To the border
When I got in at the train door
there were tears glittering in your eyes
and through the open window
we kissed again,
your hands clenched mine,
your image was burnt into my soul
and how you waved
while we pulled away around a corner,
but when projectiles exploded in other armoured cars,
the canon of the Ratel hit with deadly force,
I smelled my own sweat and fear
and I could only see how death looks
and I looked into the abyss.
I were another person without a soul
and you disappeared out of my thoughts
into the naught
and you were wiped out
as if you were in another world,
in another life
and still I stayed
loving you
and the best part of me
was still with you.
[Reference: Na die front by Ernst van Heerden.]
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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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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A woman unconscious
The enemy were almost at the door,
coming with tanks, armoured cars,
rocket launching trucks,
helicopter gunship, fighter jets,
with supporting Cuban troops
under Russian command
and day after day
I prayed for it to end,
for the killing of them, to stop,
where my Ratel armoured car
send tank after tank and many more armoured cars
with phosphorous shells
straight to hell
and by calamity the future changed,
turned into a different world,
changed from the one
scared of them, dropping the annihilating bomb
of millions of people being killed and dead
and at home, the welcoming did not come
at my return
and your were not there,
were killed in a car accident instead,
were for a time unconscious
in a white hospital bed
and the evidence of how cruel
the world can be
still walks with me,
while life goes on.
[Reference: A woman unconscious by Ted Hughes.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Anthem to the 47th Cuban / Faplan Brigade
Whom but your mothers back in Havana
and some in Luanda
mourn your lost or knows
that you were slaughtered in battle
as if human life
holds nothing sacred,
were wiped out by one
of only two battalions
at the junction of the Lomba
and Cuzizi Rivers,
that you heard Ratel armoured cars
driving in at speed,
the roar of Olifant tanks
and the thunder of their guns
or the whining stutter of machineguns
nor did you probably say any prayers
before deadly shells fell from the sky.
What remorse does your supreme leader feel
when your mothers, wives and children
light up candles
(who never really had a chance
for a proper goodbye)
and knows by now
that you will never come home.
[Reference: “The results of the campaign up to April 1988 were 4,785 killed on the Cuban/Faplan side, with 94 tanks and hundreds of combat vehicles destroyed, against 31 South Africans killed in action,3 tanks destroyed (SADF tanks entered the war after the Lomba River campaign) and 11 SADF armoured cars and troop carriers lost. A total of 9 Migs were destroyed and only 1 SAAF Mirage shot down.” Jannie Geldenhuys.1994: At the front. P240. Johanthan Ball Publishers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Why?
If I could paint
I would paint a portrait
of a shot out Ratel armoured car
standing in a landmine field.
Out of which the smoke still rises
And I would print in defencelessness
with every brush stroke
of armoured steel failing
against projectiles
and then becoming a coffin
and enemy soldiers standing grinning
with teeth brilliant white
and bones of fallen comrades
that tried to stop a horde of barbarians
and hyenas and jackals standing drooling
and vultures turning in the sky
and in the background till the horizon
enemy tanks, armoured cars
and men would lay shot to pieces
with pools of blood, intestines
and shot of legs and hands
and the title would be: Why?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Forever young
I saw boys driving away to war
in a Ratel-90 armoured car
and they were well trained,
ready for action
and called up for military service
against their will.
Two smiled and a few
waved goodbye
and there was dirt
in my eyes,
when my armoured car
caught speed.
Enemy battle tanks were everywhere
and we fought right through the night
and with first light
an armoured car was stuck
in a mine field
and they were hoping for the best
but the worst was there
and shot out they paid the cost.
Although the enemy
paid a much higher price
and lost,
it’s like yesterday that they
waved goodbye
and sacrificed in vain
their lives for people
that does not honour them
and remain forever young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On the other side of the Lomba river
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
bad weather hanging on the other side of the Lomba river
with tanks standing ablaze
nothing can stop the war clouds
(while the shots of enemy tanks resound)
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death
and Fapla, Cubans and Russians perish
and we also receive deadly shots.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
where we teach them a final lesson in Africa
when the enemy appear
but olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars are stuck in a landmine field
and howitzer canons fire
at the beginning of the slaughter
with tanks standing ablaze
and there are olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars disappearing in the bush
with rockets raining down
when the enemy appear
which rip enemy weaponry into pieces
and division after division comes under restraint.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
and the canons of howitzers, tanks and armoured cars fire continuously
while the smell of death is everywhere
with rockets raining down
with few enemy being still alive,
with some leaving intact tanks, fleeing to survive
with tanks standing ablaze
and I am conscious of the inhumanity
and feelings of powerlessness
while the smell of death is everywhere
and the slaughter goes on and on
and human life isn’t important.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
with tanks standing ablaze
and whatever you do or mean
nothing can stop the war clouds
and feelings of powerlessness
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I, the Unknown Soldier
The sun burnt down ferociously
when he stumbled
and on an unknown passer I laid my hand
giving my orders, on the way to His crucifixion.
The bloodthirsty crowd and I showered
our curses, slander and humiliation on Him
but His eyes cut into my very soul and He was silent
stoical with unsurpassable love
and when I took the big hammer, drilling nails through Him
planting the cross with comrades in a hole and hanging Him,
thunderbolts were unleashed, nature lost its laws
and I a soldier, a mere human was caught
to a deed crying to high heaven
where I crucified God Himself and He pardoned me.
[Reference: Ek, die onbekende soldaat (I, the Unknown Soldier) by Ernst van Heerden.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama
Gnashing enemy tanks are coming on
while the Ratel-90 stands still
and many things
goes through my mind.
The shot sounds thundering
and for a moment I am blinded
by smoke, dust and giant flames
that devours things.
The redneck is still shooting
through branches and bushes
with the front machinegun
and it can cost his life
but he shoots on like a machine
and feeds the ammunition belt
and I let the driver pull him in
and he’s again aboard
locked behind armoured steel
where he curses and takes out his rage
and shoot from within
and he speaks a foreign tongue:
“Ac her forþ beraò;
fugelas singaò,
gylleò grœghama”
We drive away with speed
and stop and shoot and drive again
and let projectiles
find their targets deadly
and so we continue for hours
that drag into days
and around us the enemy is shot out
and what is not burning,
is already junk
or just left behind.
Enemy soldiers of Fapla,
Cuba and a few from Russia
lie shot to pieces,
some half burnt
and whole brigades are wiped out
and in the distance I hear jackals howling
and the air is full of vultures
turning in it
while the stench of death,
phosphorous and gunpowder almost suffocates me
and some more dust or maybe emotions
makes my eyes tear.
[References: Redneck=>Englishman. “Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama” => Gaelic for: “For here starts war; carrion birds sing, and grey wolves howl.” From: “The Fight at Finnsburh.” Jackal => a African fox.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Eyes of Death
I looked into your eyes
Your Eyes of Death
I killed for those eyes to look into mine
Into my eyes of pain and guilt
I dared to walk into your path
I dared to take your hand into mine
And I dared to tell you my darkest secret
I stared into your Eyes of Death
And I lost my soul to them
When I looked into your Eyes of Death.
To this day, I am still dead
To this day, I can no longer live in the mortal world
To this day, we shall not die of fire, water, or love,
But of our Eyes of Death that rein our souls
I stare into your Eyes of Death and I cringe at the sight
I look into your Eyes of Death and I am no longer alive
I looked into your Eyes of Death
And I died again, before I could run from them
For I cannot stand to be around you to this very day again
I looked into your eyes
Your Eyes…of Death
poem by Jade DragonHeart
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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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A Boy at the Window
War raged on as if that was how it was meant to be.
There were no sides. You killed your allies,
or you were killed by them. Fear made us
choose the former. Tears rolled down my sweaty cheeks.
Blood stained my mud-splattered skin and clothes
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?
I desperately wanted to stop and mourn
for fallen friends, but there was no time for weakness.
I had to keep moving so no one could learn my strategy,
armed only with shields for eyes and daggers for teeth
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?
I marched silently. My shoes made no sound against
the pavement and my footsteps were invisible.
I thought this would protect me: not my first mistake.
As far as I would see were nothing but the aftermath
of massacres and the afterthoughts of murder
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?
I looked up to see a small, pale face hiding
behind a window. His arms were at his sides.
His eyes were expressionless bubbles.
I stood and stared at his innocent features,
and the child-who was blind to the bloodshed
that lay before him-held up his hand in a wave.
My face broke into a smile as I waved back.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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The Mirror
Standing in front of the mirror,
The reflection tells me to look behind.
The focus of the mirror is myself,
And also what lies behind.
I can move to the left,
I can move to the right,
But to the mirror I am always within it's sight.
As are things past.
I look out a window,
It tells me to see what lies ahead.
In the window, I do not see myself.
I see others.
I see nature's beauty unfolding.
I know I am there,
But I am just merely a part of the surroundings.
To the mirror, it is all about me.
The mirror tells me to worry about how I look.
The window tells me to worry about how the world looks.
The eyes are the window to the soul.
Not the mirror.
The mirror deceives.
To the mirror, everything is backwards.
As I look into my own eyes.
My soul becomes filled with self.
As I look into the eyes of another.
My soul becomes filled with life.
While the mirror holds my reflection.
It is the window that holds the truth.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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The bad lands
Nowhere in the bush
where lions, leopard,
crocodiles, hippos
and snakes dwelt
felt really bad to me.
On patrol at times
a hidden landmine,
a booby-trapped corpse
could shatter you
with a thousand
hell hot pieces of steel
and still skill, tenacity
and knowledge kept me safe.
Even in Angola facing enemy armour
where shells swished past,
Ratel armoured cars were trapped
and shot out
and the enemy
hatched in steel caskets
that were armoured cars
and tanks at a time,
where hyena, jackal
and vultures ripped through bodies
of shot, sliced, ripped Cuban
and Fapla soldiers
we overcame
and although the cruelty of war
and lost of human live
gripped me
and the smell penetrated
up into my soul,
the ground stayed pure
and African
as if we did belong.
Yet when I visit that little hill
(in Natal)
where Dingaan misled Piet Retief
and had him
and his companions slaughtered
and fed their bodies
to the birds, the wind, the sun
their spilled blood is still glowing
as if radioactive
and that place
feels really evil to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Even if my life without you comes to a halt
(for M)
I
Even if my life without you comes to a halt,
even if I see your face in those of other women
I continue with the steps of each day,
while I have got to give you up.
Daisies are flowering; roses open in the garden,
the sun hangs yellow-gold in the cobalt sky;
and when each morning I go to town
I return again back home
and although this separation
makes me feel very much alone
and comes between us with distance
there is still the wind whose fingers play over me
and I am not connected to your humanity anymore
while I try to find my way into the wide world.
Sometimes I drive long distances
when my motorbikes comes to life under me.
II
When my motorbikes comes to life under me,
I am aware of the world around me
as when I left the house that we did share,
my hand was on the throttle
while streets, traffic lights and cars just glided past
and I had been so without even God in that event;
with a city, a whole world that came between you and me
as if there is no mercy and I had been punished
and had to jump to the way of destiny and your wishes
with trucks, cars and pickups on the highways
as if our love did not anymore speak to your heart
while everything moved on in our separation
and when I opened the throttle we finally took our farewell
when my world disappeared into the naught.
III
When my world disappeared into the naught,
when there was nothing that remained between us,
when far too many things had come between us,
when too many words, acts
broke our bond to pieces,
in pain that distorts,
until no oblivion comes and memories remain
with the meaning
that we still adore each other,
then I wonder
why you draw a world between us,
why you send me off to hell
and force us to live in different places
while your love still reaches out to me?
IV
While your love still reaches out to me,
I wonder how I can affect
that which was high and holy
here with words written in pain,
how I can force destiny to a standstill
and put something that was honourable and pure
on only a piece of paper,
when I rather want to throw my pen down?
Let me rather remember your bright eyes,
your hot lips that could tell me about your world,
that opened softly under mine,
how your body softly tilted
with the lights of the city in the distance,
when the leaves whirl in and out.
V
When the leaves whirl in and out
in the depths of your soul,
blow as against the windows,
wrecking the last days to dust,
when the first signs of winter come
and I am stripped from old dreams and every expectation
with signs of my disrepair all around,
when nothing remains of my passion and yearning
it is as if the last summer already fades,
as if I am destined to death,
as if never again something great will come,
as if I stand alone against life and the whole world
and still when love remains
the surprise is pass time, place and meaning.
VI
The surprise is pass time, place and meaning
with the shining glance in the eyes
or did you only pretend at times?
My darling, now a rainbow of tears
hang over your cheeks
as if the falling rain forces you to struggle
with the problems of the world,
as if the lightning bolts of life fall around us
and your eyes have caught somebody else,
in the mystery of your heart,
it is somebody else to whom you long
and the sky is covered with darkness,
its cold and the atmosphere somewhat chilly,
in the evenings it's so very silent.
VII
In the evenings it's so very silent
that I can hear my own breathing
as if in the night I loose time and meaning,
as if I do not want to go any further,
as if I do not want to waste time
on our past love,
and think over and over again
while you frolic somewhere else.
Days have a own way
with events occurring unplanned
and I wonder from where I get my poems
as the world lies open before me
and I do not want to let anything else vex my poetry,
even if my life without you comes to a halt.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Driving The Last Spike
In the early 1800s, large groups of mainly unskilled labourers built englands railways. the cost in human terms alone was very high...
Leaving my family behind me
Not knowing what lay ahead
Waving goodbye, as I left them in tears
Remembering all wed said
I looked to the sky, I offered my prayers
I asked him for guidance and strength
But the simple beliefs of a simple man
Lay in his hands, and on my head
I gave everything that they wanted
But still they wanted more
We sweat and we toiled
Good men lost their lives
I dont think they knew what for
I sold them my heart
I sold them my soul
I gave everything I had
Ah but they couldnt break my spirit
My dignity fought back,
Fightback
Can you hear me
Can you see
Dont you hear me
Dont you see
We worked in gangs for all we were worth
The young boys pulling the wagons
We were digging the tunnel, shifting the earth
It was then that it happened.
No-one knew how the cracks appeared
But as it fell they all disappeared
Stone fell like rain
Can you hear me,
Can you see
Dont you hear me
Can you breathe
The smoke cleared, the dust it settled
No one knew how many had died
All around there were broken men
Theyd said it was safe, theyd lied
You could hear the cries, you could smell the fear
But good fortune that day was mine
And it occurred to me the heart of a good man
It seems is hard to find.
Can you hear me,
Can you see
Dont you hear me
Dont you see
We worked, how we worked like
The devil for our pay
Through the wind, through the snow,
And through the rain
Blasting and cutting through gods country like a knife
Sweat stinging my eyes, there has to be a better life
Ah but I can hear my childrens cry
I can see the tears in their eyes
Memories of those Ive left behind
Still ringing in my ears
Will I ever go back again
Will I ever see her face again
Ill never forget that night
As they waved goodbye to their fathers
We came from the north,
And we came from the south
With picks and with spades
And a new kind of order
Showing no fear of what lies up ahead
Theyll never see the likes of us again
Driving the last spike,
Lifting and laying the track
With blistering hands,
The sun burning your back
Oh but I can hear my childrens cry
I can see the tears in their eyes
Memories of those Ive left behind
Still ringing in my ears
Well Ill always remember that night,
As they waved goodbye to their fathers
We followed the rail, we slept under the stars
Digging in darkness, and living with danger
Showing no fear of what lies up ahead
Theyll never see the likes of us again
Can you hear me
Can you see
Dont you hear me
Dont you see
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The disarmed
The night had passed
the cobalt morning was not far anymore,
dawn was near
when I remembered Your star,
when Your feet stood on this fierce earth
and I am arming for war,
are ready to go to war,
even to declare it in full readiness.
But time and again You blind me,
cause me to bend down,
force me to get another solution
for liberation of my nation, for opportunities and happiness
and on my knees I know that in You all power lies,
that You are going to fight the battle and my war lust is gone.
[Reference: Die ontwapende (The disarmed) by Ernst van Heerden.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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It took eight parades to say goodbye
It took eight parades to say goodbye
and there were fighters in the sky
and we wore battle clothes
and drove our armour
through the streets
and saluted every time,
that he stood with his hat
clenched to his chest.
We marched with a military band
and everyone had step outs on
and as we passed
the man in the dark suit,
rifles swung up high
to a generals salute
in order to say goodbye
to the commander in chief.
I remember him waiting with his arm
on his chest
and hat pressed there,
while we crossed the border
back from war
and there was something
on his face;
when I saluted
as the Ratel IFV drove past.
[Reference: Ratel IFV=> Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Your Image
In my madness
Transformed agonies
Existential leanings
Yourself because of me
I hold your image
In my eyes
Like after death
The snake is burnt
As he carries
The image of his slayer
In my own circles
Like a mirror in palm
While you do your eyes
A reflection always
As you shatter me
Into dust
But like the snake
Ye shall burn me
To escape thy image
And by then
Ye shall see thine image
In thy soul
27/2/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Sad eyes (Angel incarnate)
Sad eyes cry many tears
Many unseen by those around
These eyes are mine
For I'm alone in a world of sorrow
I tried hiding but it found me
I tried running but it captured me
I soon realized you can't escape
Not from pain, sorrow, fear or death
They all catch up with us eventually.
I was put here not to suffer
But to learn
To learn what makes sorrow, pain, fear, and death.
To learn, to understand and find a way to ease people's fears of death and to take away their sorrow
Sad eyes cry many tears
Many unseen by those around
These eyes are mine
For I'm alone in a world of sorrow
I know I look youthful but really I'm ancient
I was here a little after the beginning my soul reincarnate always knowing and seeing what I've seen
Never being deceived herself but seeing the deceitful people around her
My eyes are sad because I'm supposed to be innocent but I'm not
They're sad because I can never just be who I am
Because if I do I'll be feared and harmed even though I myself am essentially harmless
I pity those around me but find no pity towards me in others eyes
I'm the angel incarnate
I lost my wings because my tears washed them away
poem by Jenna Camilla
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