On a close-up of Anthony Delius, on his Questions to the Universe
So tell me Anthony you start
your wailing against the gods / God
with the sketch of a man gone mad
who does not know his own integrity
nor if he is in reality either good or bad
and maybe a little bit of both
does not know where he stands in life
if he’s cruel to his kids or letting them run amok
if sex with his wife wedded or not
satisfies her or is she only acting it out
and is he a wimp or what, who wears a pink shirt
and hides behind her skirt?
Could he find any help from a doctor,
minister or priest to mend
or is he in the end only a waste to the human race?
Completely mixed up the anti-hero wants to lurk
in the basement as if looking for a replacement
or to find something in his heart or turn to art
and yet he sees a roving universal eye
looking down from the blue sky
somewhat like that of a colonel or a cat
(most probably a rat (if he’s in the basement)
and I wonder to what army did this nut belong?)
and what answer does he anyway get but none
and he decides that it’s up to himself and no one else.
[References: Questions to the Universe by Anthony Delius. My poem was written in reaction to Anthony Delius’s poem: On a Close-up of Dirk Opperman, on the Jacket of his Komas.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On a Close-up of Louis Esterhuizen, on His Verse Novel “die onderwaterweg, ” (The Underwater Way)
So tell me Louis, you start your verse novel
of which the story line is very thin,
with a white man lying drunk and silent in hospital
after trying to commit suicide,
with memories taking him back
to events in his marriage with his white wife
who had been a left wing political activist,
where politics makes the marriage crumble,
rather than interpersonal relationships,
were marriages usually crumble
from a lack of communication
and respect for each other?
Where at times he is impotent,
where at times he gets it right,
where he looses her in consequence of a rebellious march
are cut from her leftwing circle of friends,
where she head over heels in the middle of the road
lift her dress; let her panties hang around her knees
where she has sex with a black freedom fighter
(how realistic this may be)
is pregnant with a child for Azania
while children in rags string along after her,
where they again sleep together
and he does not catch AIDS,
she is slaughtered in a pincher operation
or maybe by canister-shot
(again utterly unrealistic)
after which he buries her
along with her black friends.
On visits by a certain Jabula, fall in love with her,
he changes from white to black,
so much so that he takes a taxi to a hut somewhere,
where she is a labourer on a sugar plantation
where she makes love to him, they give life to a child
and I wonder if you want to draw this story
through to every white Afrikaner?
Especially where the main character in a prayer
to the almighty God wants to know
if the AK-47 and famine
is God’s own way of controlling vermin?
A person can easily come to the conclusion
along with the thirst for heroes for the black struggle
and where you write “morning walk”
set against Ingrid Jonker’s poem of the child,
that you view every Afrikaner,
every white farmer killed on a farm,
as plague or vermin,
that God kills through black people,
if white people do not mix with blacks,
as the main character in your story does?
[After Anthony Delius/References: Louis Esterhuizen, “Die onderwaterweg, ‘n versroman, Human & Rousseau, (1996) Kaapstad. “On a Close-up of Dirk Opperman, on the Jacket of his Komas” by Anthony Delius.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On a Close-up of Louis Esterhuizen, on His Poem “Winnie”
So tell me Louis, you allege:
“I went to look at the remarks
found in his biographical sketch:
“I love the work of various poets
and my favourites are AG Visser, Eugene Marais,
Ingrid Jonker, D.J. Opperman, N.P. Van Wyk Louw,
William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, John Keats,
Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Yahuda Amichai,
Hannah Szenes, Stevie Smith, Dorothy Parker
and even Homer.””
Further you say: “With the exception of a few names
under the English favourites, all the Afrikaans poets are experts
whom he probably encountered at school,
if a person looks at the verses on his page
you realise that Mr. X has never grown past the incidental
school-contact...In this he is alas not unique.”
Still you are the great master
where it comes to the works of Homer,
as you make a comparison
in your poem “Winnie” between Me. Winnie Mandela
and Homer’s character Penelope,
where there are in reality flagrant contrasts
and the masters canonise this poem
in the “Great Verse Book”
without even being aware of the contrasts?
Let me as just a unfolding poet
who “has never grown past
the incidental school-contact, ”
point out the contrasts clearly:
The story of Penelope comes
out of Homer’s Odyssey where the title
indicates a long historical journey or adventure
or some wanderings
that the main character Odysseus / Ulysses
undertakes before again arriving
at the island Ithaca
where he rules as the king.
For only a very short while
Odysseus / Ulysses is with the nymph Circe
on a island, but the greatest part of the book
is about his wanderings.
In flagrant contrast you write:
”And Penelope comes forward, impatient
and rude as Ulysses is only moving rocks
on his island.”
Where you use the Roman name of Odysseus
to describe Nelson Mandela.
Your Ulysses is not wandering at that stage
or travelling on a historical journey full of adventure
he is busy “moving rocks.”
At that stage your Ulysses
isn’t a king, far less
your Penelope ever becomes a queen,
not even the wife of a president.
The original Odysseus / Ulysses
is only true to one goddess namely Athena
who at various times helps him,
even in his battles,
where your Ulysses divorces your Penelope,
takes another wife
and marries her as a Christian, a Moslem, a Hindu
and also as a Jew.
Still less the ”UDF, AZAPO and also COSATU;
then there’s also the Young Comrades -”
are princes and kings who are trying to seduce her.
Nevertheless you write:
“But while the crown-princes are wooing her
and the almost-princes gather around her
and rollick, the woman plays
in the three storey-mansion
with her last matches.”
The real wife of the real Odysseus / Ulysses
was not involved with a “Stompie” character
who disappeared without a sign
and in the Odyssey the property of Odysseus / Ulysses
is wasted and devoured,
while the princes are fornicating with the maids
and Odysseus / Ulysses
along with his son Telemachus destroys
all of those princes and kings
along with the fornicating maids
that contrasts flagrantly
with the acts of your Ulysses.
Your Ulysses is moving stones, only walks
on his way to freedom a few steps,
divorces your Penelope
and marries another wife.
Nonetheless the original Penelope remains true
to Odysseus / Ulysses,
under the pretext of completing a shroud
that she is weaving for her father in law Laertes,
of which she continually again frays out the thread
and later the two are again together and happy
and it is the nearest
that you come to the original story:
“to again fray out the dream-cloak:
Oh, the endless undoing
of the endless doing, she lisps.”
To my opinion your comparison
between Me. Winnie and Penelope
is rather shallow and totally ungrounded,
as their are just too many contrasts
that you did not think through
and now I am wondering
who is the person
that has “never grown past the incidental
school-contact” as far as Homer’s Odyssey is concerned?
(After Anthony Delius/References: The poem “Winnie” by Louis Esterhuizen, “The Odyssey” by Homer. “On a Close-up of Dirk Opperman, on the Jacket of his Komas” by Anthony Delius.)
poem by Gert Strydom
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This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
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This Is
This is a poem,
A poem from me to you,
A poem filled with love,
A poem from my heart and all i say in this is true,
I never tell you lies,
All i say to you is true,
I love the smiles and joy you bring,
In all the things you do,
You love me and you mean it,
You love me with all your heart,
I love you with all the same feelings,
I hope we never part,
I never want to lose you,
Never want to see your back,
I always want to see the front of you,
Please dont turn my white world black.
poem by Anthony Eccles
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As man left the shore (Reply to Anthony Delius)
As man left the shore
venturing over the first horizon
the open blue sea
laid unknown, without route,
even a map in front of him
and it was not in his mind
that he sailed beyond where he
at first could see
and ventured further away
from the know quay
and through the fog in the west
came upon other beaches, other shores
explored new lands, found other places
set his foot on other sand
constructed buildings, shelters,
planted seed for crops
and gathered in families
and the last man still knows
what experience, knowledge
and tales of his ancestors he have learned
and prays and yearns to do service
to his God who created every thing
and in perfection
do not have to recreate or invent again
in a universe that exists without end.
[Reference: Reply to Pessoa by Anthony Delius.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Will I Have A Poem Tonight?
WILL I HAVE A POEM TONIGHT?
Will I have a poem tonight?
Or will tiredness take me to bed
Without an answer?
Will I be able to find within myself
Some sounds of meaning
Some hint of beauty?
Something deeper than the darkness outside
As real as the longing within?
The poem which is written about the poem which is not
Is the poem which is written about the poem which is
And the poem which is
Is tonight the poem of the night
And the poem of the night tonight
Is the poem this poem is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Ahoy! Sidi Mahtrow's Lines at Liege for The Sage..Selah!
Anthony Edmond John
Passed this way, anon.
With paper poised to receive
The imprint that he did give.
His pencil fast and sure
As he wrote to assure
That the future will know
That he did bestow
Thoughts about his 'quail'
Who some may think quite frail,
But no, she was a living caring thing
That brought life to him for one more fling.
Good health to Anthony Edmond John
And to his future daughter's or son(s) .
By Sidi Mahtrow...
poem by Anthony Edmond John
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Is it a poem
Is it a poem
You are asking
And I am telling
If it is not poem
What is then.
Do you know
What poem means
The four letter
Poem stands
P- personal
o-optional
e-eternal
m-maternal .
Poem originate
From mother
And it never ends
Poem can be written
As per the will
As ordered
No grammer can
Give direction to poet
Poem is poet's personal
Property and its
Value is universal.
2
poem never dies
No water no fire
No air can destroy poem
No earth no sky
can entrap
Poem is above and beyond
Five elements of world
Poem is eternal.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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I Went Out This Morning/ To Find A Poem
I WENT OUT THIS MORNING/TO FIND A POEM
I went out this morning
To find a poem-
But the heat was too great
The sun too strong
I had to find the shade instead
And finding it
I sat down on a green metal bench
And waited for
The line which
Might mean a poem
Has been written.
Instead a cool breeze
And a sense of rest and happiness
Came to me.
Life as it is now is a poem for me-
I don't know how long it will last
But here now
How happy I am
As this small poem is being written now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Is My Poem
This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.
This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.
This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.
This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.
This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.
This is my poem of open-ended freedom.
This is my poem breathing life into motion.
This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.
And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..
poem by Patti Masterman
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Dont Go In The Basement
Oh..
You can tell a dirty story
In the old conservatory...
But dont go in the basement!
You can make a scene
On the mezanene
But dont go in the basement!
You can fill yourself with static
With the ghosts up in the attic
But dont go in the basement!
You can light yourself a torch
On the old front porch
But dont go in the basement!
Oh you may think that its real cool
To ride down the bannister like some darn fool
Oh dont go... dont go!!
Dont go in the basement!
You can feel quite aloof
Playing rummy on the roof
But dont go in the basement!
Where the cockroaches dance
You can wallow in romance
But dont go in the basement!
You may think that its deluxe
To ride the bannister filled with rust
Oh dont go, dont go!
Dont go in the basement!!!!
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written
THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A New Flag is Declared
A new Flag is Declared
In the dusk of the night,
Under the watchful eyes of the guards and the guns.
Ill write a poem,
On your shirt.
A multihued shirt,
Coming from the torture chamber.
A shirt of cotton and blood.
A shirt of torment, torture and anguish.
Ill write a poem
On the midst of the night
In the milieu of red.
A poem,
A single word poem.
People will make it a flag,
Raised, full staff,
Written on it a poem,
A single word poem.
On the daybreak of Iran,
In the milieu of blue
The earth is given birth
To a new flag;
Written on it:
Freedom, a single word poem.
poem by Cyrus Mahan
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The Poem I Did Not Write Today
THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY
The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.
The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.
It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.
It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
Poem Versus Prose
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Enough with your predicates
And your subjects
In this poem you will find
No commas and semicolons
This poem
Is armed with rhythms
Stanzas and shifts
This poem has no end
There are no colons
In this poem
Your prose is replete with nuances
This poem echoes
The plight of the oppressed
And dispossessed
In your prose I find parentheses
This poem speaks of life
Your prose can be edited
Cut this poem and it bleeds
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Prose has pauses and hyphens
Prose comes to a stop
This poem plugs images
Even in your head
Prose deals with fiction
And nonfiction
This poem can be heard
It can be felt
It speaks of hunger
Of hopelessness
Homelessness
It speaks of a bitter reality
You do not like this poem
poem by Buxton Shippy
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xTruth Of My Youthx
All there is to see is here my friends,
xtruthofmyyouthx.blogspot.com
Thanks for your time,
anthony
poem by Anthony Ghilas
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wish That I Could Tell You
(anthony jerome martin, van stephenson, reese wilson)
How do you tell someone youre letting go
I wish that I could tell you
But youre asking me things that I dont know
I wish that I could tell you
The words that I would say
Sound as empty as the way you feel inside
While the silence in between
Tells me everything that you deny
I dont know how to help you
I wish that I could tell you
How to tell me goodbye
I dont know how you leave it all behind
I wish that I could tell you
Is it true a heart heals itself with time
I wish that I could tell you
How do you choose
Do you hurt em with the truth or with a lie
Where do you go to find the courage
You know I could never find
I dont know how to help you
I wish that I could tell you
How to tell me goodbye
Where do you turn, where do you go
When youve finally reached the end of the road
How do you say it I just dont know
When it comes to leaving youre on your own
How do you tell someone youre letting go
I wish that I could tell you
I wish that I could tell you
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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