Seasons
I
As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.
The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.
Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings
until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.
II
Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid
until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food
and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble
until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.
III
Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing
but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe
and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open
when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
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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In the Highveld
(after Toon van den Heever)
I
In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,
the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence
but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere
and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.
II
In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.
When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,
how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.
III
There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves
with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.
To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower
as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.
IV
Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)
the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.
Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.
I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.
V
When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,
the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,
the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye
when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.
VI
The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you
shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life
with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness
there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.
VII
When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.
I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill
that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.
poem by Gert Strydom
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New For Old
Bud blisters into life
Stretching for the light
Unfolding radiant green
Upturned palm to the sun
Life seeping in, breathing out
Green, Green so Green
Resurrected hope, so Green
Summer breeze stroking
Branches ebb and flow
Leaves so Green strong now
Fear not wind of change
Mellow summer turns
Green, green, green-yellow
Yellow area of dieing heart
Green lingers no more
Limp transparent yellow
Barely a breeze takes one
Fierce Hyde-like wind now
Cracking and ripping
Wind torn leaves fall
Life chords snapped
Death too early, still Green
Nourishment broken not ended
Seasons build up to tear down
To build up, to tear down
Leaves fall, Green leaves fall
And then some more
Until leaves are falling, falling
Trees and branches revealed
In the x-ray of autumn blast
Winter is coming
Winter is coming
Yellow pale yellow carpet
Beneath the naked tree
Yellow, mulchy brown
Once crisp leaves scatter
Green, yellow, transparent veins
Tired, half dead, leaves lose their grip
Join the autumn rain soaked mound
Providing new life to the roots
Old for new, New for Old
Seeds buried in death
Bring new life in Spring
In the end is the beginning.
poem by Adrian Wait
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Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Highveld
I. Spring begins
Spring begins in green almond leaves,
in blossoms appearing snow white in a cobalt blue sky
where the sun sits brilliant white, glowing more intense than golden chandeliers,
where flowers appear and bridge the skeleton of every tree
while rain now pours down regularly,
sieves down in every bush and in the lane
with yellow and pink blossoms
appearing daily, puffing out.
Lord, let these times become a tribute
and what was once dead and winnowed
now become joyous, as a hymn of praise to You,
let fruit appear from the blessing that You are showering,
let my weak youth now overflow splendid, intact
in a life grounded on You, let Your light shine through my branches.
[Reference: Vroegherfs (Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Boland: Early autumn) by N.P. van Wyk Louw]
II. In this graceful spring
In this graceful spring
a glorious sun is shining so exuberant and happy
that I am straying, caught are astonished by Your world
where branches daily get new flowers:
flowers are spreading prettily on almond trees
peaches, apricots en plums are in full flowering
in colours of yellow, pink and snow white
and insects, bees and birds arrive in a wonder world.
where joy now jubilant without pain
is fulfilled in every flower, in my words
appear as Your biggest blessing
while You let glory come down from Your heavens,
that the whole of humanity, knows of growth and maturity,
insects, birds and the whole world shout out Your glory.
[Reference: Uit hierdie ligte herfs (Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Boland: Out of this light autumn) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
III. Now the earth is glowing days long
Now the earth is glowing days long,
in the bright light that shines from a cloudless sky
and the last trees are still flowering
before spring disappears with the onslaught of summer.
Everything is still jubilant with flower upon flower
that uninterrupted find secret power,
in full growth devolving to tasty fruit
binding joy, energy and taste
in a harvest serving the Creator Himself,
gloriously taking us to a magnificent experience
where we admire the magic power of His works
and realize how glorious, overwhelming summer is:
that what once could flower
now turn into the best fruit, with branches full everywhere.
[Reference: Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Boland Winter by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
IV. Summer rain
Serenity fell overnight like rain
on the dry meadows of my existence
and uninterrupted and once unobserved the blessings appeared
from Your hand between the thunders that were falling around me.
The whole wide world is soaked where Your waters go
when my adult life suddenly bloomed,
are standing before new splendid horizons,
and dumbfounded I come to the knowledge of Your faithful love.
Here where I am overwhelmed by Your grace
I presume that You lead all paths to growth,
as Your power, life, light convenes in sympathy
where each life at a time comes to fullness
and even insignificant creature are regarded by You
with Your love that shower on sinners as I.
[Reference: Eerste sneeu (Four prayers during the yearly seasons in the Boland: First snow) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mowing the Lawn
The chestnut tree is now stripped bare
and all of the golden leaves have been raked,
bagged in black sacks.
The last summer sun
hangs white hot in the autumn air
while the lawnmower growls willingly.
There’s sand and grass
coming into my nose and the weed-eater
cuts away the jungle.
I see the two cats
climbing down a evergreen tree
from the roof of the garage
and there are ripe yellow tomatoes
on stems in long rows
and a few figs swelling out
hanging on branches
and I cut tufts of grass
at the back of the prickly pears.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Doves fly past in pairs
Doves fly from sunrise
until late afternoon past in pairs
and the whole day their singing resounds
and just before the rainstorm comes (out of season)
the air is full of swallows
sweeping up and down
catching insects.
starlings, sparrows and finches scream
as if the end of this autumn,
is already the beginning of spring
where they are eating blue-black berries
in evergreen trees
and it’s as if nature
knows something secret about this winter.
The rays of the sun are now measured out much cooler
but the grass still has its green colour
and there are irises
which flowers out of season
from all the rain
and the giant sage bush
is covered with purple clusters
hanging in strings
and early in the mornings when I get up later
the black-collard barbet knocks me awake
asking screeching
when I am going to get up
and I look at him
where he endlessly are scolding me
and I wonder
why the birds
are suddenly so jolly?
or do they know
that the season
is at the edge of change
and that man with pollution
is causing irreparable damage?
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Drug Dealer
Today-
I asked myself.
Why are the oak tree’s purple?
And the grass blue?
Why is the sky green?
And the leaves hot pink?
Why is that gravel red?
And the rocks of that garden yellow?
Then I thought
and thought over again
a million times
and realized...
I’m high.
I’m up higher than the orange clouds in the green sky
My heart is as bright as the rocks of that garden
My thoughts are as eccentric as the hot pink color of the leaves
that fell from the purple tree
My eyelashes flutter flirtatiously like the way the wind
blows the blue blades of grass around.
Love is a drug,
and I’m high-
You happen to be my dealer.
poem by Breanna Schwartz
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The timetable of four
The golden glows of sunlight hit me
The smell of freshly cut grass reached me
The sight of freedom exhilarated me
The sounds of birds intrigued me
The beauty around me radiated from everything
The long open stretches of grass
The shady woodlands going on and on
The unending number of livening creatures
The cawing raven in the tree branches
The worm busily digging in the soil
The fish swimming idly in the pond
The child playing happily in the park
It is summer now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Autumn
I’ll still be in my tree
The children are playing in the heaps of leaves
The leaves have all gone a golden colour
The ravens are searching for bugs in the leaves
The fish are swimming slower in their pond
It is Autumn now but it will soon change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Winter
I’ll still be in my tree
There are no children playing
There are no leaves on the trees
The ravens have all gone south
There are no fish in the pond
It is Winter now but it will soon change
It will soon change
It will soon change into spring
I’ll still be in my tree
The children are starting to come back
The ravens are backing cawing in the trees
There is new fish in the pond
There are new buds on the trees
It is Spring now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Summer
I’ll still be in my tree
Waiting
Watching
Writing
Thinking
Daybreak is A Glowing Bright Ball
Daybreak is a glowing bright ball
from which the fiery rays shine,
sometimes drops falling along with thunder,
with freshness embracing me when I go outside.
Early morning is a bright sun hanging in the heaven
when the colour of the bright blue
catches you with something full of mystery,
with the wind sometimes clinging to you with fingers.
Spring is flower upon flower
that is spread over fruit trees,
the beauty that astonishes you
when the garden of God stretch into the fields.
Summer is fruit that waits ripe and luring
when everything becomes adult,
sunny day upon sunny day
where the prettiest flowers are still flowering.
Autumn is coloured leaves that are everywhere,
the summer still lingering for the last time
and everything has a secret knowledge
that winter is coming, even every sunray
and nowhere I can find the words of a child,
while I am blinded by the glorious world from being young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A spring evening
Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Summer
The year rejoice with grass
that sprouts out bright green everywhere
and leaves covering
plants and trees.
Life blooms in fruit
that dazzles red, yellow and green on branches
and insects fly swept away,
while the birds sing joyful songs
and the bright white hot sun
hangs high up in the sky.
Lord, give that the fruit coming out of my words
and deeds are not out of conceit
and centred around the I and self, but also stand as a sign
of Your infusion and flower full-blown and great.
poem by Gert Strydom
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First Blossoms
So unexpectedly the beauty caught me,
the first blossoms suddenly bursting out snow white,
covering the whole almond tree
and a week ago the branches were still stripped,
with the winter wind cutting through it.
Today I feel devoured by the winter wind,
I am tied by my powerlessness, blinded by destiny
and I am wondering when and where
I will find You secretly working in my life?
I find signs that a new summer is on its way,
I am astounded by nature
while the beauty comes suddenly
and for Your Godly working as a human I am stupid,
see in nature spring suddenly coming all around me,
Your flowers blooming in their cups,
everything around me is suddenly clean and fresh
and everything You regard as Your property.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There’s An Inaccessibility
There’s an inaccessibility
in the steel-blue sky,
a chilly winter cold that comes without modesty
and I see doves turning in their gambolling flight
in a swarm gathering around me
and they seem hungry
when I spread crumbs of bread from a paper-bag
but in this winter all heat is missing
while the wind is pulling on tree branches,
making a dust cloud of leaves and sand,
blowing things higher than the roofs of the houses,
causing the blue to disappear.
Still I can stare in wonder,
where doves gather dog tame around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Not a yellow or blue iris
Not a yellow or blue iris
that flowers in a cup right through the winter
not a pepper tree
that throws shadows the whole time
but to me you are
purple-blue morning glories
that folds open with the sun,
trailing everywhere
and when the dark days come,
with rain falling almost unstoppable
your grow densely
and with the first sunshine
there are flower upon flower.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I had to forsake the world of my childhood
The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm
and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.
Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,
that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The winter is coming
The cat tells me
that its time for its food
and outside bees
still fly past in a swarm
and I realise that it’s late afternoon,
that the shadows are drawing long lines,
the wind rustles through the tree branches
and it’s already almost cold
as the winter is coming.
Still there’s something in the late autumn
that catches me
where here and there leaves
hang like dots on tree branches,
that the sun sometimes still gives hot rays
as if it does not really want
the cold to come
and the grass is still green
like in the summer.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Winter's Come
Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;
The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;
That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,
What a strange scene before us now does run--
Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;
White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;
The sycamore all withered in the sun.
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:
All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves--
And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.
The winter chill on his cold bed receives
Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue.
Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.
Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,
Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;
That is not green, which was so through the year
Dark chill November draweth to a close.
Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,
When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;
While on the window shutters the wind roars,
And storms like furies pass remorseless by.
How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,
Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar
With Dante or with Milton to regions high,
Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,
Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.
poem by John Clare
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
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Autumn's Grace
The autumn’s dream may keep its dying grace
With flecks and shades of bleeding leaves and yellow.
The cold wind's scorch may wither the green’s space,
When fruits of green a bit more need to mellow.
And autumn’s tear on every leaf perceives
The cold wind, which scorches green so cruelly,
Till glass fleck shade of bleeding yellow leaves
The living world to meet its ground so coolly.
And autumn’s red may silence the bird’s voice,
When shivers of the tree the rain embrace
And nature's hide, having no other choice.
The winter slowly comes showing her white face.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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