Where the baobab tree finger points
Where the baobab tree finger points,
the bush veldt sun fries you to tatters,
some camel thorn trees hook and pierce,
jackals and hyenas cry and laugh at night,
the moon rises yellow, with stars appearing
all over the sky shining like jewels,
it’s as God himself is walking around in the veldt.
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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Battle at the Lomba River
That night guns roared
all around us everywhere
and the field was acrid
with the smell
of the man made judgement day.
Howitzers flung their projectiles
miles high into the sky
flying by past the horizon
like glowing stars.
Tanks and armoured cars
crunched, raced on
over trees, anthills and almost anything
coughing death left and right
through flaming barrels
and some lions, leopards, hyenas,
jackals, suricates, scorpions
and snakes in the veldt
thought that this night
the world will come to an end
and later still the world
went on like before
while man had a armistice
and then again another war.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The invasion army
When houses dazzle on all the hillocks,
every swamp is drained
for sport fields,
bulldozers make roads
right through the veldt
and it becomes mines, factories
and office blocks
and sown farms cover the fields
and the bush veldt
disappears into timber mills,
the last trees become burning wood
and furniture
and concrete creeps up into the Karoo
and the clean air disappears
behind industrial fog,
car fumes and poisonous gas
so that the sun shine fades
there will be nowhere
to draw a trench
to ward off the technology
that covers the earth
since the invasion army
are marching in unstoppable
with lorries, bulldozers,
scrapers, graders
and cranes
and every yellow machine
and in only a few glamour books
you will read about warblers, plovers,
jackals, baboons, suricates,
rock rabbits and wild animals
and humans will be like in a zoo
curtailed beyond their own railings
and work and play caged in
while the state watches,
spies and controls them.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Deep in the veldt
Deep in the veldt
there is peace from the bustle,
deep in the veldt
people do not always become disconcerted
with a depressing feeling;
here I can still feel near to God,
deep in the veldt.
poem by Gert Strydom
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To The Enemy 47th FAPLA / Cuban Brigade (Fay Slimm form / decanelle)
In the veldt they put Cuban soldiers to rest
simply as found
with hillocks unfamiliar under a foreign sky
at each mound,
all kinds of strange animals, birds and pest
came looking around,
after the guns, the earth and grass did cry
in a weeping sound
with lions, hyenas, jackals on a kopje crest,
on stony ground.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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When A Enemy Mig Fell Like A Burning Dot
It's a dot coming
with a falling bomb,
from high out of the blue
and I am astonished
but how plainly painful I see a iron bird fall,
hitting the earth with a thundering bang.
It's an enemy from across the ocean
that smashes into the earth,
like a falling star
in a burning kind of hell
about the last flight of a dark haired man
there is not a lot more to tell:
than an enemy pilot wounded deadly;
hyenas and jackals scratch around
where he lies in the veldt
in an unknown grave in the ground.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Duikers (Cavatina)
There paths go crooked through the veldt and bush,
they graze on grass,
cropping some of the leaves of smaller trees
before they pass,
at first sight of man plunge into cover;
hunters harass
them in attacking, native groups at night
with some big spotlights that are very bright.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Want To Go Back To The Veldt Again (Rondel Prime)
I want to go back to the veldt again
to watch nature to see little things,
to hear how pretty small red weavers sing,
to on my skin feel the summer’s cool rain
to live with harmony without some pain,
to get of God a clear understanding.
I want to go back to the veldt again
to watch nature to see little things,
and away from the city to remain,
to see flowers rise in the months of spring
opening and life slowly awakening,
I want to go back to the veldt again
to watch nature to see little things.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Wind Blows Rustling Through The Bush
The wind blows rustling through the bush
and only it and God knows where it is going,
when it disappears and nothing move in the veldt
and when it returns some grains of dust are blown away.
An ibises raises gleaming copper into the sky
while God finds some answers for His earth,
and it chatters while big wings slam against the wind,
as it flies high over a small wooded hillock.
Guinea fowl peck along in the red grass,
after the rain some small bulbs are growing,
some lovely flowers astonish the veldt
but still this world is wounded by man.
The wind blows rustling through the bush
and when it returns some grains of dust are blown away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Smooth Velvet
Bright stars are coming out
the deep dark sky to light.
Glinting from far above
such blackness to ignite.
They beam towards the earth,
from so many miles away.
Worlds that now are empty
of life. They’ve had their day.
Tapestry of diamonds,
on lush smooth velvet seen.
Sparkling, all these jewels,
with the moon in between.
Twinkling with goldenness,
pin points in the blue.
Shining every night-time,
giving an awesome view.
Bright stars are coming out,
the air is fresh and clear.
No clouds to hide their rays,
they pierce the stratosphere.
The heavens are so vast,
with planets everywhere.
Will earth finally be,
another shooting flare.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Child Moon
The child's wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, “See the moon!”
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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The computer tree- algorithm (Sextuple Crystalline Poetry)
A free tree is never rooted
Infinite complete binary tree
A finger tree has internal nodes
Each one in this tree has child nodes
And their connection is a walk
Parents and children walking the tree
Nodes without children are called leaves
While roots are leaves for the finger trees
Very intelligent words tree
Trees-no one-to-one correspondence
Adaptive merging operation
Implementing finger searching trees.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Drummer Hodge
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined -- just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the drummer never knew --
Fresh from his Wessex home --
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Jonah-Woman
Who are these white-capped jesters...and jackals
Who have placed me in the belly of a
White death-stinking fish?
Not this time, not Jonah-time fish.
Not walking out safe from Jonah's fish. No.
Not this time.
The jesters and tittering hyenas, with their night-lumin
Eyes, who tiptoe soft through the loud-hinged door...
And shut it quietly-quick behind them.
They are breathing to find me.
They safari hunt for me...beating the bush-room.
Mine. I am hiding in the pillow, in the chest of drawers,
In the air.
They can't find me with their needles and needle-quick
Pills.
The rancid, disinfected fish is down the hall, around the
Corner...on the ceilings.
I can sense death rattles...quick as goodbye from
Yesterday. The fish swallows the soft, noisy passage.
The fish is Hill House. The fish is the jackals' den.
The fish, with no fins, rummages the halls, airborne,
Hovering on moon-shadowed winds.
A scream, a gurgle, the fish forgets me for the moment.
The jesters still seek, seethe. They have other work now.
Something is wrong.
Something is amiss in Heaven.
They have placed me in a room with no art.
There is someone at the door...snuffling dog noises.
Who are you that you do not answer me?
The dog has gone. I think it has gone...but I do not think
It was a dog.
They have taken everything. Even the name of my Father...
Given it to the jackals. This, my scent.
They seethe out of their fish-den, carefully stepping over
It's teeth. Man-shark teeth. Death teeth.
They walk with needles balanced on a tray...rainbow pills
In teensy, little cups...watch me to make sure I've swallowed
The rainbow.
Something is my God wrong.
Something should not be happening.
I cannot walk out of this vile fish...like Jonah. I cannot go
Past it's teeth. I am afraid...more of a coward.
Even your God cannot help me now.
I fear the teeth will SNAP! shut when I'm half-way through the
Opening.
Will anyone care if the jackals laugh, lapping my blood...
While I walk away from a white death-fish?
Walking home.
Walking alone.
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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Algorithm of a tree (Sextuple Crystalline Poetry)
(A two line image poem, often with a title, in which euphony is the key factor.
Each line may have 8 or 9 syllables to make a total of seventeen)
A free tree is never rooted,
Infinite complete binary tree.
A finger tree has internal nodes and
Each one in this tree has child nodes.
And their connection is a walk,
Parents and children walking the tree.
Nodes without children are called leaves,
While roots are leaves for the finger trees.
Very intelligent are the words tree,
Trees-no one-to-one correspondence,
Adaptive merging operation,
Implementing finger search trees.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The girl
I see her with eyes
as cobalt blue as the sky,
shining full of light as the sun
her hair is yellow like the winter grass
and the blush of the rising sun
is on her cheek.
I have seen the white of her skin,
while breakers roll in from the sea
walked the path in her hair
through the veldt,
through fields filled with corn.
Have smelt her scent on hillocks
full of flowering sugar-bush,
in valleys with jasmine
and I know her well,
have been since childhood
under her spell.
Every day she is more part of me,
in everything that I do and see
as she is the one
from where all the tribes, the people
in my world comes.
Her name will forever
stay dear to me,
as its part of my history,
even is knotted into the essence of me
and she is my country South Africa.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Dead Drummer
I
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined--just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
II
Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
III
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow up a Southern tree.
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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In Times Of Solitude (Cavatina)
In times of some great kind of solitude,
the veldt, the bush,
catches me in living great memories,
a tranquil hush
brings back a new kind of awakening,
in does then rush
the trees, birds, bees and many wild flowers,
like some thundering life bearing showers.
poem by Gert Strydom
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