En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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A Cheetah

By some seen as the kitten of wild cat family,
but it is no joke
when at a speed of
one hundred and ten kilometre per hour
a meter and half long Cheetah
of sixty kilograms comes racing at you

with bared teeth and outstretched piercing claws
and the yellow-brown coat with black spots
shimmers and you can see
the breast muscles retracting in power
and while on patrol, you are ready to shoot it down

but frozen like the Bushman tracker
its final direction averted me from shooting
with the powerful light machinegun
and in parts of a second
the cheetah flashed past

going at speed for the impala
that I did not notice before
of which the eyes were open wide with terror

and in a moment the cheetah tripped it,
with jaws locked around its throat
in a cloud of red-brown dust
pulled it down and laid there motionless
until the antelope stopped struggling.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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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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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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Drought

Right through the veldt the grass are dried out yellow,
almost everything under the eye,
the sun burns trees and bushes,
whirlwinds blow red dust clouds high into the air

and it looks as if every bush and tree is stripped of leaves,
the sky is blue and open with all clouds missing
on farms cattle, bucks and sheep are bellowing and bleating
and farmers come to a confession

that all things comes from the hand of God, gather in towns
where they admit the dependence of man
where everything comes to a halt
and they pray to God for rain.

Even the most prominent people pray
while atheists sit in the bars
drinking tot after tot while moaning about the heat
and on the horizon lightning slams down white

while it’s pressing hot clouds gather
before a enormous rainstorm erupts,
a thunderbolt falls on the porch of a bar
rain rattles on the zinc roof

the thirsty red dust flies into the air with big drops falling,
are filled overnight with knee high green grass
and the animals that are feeding in the fields
go plumb to the markets.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Bushman

While normal hunters are gunning
causing deer to shiver,
with his naked skin sweating while he is running
with his reliable bow and quiver
the Bushman tracker follows a spoor from early light
as a master of his art on the extended plain
and even into the dark night
sometimes right through rain
in slow progress with lengthening strides
he avoids sight, smell and sense
runs past where the horizon divides
land and sky and hunts in sheer competence:
and with time he will run the whole world down,
make any animal, man, even kings his own.

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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The thunder cat

In the bush I see a strange thing,
a secret cat
that like a phantom
follow our tracts, shadowing behind
leaving no tracts of its own.

Red eyes glow at night
with the intensity of a fire burning
but every time that I really look
it’s out of reach.

Around the orange-yellow fire
where we are barbequing the meat
from the day’s hunting
I can almost smell the monster
where it sneaks out of sight
around us.

I wonder what has awaken
in the wild veldt, the jungle
and what hell of a thing
we now have drawn
from its sleep?

My.308 rifle and hunting knife
both lie near to my side,
but something let me comprehend
that no usual weapons
will stand against this monster

but at that time I am still convinced
that it’s only imagination
and the tiredness, the party
at the fire
and my thoughts are playing with me.

Totally unconcerned we go to sleep
and with time the flames
burn lower and lower
and there are only glowing coals left.

When I wake up with a start
a bright moon is in the sky
and something strange
stand over me
and it looks part transparent
but still with a fixed
dark form.

I can smell death
on the breath of it
and see its teeth glittering
and it’s as if thunder
flames from its jaws
when it bites at me

and an urge for survival
let me jump from the ground
to the other side
of the glowing coals
and its teeth clash on each other.

Next to me lies a shovel
and some of the coals
still have small flames
and I see that the coals
make it hesitate for a moment.

Desperately I grab the shovel,
scoop if full of coals
and when the monster
opens its jaws again
to take another bite at me
and I get the rotten smell
of its foul breath
I throw the whole shovel
down its throat.

For a moment it roars thundering,
is filled with bright white thunderbolts
and stand ablaze
and looks like a thunder cat
before it disappears into the darkness
and becomes nothing
as if suddenly it’s in another dimension

and everybody stares at me
with eyes huge as saucers
and from the sand
I pick up two teeth
that shines strangely, like diamonds,
but with an unknown blue-white fire
glowing from the inside.

poem by Gert Strydom
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How to paint a striking Rinkhals

Green knee high grass
paves, covers the veldt

making the snake's hideout
its place from where it sails.

First observe the snake
sneaking from the grass

while it passes camouflaged
to the next shade

or lies turned over
as if dead, showing its stomach

enticing you to pass, or to come near
to investigate,

maybe you'll see the stripes
ringing its neck

in colours of cream
or something near to white

or maybe you may not
when in terror astounded

to whoever looks
it flashes alive

like a lightning rod
with death sizzling out of its mouth

and if you can paint this
you have the essence of it,

making terror alive,
in a snake which looks placid

but which can spit and strike
carrying death as far as it goes.

[Rinkhals: Spitting African Cobra.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Where the baobab tree finger points

Where the baobab tree finger points,
the bush veldt sun fries you to tatters,
some camel thorn trees hook and pierce,
jackals and hyenas cry and laugh at night,
the moon rises yellow, with stars appearing
all over the sky shining like jewels,
it’s as God himself is walking around in the veldt.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sudden Things

    A storm was coming, that was why it was dark. The wind was blowing the fronds of the palm trees off. They were maples. I looked out the window across the big lawn. The house was huge, full of children and old people. The lion was loose. Either because of the wind, or by malevolent human energy, which is the same thing, the cage had come open. Suppose a child walked outside!

    A child walked outside. I knew that I must protect him from the lion. I threw myself on top of the child. The lion roared over me. In the branches and the bushes there was suddenly a loud crackling. The lion cringed. I looked up and saw that the elephant was loose!

    The elephant was taller than the redwoods. He was hairy like a mammoth. His tusks trailed vines. Parrots screeched around his head. His eyes rolled crazily. He trumpeted. The ice-cap was breaking up!

    The lion backed off, whining. The boy ran for the house. I covered his retreat, locked all the doors and pulled the bars across them. An old lady tried to open a door to get a better look. I spoke sharply to her, she sat down grumbling and pulled a blanket over her knees.

    Out of the window I saw zebras and rattlesnakes and wildebeests and cougars and woodchucks on the lawns and in the tennis courts. I worried how, after the storm, we would put the animals back in their cages, and get to the mainland.

poem by Donald Hall
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The road ahead dissolved into dust

The road ahead dissolved into dust
and we could not see the track
nor any of the other fighting vehicles
consisting out of Olifant main battle tanks
and Ratel armoured cars that were ahead of us.

Bushes were covering the veldt
on all sides and around us,
the early morning fog
had drifted over from the river
and worse still tried to cover things

and in the distance I heard the cannon
of a enemy tank blasting off a projectile
and almost felt the impact hitting us,
but it shrieked past

and at speed we left the track
rammed through some bushes
and the Ratel-90 armoured car
draw to a halt
and our return shot
found its mark

and we had to take another one
to make dead sure
of the destruction
of the Russian manufactured T-55 tank
before speeding away
trying to avoid being hit

and found another target
and one more and another after that
and later even filling the night
with bright flashing canon flame,
sending death out with projectiles
to whichever enemy that we found.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A lonely young boy herds some cattle

In the open veldt
a lonely young six year old boy
herds some cattle
and follows them as they are grazing
following shoots of green grass
that appeared after the early summer rains

and he knows the names of every one
and with a knobbed walking-stick in his hands
he guides them while looking out
for leopards that are sneaking around
in the nearby hillocks
and time and again
his eyes is on the ground
finding tracks.

Out of an open blue sky
suddenly a big shade covers him
and before he realizes
that danger is upon him
a huge bird falls as quickly
as a bolt of lightning from the sky
with claws stretching out.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sometimes I imagine

Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,

but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.

[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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In the veldt a spitting cobra is suddenly onto me

In the veldt a spitting cobra is suddenly onto me
and before it can strike or spray poison
there’s a rock that comes to hand
and I smash the head of the spitting snake

but where it lies toppled jerking
the grass, bushes and veldt trembles
there’s a curse that it says with its last breath
as if the dying of it mentions something unheard.

The vast earth grind and boil
as if rock banks gnash on each other
when the leviathan with its smoking breath
bursts from the depths

where suddenly sinister it peers at me
and seven snakeheads spit fire.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The summer

The summer is busy
catching speed
and I see how the bright blue sky,
is changed by clouds
that suddenly hangs dark and breeding.

In the distance a thunder rolls
and there are big drops
that falls about me in the red dirt
and I can almost see the grass,
bushes and trees
jump centimetres
from the power
that the clear drops bring.

Small sprouts are bursting green
out of the red brown ground
in the vegetable garden
and the magic of new life
is everywhere to be seen.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnets of the stone ruins

I

Long ago a mighty hunter
sailed on the river to look for medicine
and his canoe made from tree
was swept along with uprooted trees
by a river in flood.

He lost control over the boat
and in the distance
a thundering sound
hanged in the air
mighty smoke
rose ghostly out of the water
in a fine spray
and he could hear tons of water
flowing down a cataract.

II

While the canoe was spinning round
and round
he tied a long thin strong thong
to a arrow
and with all the power in his strong arms
he draws the bow’s string and set his aim
on a massive tree
standing on the shore.

The arrow caught speed
and hanged a moment in the grey air
before it hit the tree with great force
and the thong spanned stiff
and his arms with desperate power
overcame the river.

III

He passed the remains
of ancient mines
and villages declining
and overgrown by bushes
and suddenly there were rock walls and towers
and branches creeping
into the walls.

Cautiously he sneaked nearer
and shot a arrow through a spitting cobra
and suddenly a figure appeared behind a bush,
but before his rock could hit it
it disappeared into the nought
and against a niche another figure stared
deep into his thoughts

IV

When he stormed with assegai in his hand
onto that figure
it disappeared around a corner
into a dark passageway
and all at once
there was an animal with glowing eyes
breathing heavily in the dark in front of him
and he lifted his shield against it
And took a firm grip on the back of the spear.

With rotting breath and cruel anger
a lion leaped with stretched out claws
growling onto him,
but he was shield somewhat
While the assegai went deep past the animal’s ribs.

V

While the lion died in anger
the claws ripped deep into the hunter’s shoulder
and his sharp knife
slashed time after time
through the animal’s heart
and covered in blood
he came out
from under weight of the dead lion.

In horror he saw
the lion changing slowly
from animal to human
with a spear through his ribs
and a lion skin
around his shoulders.

VI

He was still busy
dragging the lion skin from the killed man
and felt the soft fur
in his hands,
when to more lions
in anger leaped on him.

It was too much for him
since both knife and spear
still wedged into the dead man
and with the fighting
he had lost
his bow and arrows
and he was cornered
by lions ripping from both sides.

VII

l’Envoi

It is told
than when the air is open
and the moon takes long to rise
a mighty hunter appears
with the rain gods
where they bash their shields
and spears against each other
and that the air
is now his hunting ground

You can see stripes of thunder
when his arrows with thongs
dropp down to earth,
before the new season’s
first raindrops fall.

[Reference: With thanks to “The ivory trail” by T.V. Bulpin that gave me the idea of this poem.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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