
who was the leader of our own ranks
whose actions are forcing everyone
slowly but surely into the gutter
and now the present government
wants to implement a law
to take away freedom of speech
to quench, to sensor, to scrap all poems all stories,
all news articles like this.
[Reference: Waiting on the Barbarians by C.P. Cavafy.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Till the shooting ended
The fine press of binoculars against eye,
speech apparatus against mouth,
bodies camouflaged against the ground
made burning stars
fall from the sky.
Projectiles from G-5 howitzer canons
blasting from more that forty kilometres away
crossed the sky
in parabolas adjusted fine
and smashed enemy tank and armoured car
to pieces.
Flames throwing their tongues
orange-red to the sky,
enemy weapons pierced,
a commander with cigar in his hand bended,
enemy soldiers of whom
intestines rained down in pieces
in a moment where everybody
met the maker
and pools of red blood
and shot-out scrap
was all that marked the place of slaughtering.
l’Envoi
Till the shooting ended,
men stopped dying,
when too many were killed and pierced
and a war on the backside
of Africa was lost
and even the Russians knew
to forget about any victory
and the Cubans returned to Cuba
and never again Fidel Castro
could try and clench his fist round Africa.
[Reference: The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale were South African Reconnaissance Commandos (Recce’s) and artillery gun crews played a major role.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Soldier (not really a poem)
the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,
poem by Joshua Decker
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The guard
We were observing, doing recognisance
on a enemy camp, had parachuted in
during the night, dropping from very high
and my comrades and I had leopard crawled,
catwalked from dark patch to dark patch,
from shadow to shadow
using the cover of knee high grass
and with the sun rising
was in a dense small bush
reporting back on tanks and armoured cars,
the number of soldiers seen,
how battle ready they seemed
when a little boy herded a few goats
and with a bone thin dog came along
and I let them go, not being able
to kill them as the enemy
and almost immediately we had to leave.
Soon hundreds of enemy soldiers
were dropped in search lines,
were trying to cordon us off
and my comrades wasn’t pleased with me,
as things could have been much easier
if I had killed that child
and we went into a river
cutting reeds to breathe through
and went under the surface
trying to shake off the enemy
that was closing in on us
and when the three of us left the river
some large crocodiles
were on the bank where we entered it
and we had the opportunity
to return to the enemy camp
where the next evening
an enemy Cuban soldier lit a big cigar
only a few paces from me
and the child was a far better guard than he.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ring Of Fire
love is a burning thing
and it makes a fiery ring
bound by the wild desire
hell I fell into a ring of fire
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down down down
the flames they went higher
and it burns burns burns
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
the chase of love is sweet
when hearts like ours meet
I fell for you like a child
oh my heart went wild
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down down down
the flames they went higher
and it burns burns burns
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down down down
the flames they went higher
and it burns burns burns
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down down down
the flames they went higher
and it burns burns burns
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
that ring of fire
song performed by by H-BlockX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forever young
I saw boys driving away to war
in a Ratel-90 armoured car
and they were well trained,
ready for action
and called up for military service
against their will.
Two smiled and a few
waved goodbye
and there was dirt
in my eyes,
when my armoured car
caught speed.
Enemy battle tanks were everywhere
and we fought right through the night
and with first light
an armoured car was stuck
in a mine field
and they were hoping for the best
but the worst was there
and shot out they paid the cost.
Although the enemy
paid a much higher price
and lost,
it’s like yesterday that they
waved goodbye
and sacrificed in vain
their lives for people
that does not honour them
and remain forever young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
and Olifant tanks
that drives and rolls in on the ground
and salvos from rocket launching trucks
that draws arcs
and in the distance howitzer canon reports
in volleys
and when a light flare suddenly falls
it is as if the bushes are teeming
with enemy tanks and armoured cars
just where I look
and it looks
like the day of judgement.
Projectiles find their targets
and canister-shot comes down exploding thundering
and it’s an apocalyptic night
for some of the enemy
who are burning,
scorched and blown to smithereens in their armour
and when a tank
suddenly appears out of the bushes
there is a hell of a red thunderclap
as a shot from another Ratel hits it deadly
and I realize that even here
a person’s time is measured out
and around me there are fireworks
like stars falling from the sky
while we stop and aim
the following killing shot.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A woman unconscious
The enemy were almost at the door,
coming with tanks, armoured cars,
rocket launching trucks,
helicopter gunship, fighter jets,
with supporting Cuban troops
under Russian command
and day after day
I prayed for it to end,
for the killing of them, to stop,
where my Ratel armoured car
send tank after tank and many more armoured cars
with phosphorous shells
straight to hell
and by calamity the future changed,
turned into a different world,
changed from the one
scared of them, dropping the annihilating bomb
of millions of people being killed and dead
and at home, the welcoming did not come
at my return
and your were not there,
were killed in a car accident instead,
were for a time unconscious
in a white hospital bed
and the evidence of how cruel
the world can be
still walks with me,
while life goes on.
[Reference: A woman unconscious by Ted Hughes.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sandstorm in Iraq
The wind is covering everything,
covering with red-brown dust,
burying the present, the past
with a future in which peace
cannot last
and man holds destiny by the throat,
tries to change the present, the future
at a very great cost
and the lost of life is everywhere
with innocent women and children
here and there being shot, killed
by dropping bombs
and US-troops and their allies roll in
with tanks and armoured cars,
fly past in gunships, bombers and fighter jets
in skies red with blood
trying to teach democracy
by the barrel of a gun
and of all of this
the wind doesn’t know
and it continues to blow.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The fallen Cuban soldier
Your hand lies stretched out
and still holds on to your Ak
where you lie in Angola,
in the African bush in the last sleep
and in Luanda
and later in Havana
they know that you are missing
and are probably dead.
Nobody of your unit
will ever again,
drive tanks and armoured cars
and their general
does not wait on their return.
Somewhere in Cuba a woman mourns
and waits in vain,
to ever again
hear something from you.
You lifted your weapon
against boys from South Africa
and the bullets of an Afrikaner boy
pierced you.
Your camouflage uniform
is stained with blood
and you are placed in a hole
in the red-brown sand
and white powder,
is dropped on top of you
before you become a part
of the cold earth.
Later a Ovambo’s farm goats
will graze above you and eat
from the thorn bushes,
that grows over you
and you will be forgotten by everyone.
[Ak=Ak47 submachine gun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Captain
It’s the third day of the battle
and around us there are enemy tanks
of which the canons keep clapping
and Stalin organ rockets
that falls at places among our men.
Next to me there’s a Captain
with a three day old beard
and his eyes is red of tiredness
while he gives instructions
over the radio.
We shoot till darkness
and through the night
and thunder clap flashes
keep on shooting
the enemy out.
The morning dawns
and the sun rises over the battlefield,
that is soundless and grim
and like two ghosts
we walk around in the bushes.
He wipes dust from his face
while we drive further
through the bushes
and we look out
from the top of the Ratel IFV
and in the distance,
a single rifle shot resounds
and the Captain is dead.
[Reference: Ratel IFV=> Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The bad lands
Nowhere in the bush
where lions, leopard,
crocodiles, hippos
and snakes dwelt
felt really bad to me.
On patrol at times
a hidden landmine,
a booby-trapped corpse
could shatter you
with a thousand
hell hot pieces of steel
and still skill, tenacity
and knowledge kept me safe.
Even in Angola facing enemy armour
where shells swished past,
Ratel armoured cars were trapped
and shot out
and the enemy
hatched in steel caskets
that were armoured cars
and tanks at a time,
where hyena, jackal
and vultures ripped through bodies
of shot, sliced, ripped Cuban
and Fapla soldiers
we overcame
and although the cruelty of war
and lost of human live
gripped me
and the smell penetrated
up into my soul,
the ground stayed pure
and African
as if we did belong.
Yet when I visit that little hill
(in Natal)
where Dingaan misled Piet Retief
and had him
and his companions slaughtered
and fed their bodies
to the birds, the wind, the sun
their spilled blood is still glowing
as if radioactive
and that place
feels really evil to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ring Of Fire
Love is a burning thing,
can change into a firy ring.
Bound for wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire.
I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down down down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns burns burns,
that ring of fire,
that ring of fire.
They say that love is sweet
when hearts like ours meet.
I fell for you like a child.
Oh but the fire went wild.
I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down down down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns burns burns,
that ring of fire,
that ring of fire.
I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down down down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns burns burns,
that ring of fire,
that ring of fire.
I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down down down
and the flames they went higher.
And it burns burns burns,
that ring of fire,
that ring of fire.
And it burns burns burns,
that ring of fire,
that ring of fire.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Noel Who Has George Bush Senior As His Hero
He say George Bush his hero but with him I don't agree
For George Bush bombers killed thousands just to set Kuwait free
And Saddam been defeated and two Countries been destroyed
And George Bush and John Major in allied victory take pride.
Noel say that I'm for Saddam but he has got it wrong
For on side of one who kill and maim I don't feel I belong
And Hussein is a killer and all who kill are bad
And George Bush just as bad as him which makes it all more sad.
Two hundred thousand Iraqis in Kuwait desert died
And the sands of Kuwait desert the shame of George Bush hide
And the Kuwait oil wells burning and blood's been shed for oil
And Kuwait now free Country but was it all worth while? .
And the sky o'er Kuwait desert from smoke as black as coal
And George Bush, Noel Johnson's hero, you can have your hero Noel
You applaud the allied bombers and condemn the I.R.A.
But they all throw bombs on people though you don't see it that way.
He say George Bush is his hero, George Bush who felt no shame
In murdering Iraqi people just to earn himself a name,
George Bush who bombed and murdered just to prove his country great
And whose crimes and shame lay covered by the white sands of Kuwait.
poem by Francis Duggan
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