En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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On manoeuvres

The nature of love is dazed, unknown
like a advance into enemy territory,
behind enemy lines

where you skirmish, reconnoitre the terrain
move from thicket to thicket,
leopard crawl, catwalk

through stretches of open ground
taking the risk, always at the ready
and in the enemy’s midst

loiter in a dense bush
while watching like a hawk, relaxed
and half stupefied at the relative safety

smelling the cigars of the passing guards,
hearing them talking and walking around
without even knowing that you are there

and in the darkness to crawl back, walk miles
crossing streams and rivers
to the safety of your own camp

and in the following detail
to return to the same enemy positions,
you find the way easier, more well known.

[Reference: Map Reference by Douglas Livingstone.]

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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Deadman Walking

The enemy is at the door
The enemy within.
Dressed up in the strangest clothes,
Smells of drinking Bombay gin.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
My father was a Russian Jew
My Irish mother crazy.
I see summer, winter, fall.
When grown men
cry like babies.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
Solo
Wish I never had to leave.
Wish I'd never known.
Wish I could stay here forever.
Watch my garden grow.
There's a deadman walking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman walking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
There's a deadman talking
And his shadow's growing long.
There's a deadman talking
Taking it in
before his time is gone.
There's a deadman walking
deadman walking
deadman talking

song performed by by Ufo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Soldier (not really a poem)

the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,

poem by Joshua Decker
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P.O.W. (Prisoners Of War)

Locked up in a cell
The prisoners of war light the fuse to the dynamite
The door is blasted off the hinges
The prisoners of war escape through the opening where the door was

Enemy soldiers, one by one, are notified
And one by one
They try to take down the prisoners of war

War isn't pretty
War is hell

The enemy soldiers break out the guns and knives
Ready to take the prisoners of war down
But the prisoners of war do a wonderful job of fighting and staying alive
More enemy soldiers are dispatched
Some climb down or dropp off ladders
Some flip and somersault
Some continue walking and running on the ground

After dispatching the enemy soldiers
The prisoners of war climb the ladder
To where they can plan their escape
To where they can make their escape
To where they can escape in a helicopter
Leaving the life of war far behind

poem by Justin Gildow
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Be My Enemy

Well the dawn is howling
And the mainframe shakes
Feel like Ive been sleeping in a
Cellar full of snakes
My wings have been clipped
My shoes have been stuck with glue
Well if youll be my enemy
Ill be your enemy too
Now Ive got goons on my landing
Thieves on my trail
Nazis on my telephone
Willing me to fail
They were all sent by someone
(obviously/well I know it was) you!
Well if youll be my enemy
Ill be your enemy too
Ive a bucketful of babylon
I got a handful of lead
Im gonna put them in a gun man
Point it at your head
Because you stole all my friends
And you gave me the buffalo blues
Well if youll be my enemy
Ill be my enemy too
Now from the slime on your tongue
To the nails on your toes
From the scales on your skin
To the stains on your clothes
Youre gonna have to make me do something
That I do not want to do
But if youll be my enemy
Ill be your enemy too
My hands are tied
Im nailed to the floor
Feel like Im knocking on the
Unknown door
Theres a gun at my back
A blade at my throat
I keep finding hate mail
In the pockets of my coat
Well Ive been trying to grow
I been cooling my heels
Ive have been working the treadmill
Ive been working in the fields
And I cant get to sleep
I cant catch my breath
I cant stop talking and i
Look like death
But I will put right this disgrace
I will rearrange you
If youll be my enemy
Ill be your enemy too
If youll be my enemy
Ill be your enemy too
Be my enemy!

song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Living With The Enemy

I gave you all that you wanted
and still you come back for more
You say that you're brokenhearted
but then you walk out the door
Maybe it is time for us to say goodbye
Where are the tears you never cried?
Hey baby what you got on your mind
are you looking for some sympathy?
I can tell you if it's a truth or a lie
'Cos it's just like living,
living with the enemy
You got me going in circles,
I'm slowly loosing my head
What did I do to deserve this,
you make me wish I was dead
Tell me I'm wrong and I'll be on my way
See you around another day
Hey baby what you doin' tonite?
Are you giving me the perfect dream
I'm so tired and I don't wanna fight
'Cos it's just like living,
living with the enemy, enemy
Living with the enemy, living with the enemy, enemy
Living with the enemy,enemy
Living with the enemy, living with the enemy, enemy

song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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Ballade of the guard commander

II

At dusk the sun sets fiery red
behind the bushes
where in beauty it brings tranquillity to the bush-veldt.

There are guards that I inspect as commander
where they stand neatly in a platoon
and I look at them one after the other and then right through them

walk to the guardroom on top of the shooting tower
and in the camp in the operational aria
every thing is in order, the guards are capable.

Early in the evening another officer
comes and plays a game of chess
and we drink icy glasses of beer

but when it gets later their is silence and peace
as if it’s just another evening in a thousand
and for some time I am still attentive to my duties

until the shadows draw out long against the walls,
my non commissioned officer starts to yawn
and I lie down on my camping bed

telling him to take charge, while I get tired
and sleep closes my eyes,
when an explosion wakes me.

II

Somewhere in the camp another bomb explodes,
I grab my firearm instruct the shooting tower to start firing
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come.

Tracers cut tracks through the night
torches are fired into the sky
and outside it’s bright as day

and we fire into the bushes
while I cannot determine where the enemy is
and do not really know where the firefight had started.

In the camp another bomb explodes,
I see a trooper throwing a hand grenade
and I am totally astounded

and fear is in me – that the general is going to come,
what am I going to say about what is happening here,
what am I going to report about the men below him?

It’s clear that it’s no enemy attack
and on the watchtower I lift my rifle
and when it resounds it’s an own man, an acquaintance

that I shoot down before he throws some more hand grenades
and everybody thinks that an enemy bullet pierces him,
while they shoot into the bushes and fire at will.

III

The morning is grey
and rainy when the day breaks
while there’s fear in me

where I have got to give account
about wounded men in three tents
and the death of one I carry with me,

while soldiers are on patrol in the bushes
and with a knob in my throat,
I know that no enemy is there and feel tired.

When I notice a helicopter it is clear that the general is coming
and the Lord knows that I had to shoot an own man,
but what will I show him of the preparedness of the camp?

With narrowed eyes
we wait on the parade ground
and eight of my men are wounded.

The dust rises from the turning blades
while the helicopter lands
and the blades turn slower.

Out of the cloud of dust three figures walk
with the general looking inexorable,
while my ears sing from the noise of the aircraft.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes

(a-wa) o kodwa u zo-nge li-sa namhlange
(a-wa a-wa) si-bona kwenze ka kanjani
(a-wa a-wa) amanto mbazane ayeza
Shes a rich girl
She dont try to hide it
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes
Hes a poor boy
Empty as a pocket
Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose
Sing ta na na
Ta na na na
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes
People say shes crazy
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes
Well thats one way to lose these
Walking blues
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes
She was physically forgotten
Then she slipped into my pocket
With my car keys
She said youve taken me for granted
Because I please you
Wearing these diamonds
And I could say oo oo oo
As if everybody knows
What Im talking about
As if everybody would know
Exactly what I was talking about
Talking about diamonds on the soles of her shoes
She makes the sign of a teaspoon
He makes the sign of a wave
The poor boy changes clothes
And puts on after-shave
To compensate for his ordinary shoes
And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes
And I could say oo oo oo
As if everybody here would know
What I was talking about
I mean everybody here would know exactly
What I was talking about
Talking about diamonds
People say Im crazy
I got diamonds on the soles of my shoes
Well thats one way to lose
These walking blues
Diamonds on the soles of your shoes

song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Phantoms in my dreams

Another river flooded with blood
with thousands of enemy soldiers
wiped out, as if their lives
mattered not to man.

Almost a hundred tanks shot out,
more than three hundred
armoured cars destroyed
and some tanks,
(more than the fingers
on my hands)
just left behind
with the occupants running away
to hide in the veldt

and to this day
the shocking reality
of that battle scenes
are phantoms in my dreams.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Enemy Of All

A father is the enemy
When he left unpaid debts
A foolish son is the enemy of
His parents
A beautiful wife is the enemy of
Her husband
A mother with loose character
Is the enemy of her children
A greedy corrupt and notorious king
Is the enemy of the country men
O friend, remember
If you are not doing any good deeds
Beneficial to others you are the enemy
Of your soul and enemy of you
As you are destroying yourself
As your same soul is there in the body of all.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Smile Of An Enemy

The smile of an enemy
makin me think it's the
end of me

Fearful to the core of heart
is that smile of an enemy
feels like I can't run
feels like I can't hide...
from that smile of an enemy

Is my life written in stone
by my enemy?
The smile of an enemy
has taken over me
and I can't do a damn thing
about it
or can I?

Who's hands are over
the smile of an enemy?
Who pulls the corners of
his mouth makin my enemy
smile at me?
I have to put my hands over
his mouth
My hands are now over his
mouth

He is not smiling at me now
He is smiling at my hands
over his mouth!
And he can't do a damn
Thing about it
I have taken away the smile
of my enemy
His smile that scares me so
are in my hands now

poem by Brenda Poole
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Cassinga

Just like spring when the blue sky is full of falling leaves,
there are three hundred and seventy parachutes that decent,
on a ominous day
with enemy AA-guns reporting
and the enemy are more
than a thousand and a half in number.

The barrels of the enemy AA-guns are lowered,
to break us
and the enemy tries to sow havoc
and to decimate us.

Enemy snipers are shooting from trees
and from everywhere
there are shots being fired,
that munches pieces from us

From behind ruins
we fire almost endlessly
at trenches where some enemy soldiers hide
and launch mortar bombs
all over the place,
while bullets are coming down like rain.

We return heavy fire
to the enemy at the AA-guns,
while other soldiers replace them
which keeps the battle hanging in balance

Shot after shot are being fired
and the smell of death
is strong in the air
and there’s nowhere
for the enemy to escape to.

The last resistance disappears
and there’s apparent peace
and dead enemies everywhere
and some of the bats,
get into pumas
and the rest of us wait
with nowhere to go.

The border is too far to walk
and there’s nothing to drive away with,
when Cuban tanks and armoured cars
find us there.
.
With RPG-7 iron fists
four tanks are destroyed
and a landmine stops another tank in its tracks,
but only paratroops against oncoming armour
are canon feed
and nothing diminishes the danger
of a Cuban mechanized battalion.

Till two Mirages destroys ten armoured cars
and everywhere there’s smoke and dust
and a Buccaneer comes from the sun,
to let moments turn into eternity.

Time after time
it flashes by and fires its rockets
at the oncoming tanks
and with no ammo left,
dives fearlessly over shooting AA-guns
to make the tanks take cover.

It’s very ruff going
but the last pumas land
in a clouds of dust,
to evacuate us
while enemy tanks keep firing.

I try and hold the rearguard with a LMG
before the shot out ruins fades away from me
and we leave forty living enemies behind
and all of us are safely gone,
but for four brave men
whose lives are spent.

[References: AA-guns=> Anti aircraft guns. Bats=>Parabats=>Airbourne soldiers. RPG-7 iron fists=> Rocket propelled grenade launchers=> Bazookas. Mirages=> Mirage fighter jets. Buccaneer=> Buccaneer ground support bomber. Pumas=> Puma helicopters. LMG=> Light machinegun.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Trench charge

Firing from his hip he was running,
with the light machinegun kicking
dressed in a brown army uniform
running towards a trench
while bullets whistled, swished past him
with some kicking up dust around him
and like a machine functioning
at perfect speed and timing
he lobbed a grenade
somewhat like a cricket ball
but with a deadly sting
into the trench
before dropping behind a small stone wall
waiting for the explosive cracking sound
giving instructions with hand signs
to the troops that followed him

and when it came
he let of a few bursts
with the light machinegun
on its folded out stand
before half-terrified, filled with adrenaline
he started running again
with his troops following him,
shooting from the hip
and at the enemy trench
jumps straight in
spraying soldiers dressed in olive green
with flaming hot bullets,
smelling the fumes of cordite,
mixed with sand and death
with every breath burning
in his chest and throat
without time to really think,
just to comprehend
and to react, noting dust flying
from the wall next to his head
were passing enemy bullets were slamming.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars

The night is full of brown Ratel armoured cars
and Olifant tanks
that drives and rolls in on the ground
and salvos from rocket launching trucks
that draws arcs
and in the distance howitzer canon reports
in volleys
and when a light flare suddenly falls
it is as if the bushes are teeming
with enemy tanks and armoured cars
just where I look
and it looks
like the day of judgement.

Projectiles find their targets
and canister-shot comes down exploding thundering
and it’s an apocalyptic night
for some of the enemy
who are burning,
scorched and blown to smithereens in their armour
and when a tank
suddenly appears out of the bushes
there is a hell of a red thunderclap
as a shot from another Ratel hits it deadly
and I realize that even here
a person’s time is measured out
and around me there are fireworks
like stars falling from the sky
while we stop and aim
the following killing shot.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Ghost from the war

A military base close to the border
that divides our country from that of the enemy,
a tent through which the wild wind
at gale force strength blows red sand,
pressed into a war by politicians
who decide about the destiny of men.

A trench where enemy soldiers,
women and children lie shot dead,
ripped apart by hand grenades
and mortar bombs
and from the outside
it looks like patriotism, national interest
for which you do service
but on the inside you are caught
by destiny
where other people like gods
take decisions that have an impact on you.

Dead are the innocent,
bystanders, a young man
who hasn’t even come to age
and there are flames
that burns right through the thorn bushes,
where a Ratel armoured car is burning
and I wonder about the presence of God,
about the lot of man
and the thorn bush burns, the whole veldt
is in flames.

Being lost makes me sober
while I try hard to forget
of the havoc that I know,
how war ravages, destroys, tramples
and how easily people die, especially those
that doesn’t really deserve it
and everybody are settled into
just another number and name.

[Reference: Ghosts from the call by Japie S Strydom:

“ a fortress,
a trench,
a tent,
an institution
for the mentally insane;
Big syllables on the outside in large characters type:
GET EVERYTHING HERE IN HUGE QUANTITIES

From the outside
a shadow that falls without end
from the inside a prison.

Being bound,
lost,
day long working, trying to remember,
remembering to withdraw,
to spend time, by writing meaningless sentences
wondered, though about:
mother,
our home,
brother
no Father.

a command,
a decree,
An invitation to recognize,
identification of:
a soldier
a man,
a boy,
still somewhat a child,
killed.

Killed between the branches
of a burning umbrella-thorn bush
almost like Moses with God,
but burnt right out of his boots
almost not stopped burning
with white phosphor that doesn’t want to die
I saw again today:

In the thick bush
man
– returned to earth
in the stomach blood of a boy
mixed with sand.” (My English translation.) ]

poem by Gert Strydom
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