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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Related quotes
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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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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Cars Are Cars
Words & music by paul simon 1983
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Similarly made. similarly sold
In a motorcade. abandoned when theyre old
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Engine in the front. jack in the back
Wheels take the brunt. pinion and a rack
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
But people are strangers
They change with the curve
From time zone to time zone
As we can observe
They shut down their borders
And think theyre immune
They stand on their differences
And shoot at the moon
But cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Drive em on the left. drive em on the right
Susceptible to theft in the middle of the night
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
I once had a car
That was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it
Polished its chrome
If some of my homes
Had been more like my car
I probably wouldnt have
Travelled this far
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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Take Me Back To The Country
Well this big city life is gettin me down
Theres just too many people around
Theres dirt in the air and crime in the street
High-rise buildings and cold concrete
This rat race sure enough takes a toll
I wanna run off to my fishin hole
Take me back take me back
Take me back to the country
Take me back take me back
Take me back to the country
Chorus:
Where the stars at night
Outshine those city lights
Take me back to the country
Where the eagles fly
And the treetops touch the sky
Take me back to the country
This traffic jam is makin me mad
I miss the simple life I had
Peace and quite runnin free
I wanna go home to my family
Im sick of the clock, sick of the phone
Out in the country my times my own
Take me back take me back
Take me back to the country
Take me back take me back
Take me back to the country
Chorus:
Where the stars at night
Outshine those city lights
Take me back to the country
Where the eagles fly
And the treetops touch the sky
Take me back to the country
Where the stars at night
Outshine those city lights
Take me back to the country
Where the eagles fly
And the treetops touch the sky
Take me back to the country
Take me back to the country
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Romace in the moonlight
In the city where the colours run dry
Or in the country where the colour green is applied
In the city where there are polluting cars
Or in the country where you can see the stars
In the city there are gangs, all full of violence
Or in the country where there is only silence
In the city where the air, its so thick
Or in the country where you dont feel sick
In the city where you seal the deal
Or in the country where it is a place to heal
In the city every corner is a fight
But in the city the romance is in the moonlight
poem by Nicole Buckland
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Mumbai
They call it a city that never sleeps,
Dreams at large; everything in heaps
Buzzing all the time, different people different cons,
It got its roses and it got its thorns.
City of murmuring traffic and twinkling cars
The multi-millionaires, the movie stars.
We’ve got it all;
The vada-pav and the dance bars,
Crowded local trains, almost on time,
Spirit of its passengers always sublime
City where honesty is rewarded,
But bravery is crime.
Success and failure are in twilight,
City where changes happen overnight
You might be swept if caught off sight,
Got lucky, then you be on a flight
Multi-lingual, multi-religious,
City of unusual weather,
I wouldn’t be wrong; if I say,
It’s a city where country comes together,
Every city has its ups and downs and she is no different.
She gives me an identity and makes me proud.
City where I was born and city where I want to die,
My city! My Mumbai
poem by Fahim Sayed
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City Of Music
Music is like a city
The genres are the suburbs
The bands, the streets
The albums, the buildings
And the songs, the apartments
The streets get inspiration from other streets
They duplicate then alter them slightly.
The city is very busy and there are always
People driving through looking and listening
The city is growing every day.
The suburbs larger and larger
And some join together.
The streets longer and longer
And some old and tattered.
The building will always stay the same
But they will always be new.
The city will always keep growing
As the music goes on.
poem by by unknown author
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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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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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Kolkata
A nice foggy weather
In this exciting winter morning
I am sitting in a bus
Waiting to reach my school
Thinking about some experiences in the past
When suddenly I notice my beautiful city
Through the only window open in the bus
I see the heavy traffic jam
New trams that have been renovated
The buildings that are on a verge of falling down
Men are walking barefooted
Birds are chirping
Students are studying in their vehicles.
Everybody is heading towards work
Cars are being filled with petroleum
Washer men are washing clothes
A group of women are gossiping
All the scenes will never end-
As they are of my amazing city
But now I have to end
As I have almost reached.
I know my city has been developing
And I will never let each individual's thought end
I will make a step forward
And work for my city
As I have been influenced enough
And I realize the worth of it
I know I love my city a lot
And I have learnt to value it.
poem by Minu Jaiswal
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The City Vs. The Country
In the city where the colours run dry,
Or in the country where the farmers grow rye.
In the city where there are fees,
Or in the country where beauty is free.
In the city where there are loud crowds,
Or in the country where you can watch clouds.
In the city where you camp out in your room,
Or in the country where you have fun dancing with a broom.
In the city where there are polluting cars,
Or in the county where you can see stars.
In the city where you seal the deal,
Or in the country where you can heal.
In the city where you say later,
Or in the country where you can see the water.
In the city where space is tight,
Or in the country where you hold their hand in the moonlight.
Written by Haley McRae,14.
poem by Haley McRae
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Warrnambool In January
Tis warm in the full sun but in the shade tis cool
And the magpies and the mudlarks are singing in the City of Warrnambool
Their music in the Summer air where the cars buzz up and down
On Lava Street in the heart of the busy seaside Town.
A pleasant day in January a high of twenty nine degrees
And there is a nice sort of coolness in the freshening coastal breeze
And the magpies and the mudlarks pipe their distinctive melodies
Near where the traffic it is buzzing on the sunlit street trees.
In Warrnambool in January in the holiday time of year
The accents of different races in the shopping malls one does hear
Quite a nice City to visit if you are driving that way
So many people there do smile at you and bid you a good day.
An old rural City in Victoria in the coastal countryside
The famed City of Warrnambool it is known far and wide
The magpies they are fluting and the mudlarks sing pee wee
And the Summer sun is shining on the City by the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Submission (in answer to Don Mattera)
I have seen a white old man and woman
turned onto the street,
living in cardboard boxes
with their small white dog
in the new disastrous improved South Africa,
I have seen white people taking their own lives
when black mine owners robbed them of salaries
and there was no job to get,
no living to be made
and they did this
instead of starting to beg.
I have seen white men and women
with university degrees
leaving the country
in numbers that are more than a million
to find a place to have a life
somewhere else in a foreign country,
I have waited for more than a hour queuing
at a local bank to make a cash deposit,
as a payment to someone
and the way that things are going,
with the black economic empowerment
and people not up to doing a simple job,
soon all of private industry
will be falling apart
as the government departments are doing.
I have noticed friends and family members
who were robbed, hijacked in their vehicles,
raped, tortured and killed
while the South African Police
did their very best to make a arrest
and like in all other things
are not up to it.
I know people who live in despair,
who are totally without hope
while the country’s borders
are flung wide open
to the rest of Africa
to first have a chance at a job
and their degrees and experience
in the face of this means nothing
but not one does bend
under the black heel to submission,
at the mercy of God
their lives go on…
[Reference: “Submission” by Don Mattera.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Making Cars
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars for people....
But why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
But they will not shake away their greed needs.
Oh no!
And other fantasies they believe!
'Can you put that back on the assembly line?
I'd like to hear that one more time! '
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh?
But they will not shake away their greed needs.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In My City
In my city the sky can cry all night;
In my city the streets can whine all night;
In my city people die all the time;
In my city, boi, in my city...
In my city, boi, God is forgotten;
people follow religion, their minds are rotten.
People kill for money, die 'cause of money,
banks spend our money, and find it funny.
Kids drink till they forget, they forget till they drink;
it's Apocalypse now, we're way past the brink...
it's a theatrical city, everyone's an actor,
everyone's waitin for next great disaster.
'I would kill for a phone' ain't just an expression,
it's more of a statement - kids full of agression.
kids full of the city, like the city's full of kids,
but they're workin on it - they're killin all the kids...
In my city the sky can cry all night;
In my city the streets can whine all night;
In my city people die all the time;
In my city, boi, in my city...
I'm a Silesian boy who moved to Tottenham,
I'm a Tottenham boy who'll always love London,
I'm a London boy who's Silesia-born,
and my people will be free - so go on, sound the horn!
Exile like Chopin, likewise keeps hoping,
Exile from Home, but somehow I'm coping...
I wasn't bought or sold, jus brought and told
you're gonna study here, and live here - be bold!
so I let my heart turn cold, f- it, why care?
carin never really got us anywhere...
nothing's holdin me back, so come and hold me back,
I ain't no ref, but I change the rules like Shaq.
it's time to speak of feelin, son, you're insecure,
that's why you want the finest chic, but she ain't the cure,
you want the fastest cars, you want the longest chain,
but none of that bulls- will take away the pain...
poem by Patryk Krzywon
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Village Ghetto Land
Would you like to go with me
Down my dead end street
Would you like to come with me
To village ghetto land
See the people lock their doors
While robbers laugh and steal
Beggars watch and eat their meals-from garbage cans
Broken glass is everywhere
Its a bloody scene
Killing plagues the citizens
Unless they own police
Children play with rusted cars
Sores cover their hands
Politicians laugh and drink-drunk to all demands
Families buying dog food now
Starvation roams the streets
Babies die before theyre born
Infected by the grief
Now some folks say that we should be
Glad for what we have
Tell me would you be happy in village ghetto land
Village ghetto land
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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