Sunrise over Edenvale
In Edenvale the summer breeze
shivers through some willow trees
and the morning sun sizzles
hot red in the east
like coals flaring up
from the large tin drum
and the night is gone
where some early workers
are warming their hands
where the night lies spilled
like the burned out white ash.
[Reference: sunrise over edenvale by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Umgababa
Now I see
two people walking on the beach,
touching each other
with hands intertwined
gurgling and giggling
like two smitten teenagers,
kissing on a dune
and right there
in mid afternoon
swayed by lust and non existing morals
breaking chaste tradition
on the second dune
as if they are the only ones there
and blessed by the sun.
[Reference: Umgababa by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Daybreak
As you’re yawning,
this very morning,
you will discover,
your natural lover.
I’m held by your smile,
just for a little while,
as you playfully tease,
like a summer breeze,
tantalising me,
with your beauty.
Held in your arms,
captured by your charms,
warming me like sunshine,
here it’s always summertime,
so I’ll never be,
cold or lonely.
So early in the morning,
as the day is dawning,
I look in to your eyes,
and see the sunrise.
poem by Dale Mullock
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Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cole he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Bread and Butter Letter
THERE is a willow grows beside a pool;
Its long gray branches sweep the marble rim;
And from those waters shadowy and cool,
The stars shine, large and dim.
From open valleys filled with little lakes
All through the night a hundred breezes blow,
All through the night the little willow makes
A whispering soft and low.
Here in the dusty street there are no trees
To whisper, and the sky is dark and gray,
And yet I see the stars, I feel the breeze,
So far, so far away.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Coals glowing orange red
Coals glowing orange red in the half drum
blazing through the holes in the sides of it
and a guard warms his hands
where he stands watching, with eyes alert
one hand touching the baton
as if testing if it is still there
and his shadow is gigantic
on the white building behind him
and above him, in the night
God’s coals are aflame
burning through the holes in the sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Awaiting execution (in answer to Dikobe wa Mogale)
Somewhere in a semi dark room
right next to the gallows
a man daily awaits his doom
and obscurely destiny
reaches out its fingers
clamping like a knot around his neck
and although his hands
is red with blood,
he is stained by a terrorist act
he feels free
as if the slaughter
of a innocent white citizen
or a group at that
was done in just cause
and moments pause
as death hangs in the air
and he can sense
its intimate presence there
in Pretoria central prison
and his soul already rots
from the innocent blood
lying on his conscience
and a thrill goes down his spine
while a prison door slams shut
and death is somewhere
almost forever far too near.
[Reference: crucifixion by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early Works - Willow, Willow
Willow, willow
soft swinging low head
sadness brings night tears
to your breast.
Singing of a night wing
circles in the sky
down in the darkness
a life begins to die.
Willow, willow
no answer to give
sunlight brings bright
eyes exploring where you live.
Songs of happy voices
whisper to the breeze
but no one see the tragedy
that lies beneath the leaves.
Willow, willow
watching the world go by
evening breathes a stillness
near the close of the day.
Cries of distant shadows
and shriek of diving claws
hissing into silence
that will soon engulf them all.
17 October 1979
poem by David Harris
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blessed are those (in answer to Dikobe wa Mogale)
Blessed are those
who jumped at Cassinga,
courted death while outnumbered
by the enemy and Cuban battle tanks
and are still living
to tell the story
blessed are those who are killed, slaughtered
in the thousands on there farmsteads,
while the police
do not tract down the killers
and these killings continues
to still go on
blessed are those who are burgled, hijacked
and raped
in the cities
and are still living
while every criminal in Africa
floods in to the country
blessed are those who choose
to remain here as white citizens
while being oppressed
by the laws laid down
by the current government
and are left without income
by the effect
of affirmative action
and who still believe and pray
while their days drag on aimlessly.
[Reference: blood of the martyrs by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Baptism of fire (in answer to Dikobe wa Mogale)
Even when you cast glowing iron
into spears and sharpen them,
draw the blades
of your panga-swords,
ram magazines into your pistols,
into AK-47 assault rifles,
dance around fires
trying to ensnare ancestral spirits
chant the songs of killing
and begin to hate,
curse the anvil of unity
and decide to be free
from every living white human
and bring death and anarchy
as a harvest of the fire
and continue the endless killings
I will still bow down
on my knees
and pray to the almighty God
even if in the presence
of my enemies,
even if thousands gather as foes
and trust that He will deliver me
and every single person
of my nation.
[Reference: baptism of fire by by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Summer Time Slooze
Where are the willow trees now
now that the summer is shrinking in acquiesce
Do they reside in a metaphor
since the storms took away their swaying sighs
Where my little hands yearned to grasp their drooping branches
only to feel the sappy leaves no more
And now do I dare tell my youthful soul
that I have grown past my childhood desires of playing and climbing
Now only to walk and gaze, drive and fail
to let these trees impact me like a wave as they did before
When they cherished the summer
that burned in my youth.
poem by Derek Marcoux
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After a Long Insomniac Night
I walked down to the sea in the early morning
after a long insomniac night.
I climbed over the giant gull-colored rocks
and moved past the trees,
tall dancers stretching their limbs
and warming up in the blue light.
I entered the salty water, a penitent
whose body was stained,
and swam toward a red star rising
in the east—regal, purple-robed.
One shore disappeared behind me
and another beckoned.
I confess
that I forgot the person I had been
as easily as the clouds drifting overhead.
My hands parted the water.
The wind pressed at my back, wings
and my soul floated over the whitecapped waves.
poem by Edward Hirsch
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Rain, rain falling
Rain, rain falling
from a thunder clad sky
with rockets, projectiles and blood
and the oncoming enemy
almost everywhere
in ironclad armour
coming to the day
of their slaughter
receiving sizzling thunder
to the tune
of howitzers, rocket trucks,
armoured cars and tanks
and rifle machineguns
and the Lomba River runs red
while there’s havoc everywhere
and the venom of vomit
fills my mouth
while I struggle to breathe
in the face
of annihilation
of a deadly enemy.
[Reference: Rain by Dikobe wa Mogale.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Only Night
Workers
Are working
for factory...
Day with night...
works
Night making day
For with out sleep
Workers...
Day time also
Work...
workers life...
Not for day
Only at
Night for life...
Sun shine day's
24hour's come
And go...
Workers life...
wacke up at night....!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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A Warm Summer Breeze
The trees whisper in the breeze
The forest peaceful, quiet, and serene.
The warm breeze like a soft caress,
Momentarily eliminating all stress.
Without delay it carries on
Leaving the place in silence when it's gone.
A summer day, a summer breeze,
Softly whispered through the trees.
The summer breeze, softly it comes,
Quickly it leaves,
Causing soft whispers in the trees.
It came and soon left, a warm summer breeze.
poem by Theo Townend
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Early Morning
(pal waaktaar/ mags)
Early morning
Eight oclock precise
I see the lonely august sun arise
Say you know
You will
Move me like you do
Out on the fields...
Im waiting the whole night through
Early morning, early morning, yeah
Ran the whole way
Down to the tracks
Through the doorway, then a last look back
Say you know
You will
Save me like you do
Out on the fields...
Ive waited the whole night through
Early morning, early morning, yeah
I climbed all the stairways
To find the rooftop clear
Got the shotgun lying with me here
Say you know
You will
Move me like you do
Out on the fields...
You know how it feels, yeah
Early morning, early morning, yeah
Early morning
Eight oclock precise
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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DawnBreak
I welcome the Dawn with much elan'
And ever hopeful for a day of peace
Sunrise light- ends dark of night
And the Hummingbird arrives upon a breeze
The morning lawn 'tis sprinkled in dew
A glistening sort of reminder of new day
Summertime sunshine glisten's serenitys hope
'Neath an azure blue summer display
A pebbled brook rolls a warm stream
Near by 'neath a weeping willow tree
Oh-the ambience and utter verve
Emits hope for a peace-filled eternity
poem by Theodora Onken
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Summer Night City
Summer night city...
Summer night city...
Waiting for the sunrise, soul dancing in the dark
Summer night city
Walking in the moonlight, love-making in the park
Summer night city
In the sun i feel like sleeping
I can't take it for too long
My impatience slowly creeping
Up my spine and growing strong
I know what's waiting there for me
Tonight i'm loose and fancy-free
Aa-ahhh
When the night comes with the action
I just know it's time to go
Can't resist the strange attraction
From that giant dynamo
Lots to take and lots to give
Time to breathe and time to live
Waiting for the sunrise, soul dancing in the dark
Summer night city
Walking in the moonlight, love-making in the park
Summer night city
It's elusive party feeling
Somehow something turns me on
Some folks only see the middle
We don't miss them when they're gone
I love feeling in the air
My kind of people everywhere
When the night comes with the action
I just know it's time to go
Can't resist the strange attraction
From that giant dynamo
And tomorrow, when it's dawning
And the first birds start to sing
In the pale light of the morning
Nothing's worth remembering
It's a dream, it's out of reach
Scattered driftwood on the beach
Waiting for the sunrise, soul dancing in the dark
Summer night city
Walking in the moonlight, love-making in the park
Summer night city
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And the sky bright blue...
And the sky bright blue,
white clouds paint the empty spaces
where the thick wall, delimited
the transition overhead of the fig trees.
Palms begging the white Colour
And all, too quiet,
the breeze savours the summer heat.
I spent sleepless nights,
refreshes skin sweat heavily
wetting between the sheets
that were complaining.
And every morning, at sunrise,
spectacular as a Carriage, the horizon is approaching
carrying the heat pain.
poem by Luca Menin
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