Smoke and poker (parody
(with apology to Koos A. Kombuis)
in the lane of the light
we go into the location
and there create family
on beds with blankets without sheets.
[Rook en poker (Smoke and poker) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Forced Song (parody)
(with apology to Koos A. Kombuis)
Like a tart
in hungry weeks,
I yearn to reel
– with a flowering girl-
with pornography
in children’s libraries
my members and I
are stinking rotten
like my god Hitler
that lives with me in Soweto,
like honourable gentlemen
visiting a in ghetto
heavy and bulky,
I am writing in a hurry
even when I bump my head
just as it pleases me.
[Reference: Kwang-gesang (Kwang hymn) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sunday afternoon at the monument (parody)
(with apology to Koos A. Kombuis)
My love and song is totally wrong
not like something out of Afrikaner blood,
my love and song is for everyone
who undress for me, who eat with me
and fold open at a picnic
in the shades of the language monument rock
to my thanks my love and song proclaims me as the boss
it is refused in this country
with smells on the wind
and by laymen on sidewalks
with their prayers
my love and song is for everyone whom I like
but without a church or a law;
just where I am going, without suspicion and totally immoral
– casual and with ceremony -
my love and song is fragrant, like cheese you can smell it from far
and my fingers dance
on my small cellular phone.
[Sondagmiddag by die monument by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The approaching day of judgement (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
Make a big mockery and laugh
about the approaching day of judgement
as if the destiny of man is a myth,
when the almighty God comes at His time in power
people will beg mountains to fall on them,
when his dire thunders flash everywhere
and graves open,
you will stand before the creator of the universe.
[Rook en oker (Smoke and ochre) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Open letter (parody)
(with apology to Koos A. Kombuis)
Are you still living?
Do you sleep peacefully during the day,
while at the work being totally nuts?
Without being able to do a single stitch?
In the battle you fight
against everything that is orderly or looks white,
in back street
at your whorehouses?
Is there a little bit of dust
in your kitchens or behind your cupboards?
Is your black PA full of emotion?
Do you sit comfortable on the porch?
(Mind it, with too many ignorant people you have got trouble,
that lets a company go down and makes people call on God.)
If you do not care and have wiped
all the murders from your hands
or do really understand
or sell it like a burlesque on television
and without people knowing it are resting
while unholy fire burns in your beds,
you can break eleven commandments
and put guns to the heads of people
while you kick them
against their shoulders saying:
“Good, we will go further,
this is how it’s supposed to be
when some winters come to the white man.
Take everything and invade without mercy
even rob the poor and the drunk,
even insult an envoy of Bill Clinton
while spit runs from your mouths.”
(but be very angry
and killers and thieves without any ambition.)
Do you political role players
really find equity for the injustice and crime that are gnawing?
Can you instigate the masses still further?
(for heaven’s sake)
“Does God not hear our prayers? ”
[Reference: Ope brief aan die body corporate (Open letter to the body corporate) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Terrible mathematics (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis.)
By man’s own actions
the world has become dreary
and sly foxes sneak around
among the rubbish dumps
but my people
have a covenant with the almighty God
who mercifully rescues them from distress
and everyone that follows Him is chosen.
By man’s own ingenuity and profit mongering
there are natural disasters waiting,
the unrest of the sea is instigated
while factories fill the air with smoke
and according to the word of God
He is the source from where selfless love comes.
[Reference: 1999½ by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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By man’s own actions (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
By man’s own actions
the world has become dreary
and sly foxes sneak around
among the rubbish dumps
but my people
have a covenant with the almighty God
who mercifully rescues them from distress
and everyone that follows Him is chosen.
By man’s own ingenuity and profit mongering
there are natural disasters waiting,
the unrest of the sea is instigated
while factories fill the air with smoke
and according to the word of God
He is the source from where selfless love comes.
[Reference: 1999½ by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Like a light coming in darkness (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
Like a light coming in darkness
I am waiting on You my God
to lead me to the right road
languishing for Your words and commandments
and ask that You do not look past
people that mock You openly
and amusingly serve Satan
as if their destiny in life
are in their own hands
and I need You to fill my lamp
and ask for Your forgiving of them too
and forgive the whole lot of them
that do not have a clue of who and what You are
and if it’s possible lead them from the darkness.
[Reference: Kwang-gesang (Kwang song) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Afrikaner genetics (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
Maybe wild trees grow
the yards of your ancestors,
their worth have become nothing
like stale salt,
their faces are yellow
and most of them are squint,
they walk without words to nowhere
but I have a God that stands with me
and my ancestors,
with brave men that do not disregard their duty
who do not imagine them above others
who had chosen their wives
out of a people that God himself planted
and your insults of my people and me
make me raving mad, worse that just angry.
[Reference: Afrikanergenetika (Afrikaner genetics) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The monster
Some people believe
that in everyone’s heart, blood and body
there is a monster
and Raka unaware is present
as if deep in us
darkness is overwhelming
and are just waiting
on a destined time and opportunity
to mercilessly strike out
but I rather believe
that the Spirit of God
live in many hearts
and in words and deeds
at times are present in man.
[References: Die mens van God (The man of God) by Ina Rousseau, Gee jou hart vir Raka (Give your heart to Raka) by Koos A. Kombuis. Raka (epic poem) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A three double session on a Sunday in Cape Town (parody)
(with apologies to Koos A. Kombuis)
I
My heart wants to sleep tonight
with dull tiredness
and my wavy tool
is having trouble.
Everything is squandered, degenerates
from the girl at the red traffic light
till the platonic smiles
of the two dolls in the guest room.
If my winds would just stop turning!
I would with earthquakes stir their salad!
from the Cape Town women on the waterfront
everywhere there are neon lights flashing
messages that I am celibate
and full of expectation.
Al my gates are closed.
I let no maids in.
The party of two has already left,
went to the house of another rich jolly guy
I am full of my own knowledge.
I sneak past the refrigerator
wishing the weekend’s hangover away.
In the suburbs I do not have a horn.
II
All my friends have a session.
Everybody is half way mad.
Everybody asks girls to undress.
Everybody is mad with a small town sex hormone.
Only I am more desperate.
I do not get a girl in the street.
All my friends are undressing the whole time
and at times have to leave a girl behind for commitments.
Everybody that does not know and can’t even guess.
Although I look endowed in the right way.
I am really endowed.
I am really wired desperate.
I do not get a girl in the street.
When the front bell rings
I am closing inside.
I am a ducktail without vitamins.
For hours long I bake food and cake.
The neighbours compete to be my friends
and come from far.
They say I am celibate.
I do not get a girl in the street.
III
I wish that I had been locked open,
rather in my parents house
between singing girls with condoms,
eatable girls.
I wish I had been at the end of my struggle
right next to the garden gate,
while a love girl jogs past.
I am endowed and have a struggle.
My fascism does not draw applause anymore.
I have served everyone. Nobody is as low as I am feeling.
I am devoted to sex
and cripple with delirium.
– Be silent my friend, while I am getting an urge.
There’s a big fire in my loins
while girls are avoiding me.
[Reference: Driedubbele depressie op ‘n sondagnag in Kaapstad (three double depression on a Sunday night in Cape Town) by Koos A. Kombuis. ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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If you keep straying with unhappiness (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
If you keep straying with unhappiness
and take the beauty out of everything
are looking for evil in everything
your life turns into a miserable story
you are wandering through the desert
where your tears disappear,
you are scorched
while the sun is shining overwhelming for others
you find thorns on the most beautiful flower,
are already old, before age sets in,
as if you are cursed by a spell
that gives words even if your are dumb
and you break Afrikaans down to clay,
as if nothing have to remain of that language and people
and you take LSD and who knows what
to find life in something
and to you life is a lost dream
as if it is allotted to another man, another guy
and your trousseau and love is buried
where nobody can explore
and you are in your own whirlpool.
[Atlantis in jou lyf (Atlantis in your body) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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If people fabricate situations (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
If people fabricate situations
where you want to fit in
the culture, values and norms
(like in the voortrekkers or army)
of the Afrikaner
as if we are people
in whom everything is noted to book
who destroy ourselves
to fit into the system
you are totally lost
and maybe it’s in your own spirit
where the fear bites, bites
as if you yourself do not fulfil
do not know God, honour our serve Him
and systematically is busy destroying yourself
where you believe that Johnny has not died
from a overdose of drugs
and are just lying unconscious and you yourself
are existing half lifeless
as if you are standing at the forefront
of a new revolution
while really you are perishing like Johnny.
[References: voortrekkers: A youth organization like the boy scouts. Calvyn op hitte (Calvin on heat) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Game Of Poker
A deck of cards, and I think of the game poker
An ace is a joker
Or a choker
In the game of poker
You can win from behind
With five, four or three of a kind
Never be in a rush
To dish out a flush
When you do, rub it in a a blush
This game of poker, I love so much
Every card and every single touch
Winners, beginners, high shakers and losers
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Initial feedback we got from people was that Poker could and should be a product in its own right. For us, that was definitely a case of us not seeing the forest for the trees since we are Poker nuts.
While the summer sun burns fiercely over us (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)
While the summer sun burns fiercely over us,
we are already living in the Promised Land,
we are on no meandering road
that runs into the desert
as long as our eyes are focused
on the Lord
and we constantly trust Him.
We are in no desert
although foreigners crowd at our gates
and by criminal misdeeds
are transforming our Eden
into the portals of hell
and the God that we follow
has previously rescued our fathers
and He hears the prayers of everyone,
has got the omnipotence to act
against the mammon
that draws up in hordes
in the new morning.
Every day it’s His pure light
that still constantly falls on us,
even when there is darkness
that now is at the order of things
and as long as we are living,
the hope remains that the almighty God
will bring His salvation like before
and we find our hope and trust in Him
and He draws his laager, His crowd of angels
around the house of each one
who trusts in Him and are awaiting His salvation
and let there burn flaming torches
in the churches of the night,
there is a new morning
on which we are waiting praying.
[Reference: Die kerke van die nag (The churches of the night) by Koos A. Kombuis.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Shovel And Tongs
The Poker proposed to the shovel
That they should be man and wife,
'I think,' said he, 'that we could agree
As we journey along through life.'
The Shovel blushed as she answered,
'I thank you kindly, Mister,
But my promise belongs to the faithful Tongs,
So I only can be your sister.'
And when the couple were married
The Stove gave the Shovel away;
And it seemed too bad that the Poker, poor lad,
Was the Tongs' best man on that day.
But the Poker soon after was wedded
To the hearth broom, slender and slick;
And 'twas whispered about Mrs. Tongs was put out
Because he found comfort so quick.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Political: Africa’s Lodestar, Africans & Arabs; Koos, Zuma and I
Africa's Lodestar
Addis Ababa – a jamboree of festivity:
Presidents in jets, pledging their promises;
size of entourage, taste in wine on display,
Organization of African Unity losing Africa
fifty years, promoting poverty and blocking
development; returning home to beat up
Opponents, jail activists, harass journalists
Kenya’s Mwai Kibaki stealing December
election, stirring bloody conflict, Africa’s
Lodestar is lost, under a Sacred Principle
between Africa’s leaders in misplaced
solidarity, ignoring all evil by Africans on
Africans – destroying all in our continent…
[Reading the Sunday Times 3 February 2008
An Article by Mondli Makhanya]
Africans and Arabs
I’m out of step with the world
and thankful for it – as I read
about growing racism in the
newspapers, I’m nonplussed
I find my own race and culture
terribly boring, one-sided, prejudiced
and intolerant, whereas other races
are intriguing, amusing, fascinating
And enchanting – Africans and Arabs
are warm and loving, I feel their love
and acceptance when dealing with
them; Indians and Chinese are sweet
And courteous; while the Europeans
are cold and calculating, or
distant and superior – I’ve always
been an outsider in my own
Race and culture, even the songs
that I love, enjoy no cult following,
when with my own people, I feel
cold judgment and rejection
In the atmosphere, as well as
self-righteousness – using my
feelings as a gauge, I have to
declare – a variety of races is
A blessing which I cherish -
and remain out of step with
the world – while people are
fighting about issues of race
And pollution, I’m concentrating on
preparing for life after physical death
because the smallness of this world
and the narrow perspective
Of people’s vision - is
suffocating me…
Koos Kombuis, Zuma and I
What the heck is going on?
First my brother – now another,
a colleague at that, though
a secret as yet – are all leaving
for Australia. What are you guys
doing over there so as to attract all
and sundry away from South Africa?
Before we move to Kingsley building
Henry is leaving – now how fair
is that? I understand about my brother,
he always brings chaos in his wake,
to make trouble over there is only fair,
people need hair on their teeth
To deal with him – but Henry was
a special colleague, he believed in my
special abilities – and now he is leaving,
you Aussies will have him – enjoy – but
it’s not fair at all! Only Koos Kombuis,
Zuma and I will be left!
poem by Margaret Alice
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An inciting concert (or so was thought at the time)
I drive my yellow Bmw
with six cylinders roaring powerful
beneath a group of students
five pressed into the back
and three of us in the front
to listen to Koos Kombuis,
Johannes Kerkorrel, Bernoldus Niemand
and the Gereformeerde Blues Band
at the voëlvry tour.
The Afrikaans rock and roll concert
is banned at Stellenbosch
by the university
(probably by order of the government) ,
but another venue is found
where thousands of students turn up
at the Drie Gewels hotel
and it goes really jolly
and policemen with cameras
come to look
at who looks like communists
and whom they later
can crack down on.
Songs are sung
about government ministers
so and so
and we were told
who and what they really are
and we know
Johnny isn’t dead,
he’s just passed out
from all the drugs
and maybe in heaven
but probably
already in hell
and the maid Sara
makes green tea
for the man with the Bmw
that every now and then
embraces her
like a mother
and every thing goes well,
but for the policemen
who act like a group of clowns
trying to play spy
while criminals run loose
at other places
murdering, robbing
and stealing cars
and dealing out drugs to kids.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Your love is wicked (parody)
(with apology to Koos A. Kombuis)
When you are crying
I want to strive
to be in your shadow
to feel the pain in everything,
every morning when I rise
I stumble over my bed
and chest of drawers
and when I have nausea from drinking
then I only want to eat
when you are with me,
at times I want to taste you
like wild berries
and even in my dark moods
I want to fall
deep into you
I want to make you stop
when you whisper
about the words
of evil sailors
and I want to go along
when you walk the streets
as a part of your neuroses
your favour is almost honourable
and totally unrestrained
your honour is without guilt
blinded by sin,
blinded without comfort,
blinded from love
and totally immoral
yesterday just like you
I went astray
in your urges
for a long time
with a lot of skeletons
without any phobias
or songs
it teems with LSD
and you tell
without asking
and the message that I am getting,
is that you are
a sweet mother in Africa
I curse
at every sign
of another guy
that fits over you,
I curse
just now
when I was shaking
your favour is almost honourable
and totally unrestrained
your honour is without guilt
blinded by sin,
blinded without comfort,
blinded from love
and totally immoral
It’s a sweet-berry daybreak
that is happening while we are together
its cry out upon cry out
without any point in mind
and why the hell
are you going home
while immorality eats you up?
I want to show you pain
deep in my heart
but you have got to wait
and nobody else
may hold onto you,
the old guy is upon you
with your applause
but he’s not holding
unto your buttocks
I want to make you stop
when you whisper
about the words
of evil sailors
and I want to go along
when you walk the streets
as a part of your neuroses
your favour is almost honourable
and totally unrestrained
your honour is without guilt
blinded by sin,
blinded without comfort,
blinded from love
and totally immoral.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Jack
She gave me the Queen
She gave me the King
She was wheelin' and dealin'
Just doin' her thing
She was holdin' a pair
But I had to try
Her Deuce was wild
But my Ace was high
But how was I to know
That she'd been dealt with before
Said she'd never had a Full House
But I should have known
From the tattoo on her left leg
And the garter on her right
She'd have the card to bring me down
If she played it right
She's got the Jack
Poker face was her name
Poker face was her nature
Poker straight was her game
If she knew she could get you
She play'd 'em fast
She play'd 'em hard
She could close her eyes
And feel every card
But how was I to know
That she'd been shuffled before
Said she'd never had a Royal Flush
But I should have known
That all the cards were comin'
From the bottom of the pack
And if I'd known what she was dealin' out
I'd have dealt it back
She's got the Jack.
song performed by by AC/DC from High Voltage
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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