I Have A House Against The Sugar-Bush Hillocks
I have a house against the sugar-bush hillocks
where like orange speckles aloes grow wild,
where thunder strikes iron stones blue-white
with flowering proteas growing everywhere
and I see chacma baboons impudent
coming in a horde to my fruit orchard,
eating some whole peaches with meat and pits
in a blatant aggressive noisy group,
before they all run away indignant
and they are gone before the dark night comes
when storm clouds hang threatening black and grey,
with lightning bolts hitting some blue-white sparks
and every visitor that knocks on my door
is awaited like a welcome kind of guest.
he brushes his jean off making it neat
and then he turns right around to face me
where he is looking somewhat tattered,
he stands without any words as if dumb
but his words lie in every glance,
suddenly I see the whole of humanity
whose glances do not quarter for anything
bringing the hurt, the pain that oppression brings,
telling how men that can work are jobless,
how this evil still circles out wider,
treading some people down without pity,
how it pierces the Afrikaner nation,
as a type of evil occurrence.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hobbling Along, I See Him Coming On
Hobbling along, I see him coming on,
he brushes his jean off making it neat
and then he turns right around to face me
where he is looking somewhat tattered,
he stands without any words as if dumb
but his words lie in every glance,
suddenly I see the whole of humanity
whose glances do not quarter for anything
bringing the hurt, the pain that oppression brings,
telling how men that can work are jobless,
how this evil still circles out wider,
treading some people down without pity,
how it pierces the Afrikaner nation,
as a type of evil occurrence.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vagrant
Hobbling along, I see him coming on,
he brushes his jean off making it neat
and then he turns right around to face me
where he is looking somewhat tattered,
he stands without any words as if dumb
but his words lie in every glance,
suddenly I see the whole of humanity
whose glances do not quarter for anything
bringing the hurt, the pain that oppression brings,
telling how men that can work are jobless,
how this evil still circles out wider,
treading some people down without pity,
how it pierces the Afrikaner nation,
as a type of evil occurrence.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thunder Touched (Cavatina Sequence)
There is a place with scorched molten earth
near some hillocks
where blue lightning lashes repeatedly
and there it knocks
anything that it can find with its fire,
where some big rocks
draws it somehow on that much higher ground,
that is cleared from anything around.
The sky was ominous grey and brooding,
intensely black
while static or maybe fear made hairs rise,
we did turn back
while some rain, bird egg size hail drilled down;
under attack
of great blue-white thunder that was falling
with a mighty whipping roaring blue sting.
Just in time we reached some safe cover,
we were drenched
while bolts of blue thunder fell threatening,
in fear clenched
were the fingers of both her tiny hands,
as if wrenched
the muscles of her arms moved in pain
while thunder lashed again and again.
Blue-white blazing light fell on closed lids;
her inner eye
remembered decimating scorching
from some times by,
when medical staff unleashed a bolt
let fury fly,
torching some synapses of her own mind,
experimenting they acted unkind.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The thunder storm came suddenly
The thunder storm came suddenly; the air was drawing close,
with grey and black clouds covering the heaven
and suddenly there was no more blue
with the whole day being only grey
while leaves were falling in yellow and brown everywhere,
with the wind cutting icily, trying to grab onto jackets,
untimely the rain came without respect
for the rules of nature,
the thunder storm came suddenly.
Suddenly the weather was in each conversation
of the doctor, lawyer and architect,
as if it contained something incomprehensible and evil
nobody trusted the sudden bad weather;
early in the afternoon people left for home,
the thunder storm came suddenly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I want to go to the highveld
I want to go to the highveld,
go and stand next to the green hillocks
and see how aloes
hit red sparks out of it.
I want to look up into the thin blue sky,
at night look at the bright stars
as if I can pick Orion and the sisters
and like marbles stroke my hand over them.
I want to walk in the red sand,
tread barefoot tracks
and even if the sand burns my feet
I want to leave marks that betray my presence.
When the thunderstorms arise
I want to see lightning bolts breaking on iron rocks,
see blue sparks spraying over the rocks
and hear the roaring clap as if God Himself is speaking with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sky-Minded
Blue sky,
blue sky.
Looking at you, wishing the day by.
Blue sky,
purple sky.
Storm coming in, here it is, there's the eye.
Blue sky,
grey sky.
The earth is wailing, the thunder yells, and the clouds cry.
Blue sky,
grey sky,
black sky.
Tore away at the moon, swallowed stars, listened to the sun die.
Black sky
Green sky
Orange sky
Red sky
Pink and yellow and mean sky.
Come on and roll in; it's only in my mind.
poem by Delilah Miller
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Cloudburst (terzanelle)
The clouds are dark as the night
until the sky opens it sluices
with here and there light
pouring down gathered juices
with wild bolts of blue-white thunder
until the sky opens it sluices
with lightning falling with feelers, ready to plunder
splitting trees, setting the veldt alight
with wild bolts of blue-white thunder
bashing down, and people flee in fright
and hail, thunder and rain pelts down
splitting trees, setting the veldt alight
splattering in fury, causing people to drown
and man and beast is desolate
and hail, thunder and rain pelts down
with people struggling past fear, past hope, past hate.
The clouds are dark as the night
and man and beast is desolate
with here and there light.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Flying Dutchman
The blue water stretches
as far as visibility allows to see
and there’s fog
rising white before the storm
out of the water.
The dusk becomes grey
and the sea from blue to dark black
while the night
darker than ink, as only companion
folds over the old ancient ship.
It’s Van der Decken standing as tiller man
behind the big wheel
and forever he steers the ship
on the journey that she goes.
Always cursing
his loud voice thunders
like lightning falling around him
for sailors to tend the sails right
and sails are hoisted crunching, groaning and trembling
with strong ropes
and the ship jumps
over the smashing waves.
Like a phantom
the Flying Dutchman appears
with white sails like a wraith
over the horizon
where it sails before a storm with speed.
The ship becomes lager
as the storm wind
brings her closer
and you hear her creak
against the power of the wind.
There’s thunder bolts blinding suddenly
and sea birds flies screeching
out in front of her,
while Van der Decken’s skeleton
drills his men powerless
to set the sails right
that is vibrating against the wind.
“How long still Lord, ”
echoes against the sea and sky,
without a answer
ever coming
and suddenly the ship is gone
as if it disappeared in the naught.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Awestruck for M lady Tara
Awestruck
In the distance peals of thunder
as the skies are rent asunder.
Massed ranks of clouds threatening rain
the lightning strikes and strikes again.
Forked spears of light, electric blue
can pierce the storm clouds through and through
The storm clouds offer no defence.
I know from past experience.
The lightning bolts will win again
and force the clouds to release rain
upon the thirsty earth below.
I watch and wait to see the show.
I watch in wonderment and awe
Although I‘ve seen it all before.
07/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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There Were Late Afternoons As A Child
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Final Painting
The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds
poem by Lee Harwood
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Where to now?
The old voortrekker is gone
to meet his Maker
and greeted his children, wife,
bible, gun, wagon,
horse and piece of ground
and trusts that God
will protect his nation and country
against all evil.
In the gun safe the Martini Henry, Mauser
and Lee Metford are resting now silent
and hasn’t been seized yet
like my own firearms,
for which I did not have money
to pay the ransom
and was taken by law enforcers
of the new government
that wants every thing.
The old four colour lies in a chest
with the orange white and blue
like it’s with dead things,
and will never again stream
like it belongs
for flags for which the price
was paid with blood.
I see the weather
stir up with black and grey clouds
and I wonder if the new country
really will break my people to pieces
while many thunder bolts hits around me
and some of my people
are already away and spread over the earth
and I wonder when our rainbow
will also come some day?
[Reference: Die ou Voortrekker by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blood Red
Peaceful confrontation meet war machine
Seizing all civil liberties
Honest ballotation among banshee
Spilling blood throughout humanity
You cannot hide the face of death
Oppression ruled by bloodshed
No disguise can deface evil
The massacre of innocent people
Deviated lies fear blinding on your eyes
Enforcing their truth through a gun
Aggressive discipline and barbaric control
Thousands of people cannot be wrong
You cannot hide the face of death
Oppression ruled by bloodshed
No disguise can hide the evil
That stains the primitive sickle
Blood red
Growing opposition with words as ammunition
Expressions of life's liberties
Aggressive discipline and barbaric control
Spilling blood throughout humanity
song performed by by Slayer from Seasons In The Abyss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everything is going to be wet
Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.
Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive
and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.
The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.
and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The best laid plans.
No moon tonight that we can see.
The dark storm clouds are gathering
The thunder grumbles distantly.
Ominous and threatening.
I’m far from home no shelter near
When suddenly the sky turns bright
As blue white streaks of lightning sear
Across the darkness of the night.
The lightning tears the clouds apart.
Swiftly and efficiently
And this allows the rain to start.
Pouring down torrentially.
My windscreen wipers cannot cope.
I cannot see the road ahead.
my journeys end a forlorn hope.
Tonight I shall not see my bed.
The storm still rages to and fro.
I have no choice but wait it out.
When it blows over I shall go
As it must I do not doubt.
I watch and wait impatiently.
Just static on the radio.
Caused by the lightning probably.
I shall be glad when I can go.
At last the sky begins to clear.
It seems the storm has run its course
The clouds pass on and stars appear.
I bowed to its superior force.
I can continue on my way
But still I must drive carefully.
As others pass in clouds of spray
Too fast and driving thoughtlessly.
Quite soon I shall be home in bed
Catching up on beauty sleep.
Another journey lies ahead
I have appointments I must keep...
May be the weather will be kind.
Although the forecasts none too bright.
I can’t afford to fall behind.
My deadline will run out tonight.
Wednesday,01 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Am From Heidelberg With Its Sugar Bush Hillocks
I am from Heidelberg with its sugar bush hillocks
and cannot remove the memories
from childhood days from my thoughts;
still I see open protea flowers waiting on bees,
with their smell that lingers in the air,
and I am caught by aloes
that fills the hillocks with their orange-red colour,
and in the late afternoons I find the shadows that the hillocks throw
and when the jacarandas in the city bloom,
when the garden in my yard is full of flowers,
when I find comfort at the fireplace in winter
then my thoughts keep going back
and even when my darling looks great-eyed at me
(whom I adore with my heart and soul)
and my friends that visit constantly
I cannot remove the city which is always crowding into life
and although our house of stone and brick
exists as if it will remain eternally,
where it's bordered by palisades like a fortress,
protected by electric wires
when the city's end suddenly comes,
when by man destruction
or a nuclear accident suddenly occurs
I will return to Heidelberg with its sugar bush hillocks.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The garden in the hillocks (Tartoum)
Against the rocky slope lies the old white house,
there are roses, lilies and irises that are flowering
between blocks of rock stacked together.
There are roses, lilies and irises that are flowering,
succulents, aloes, torch lilies grow
like tongues of flaming exuberance.
Succulents, aloes, torch lilies grows
as red dots against the rocks that are flaming
as if nature is singing about God’s creation.
As red dots against the rocks that are flaming,
as God’s own lovely garden
proteas, wild wormwood and every wild flower blooms.
As God’s own lovely garden,
as dots full of gleaming fire allows flower
while doves, finches and bush shrikes sing with joy.
As dots full of gleaming fire allows flower
between blocks of rock stacked together
like tongues of flaming exuberance,
as if nature is singing about God’s creation
proteas, wild wormwood and every wild flower blooms
while doves, finches and bush shrikes sing with joy.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Thunderbolt
As a child I saw lightning
making blue sparks
on the back porch
and running over the iron rocks
into the old house against the hillock.
I could smell the thunderbolts
and it smacked down, much louder
than a gun
and as a small child
lightning did not scare me
and I walked in the rain
in a thunderstorm.
Until a day
where cattle fell dead around me
and then I got the real significance
of thunder
and now they press a thunderbolt
right into your head
and you are belted down
by people with white coats
who look very clinical,
who look at you from a distance
when they press a lever
who look at your fear and disconcertment
without feeling
and I see that you are still alive
and breathing,
when they push the lever again
and suddenly yesterday is gone
and your brain burnt out by half
and you can remember almost nothing
of your childhood days
and they believe
that you are halfway cured
and there’s a hell of a pain
that I see in your eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When lightning strikes out
When lightning strikes out,
disappears far over the horizon,
when lightning strikes out
flaming suddenly blue-white to below,
when the sun disappears behind clouds
big drops do appear;
when lightning strikes out.
poem by Gert Strydom
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