Where to now?
The old voortrekker is gone
to meet his Maker
and greeted his children, wife,
bible, gun, wagon,
horse and piece of ground
and trusts that God
will protect his nation and country
against all evil.
In the gun safe the Martini Henry, Mauser
and Lee Metford are resting now silent
and hasn’t been seized yet
like my own firearms,
for which I did not have money
to pay the ransom
and was taken by law enforcers
of the new government
that wants every thing.
The old four colour lies in a chest
with the orange white and blue
like it’s with dead things,
and will never again stream
like it belongs
for flags for which the price
was paid with blood.
I see the weather
stir up with black and grey clouds
and I wonder if the new country
really will break my people to pieces
while many thunder bolts hits around me
and some of my people
are already away and spread over the earth
and I wonder when our rainbow
will also come some day?
[Reference: Die ou Voortrekker by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tracks (in answer to A.G. Visser)
Lord, as a child I looked
at the tracks of the Voortrekker wagons
that was cut into rock banks
where they trekked over the hillocks
near to Heidelberg
in the once inhospitable region
on their journey to freedom
away from the undesired
British rule
and those tracks that are cut in, stays with me
and also the costly price that was paid
to have a own place
that the British wanted to deny us from
and now again we are oppressed,
with another hand that has the whip,
we are stooping under impoverishment,
we are trodden upon
l’Envoi
and I pray that You almighty God
preserve us; hold Your hand over us
even over every human law
tread tracks with us,
walk every day everywhere with us
and that we will get Your Godly help
for this whole country
and that we will only trust in You
as the urge to be free
is rendered by You Yourself.
[Reference: Vry! (Free!) by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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But how long will this peace last
The night that peace comes
torches are launched into the sky
like stars
to glide hanging to the ground
and as far as I look
I see fireworks near and far,
but how long will this peace last?
Nelson Mandela walks out of jail
and there are people cheering
and dancing from joy
and some think
that now they are totally free,
but how long will this peace last?
His rainbow nation disappears
into the naught
and although the sun still shines
work are reserved for some
and people begin to leave the country
while others from all over Africa stream in
and South Africans are jobless,
but how long will this peace last?
There are incapable people getting positions
and the country goes years back
and murder and killings
are totally out of control
and the police are powerless
to stop it,
but how long will this peace last?
The government takes legal firearms in
while crime spreads wider
and the state are trying to control lives
more and more
and corruption, fraud, rape,
murder and robbery
happens every day,
but how long will this peace last?
l’Envoi
The slaughter of black on white
and robbery are urged on
and reverse racism
talked good
and the country is in chaos
with incapables controlling it
and the dilapidation nobody can stop
but how long will this peace last
before the country
gets another hell of a war?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rainbow
I live at one of those Grey Clouds
Not really know that I am lifeless
I heard people talking about rainbow,
They’d met each other, always in a happy occasion
I wish I met the rainbow myself
Then perhaps I would know,
What the people say is not true
That there is no thing such rainbow,
That could make people’s eyes glittering
In Blue color of the sky
In Green color of the valley
In Red color of the blood
In Yellow color of the sun
I am belongs to the Grey Clouds
I Love Grey, as it is all the color I have in life
Then one day, at the ticking time of my ordinary Grey-day
I see something really bright,
With the scent of a precious flower I’d lost in the mist
For a moment I’m overwhelmed
Then I took a step further…
Away from something so beautiful, that wasn’t Grey
But the figure reveal and I stranded there
I Never learn that there are many color one’s could posses
Day goes by,
The Grey Cloud is the latest place I’d like to be
It was the rainbow…
Holding me and warm me
With a lot of bunch of dream in my empty mind
Dream I never knew
Dream I never dare to explore
The forbidden dream for my Grey outfit
I’m content with joys,
The first time I ever feel grand to face my life
My heart reflecting the color of rainbow
Blue for the peace soul
Green for the new beginning
Red for the faith
Yellow for a bright hope
Not very long
The thunder strikes,
The lightning burned my rainbow
All was Grey again
The rainbow gone away
Prefer to have a quite-smooth journey with all its color
While the thunder sent me here
Back to the Grey Clouds
poem by Niken Kusuma Wardani
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Lotus land
I.
There are no more oxen
to tread through the dust,
not even those of A.G. Visser
or Jan F.E. Cilliers
because they have died long ago
or are eaten
by Afrikaners as steak
and there’s no wagon
to be drawn,
because every chariot has its own power
and its own beauty too.
II.
Fast the kilometres rush past
and marsh and meadow
are driven through before sunrise
and if you leave at dawn
you can reach the Cape before dusk
and we are already living in a languid country
where the sauce train
comes and get many people
while the others
still have to pay tax.
Some sit without education in offices
passing the hours on their chairs
while they do not know how to work
or to do a task
and are just waiting for their wage
or to talk on the phone
III.
The rich get richer
while white men
that can work and have university education,
are jobless
and women now try to do their thing.
The ignorant becomes bosses
that only knows how to cringe
and by black economic empowerment
and affirmative action
uneducated get big salaries
while the country slides backwards.
IV.
Wanderers even come from other countries
and just where they can
they squat.
At every traffic light people stand and beg
and do not know
how to work
and with coins and rands
that everybody give in pity
this evil is strengthened.
V.
Caning is gone out of the schools
and most children do not know
respect anymore
and do not know how to learn
or to honour their parents
and I wonder what have become of my people
and where our country is going
and if everything is rushing to the end?
[References: “Lotus-Land” by A.G. Visser and “Die Ossewa” by Jan F.E. Celliers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Anarchists
The leaders of this country,
Think were the ones that do wrong,
They take control of the power,
and steal this land of forgotten freedom
Its not the people afraid of the government,
Its the government afraid of the people
They call the ones dressed in black,
The evil ones but we fight back,
We've got hackers, we've got protesters,
we let no man left behind
Its not the people afraid of the government,
Its the government afraid of the people
The unions dressed in black,
With their flag raised up high,
Don't take no for an answer,
As the forces stain the streets with blood
Its not the people afraid of the government,
Its the government afraid of the people
We fight for the people,
Our obligation is good as gold,
And though we fight with arms of steel,
we don't let death go in vein
Its not the people afraid of the government,
Its the government afraid of the people
poem by Bing D'Amico
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While I get a few coins from my pocket
Yesterday there were young black men
standing in underpants
at the Apies river
and they were busy
washing their clothes
in the dark brown water
In one of the remote corners
of Sunnyside
a big cardboard box stands
at a shop’s entrance
on the sidewalk
and I see an old white man and woman
crawling out of it one winter morning
and they have got a half white bread
that they share with a white and black fox terrier.
At shoprite in Voortrekker street
a young black man
tries to sell fake perfume
and wants to know nothing
about removing his head
from the car’s window.
I place his goods
next to my car’s door
and tell my darling
to close her window
while he walks round the car
to get him out of the car.
At a pick-a-pay
there’s a small white woman
that’s a car guard
and always helps politely
to get the bags into the boot.
Then I realised
that if you just look around
there are countless people,
that life bites into pieces
and I wonder where
everything in this country is going?
While I get a few coins from my pocket
out of my pocket,
I feel guilty
to live like a king
and to see
others struggle around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Truth Black Truth Grey?
shades of truth in black or grey
truth is even driven reflected
in the colour of cars people drive
in Indonesian two colours dominate
cars are predominantly black or grey
like the colour of truth in the country
Indonesia usually ranks esteemed third
in top three for world internal corruption
without bribes this country cannot run
in this land the truth is black
truth has many shades of grey
upon these two colours is all run
Indonesia from any highway to byway
half the cost or more of building a bridge
any road in official bribes is paid out
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sky-Minded
Blue sky,
blue sky.
Looking at you, wishing the day by.
Blue sky,
purple sky.
Storm coming in, here it is, there's the eye.
Blue sky,
grey sky.
The earth is wailing, the thunder yells, and the clouds cry.
Blue sky,
grey sky,
black sky.
Tore away at the moon, swallowed stars, listened to the sun die.
Black sky
Green sky
Orange sky
Red sky
Pink and yellow and mean sky.
Come on and roll in; it's only in my mind.
poem by Delilah Miller
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Two Different People
Two different people
Black people, white people
Black world, White world
A black person thinks different from the white people
White people thinks highly of himself
White people works very hard for his living
Black's are lazy
They don't want to work, they just want the money
You have to work for the money, they just don't get it
White people knows that there are no free ride in life
Black's want a free ride, there are no free ride in life
Nothing is free in life except for the air that you breathe
The white people have to be careful of what they say to the black People
Whatever you say to the black people if they don't like it they will say it Is discrimination
We can't understand them
They have a mind of their own
The white people are loving and caring
What about the black people?
Not a hope in hell
I don't want any part of the black world
The black world is not safe for me
So I rather stay in my white world where I feel safe
We can't trust them
The reason why there is violence in this world is because the black People cause it
Now they don't like it because they have to live with it
We want a safe world for our people
The black people don't care about it because the only thing they know And seen is violence
There is too much violence on TV
They like it
They like the feeling of danger
We white don't like the feeling of danger
The blacks hate the white people and the white people don't like them Either
The white people knows when to shut up
The black people never knows when to shut up
There is why there are always problem with them
They make life miserable for us
The white people will always be a good friend
The black people can never be your friend
They will take everything they can get from you for free
poem by Aldo Kraas
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I Have A House Against The Sugar-Bush Hillocks
I have a house against the sugar-bush hillocks
where like orange speckles aloes grow wild,
where thunder strikes iron stones blue-white
with flowering proteas growing everywhere
and I see chacma baboons impudent
coming in a horde to my fruit orchard,
eating some whole peaches with meat and pits
in a blatant aggressive noisy group,
before they all run away indignant
and they are gone before the dark night comes
when storm clouds hang threatening black and grey,
with lightning bolts hitting some blue-white sparks
and every visitor that knocks on my door
is awaited like a welcome kind of guest.
he brushes his jean off making it neat
and then he turns right around to face me
where he is looking somewhat tattered,
he stands without any words as if dumb
but his words lie in every glance,
suddenly I see the whole of humanity
whose glances do not quarter for anything
bringing the hurt, the pain that oppression brings,
telling how men that can work are jobless,
how this evil still circles out wider,
treading some people down without pity,
how it pierces the Afrikaner nation,
as a type of evil occurrence.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The thunder storm came suddenly
The thunder storm came suddenly; the air was drawing close,
with grey and black clouds covering the heaven
and suddenly there was no more blue
with the whole day being only grey
while leaves were falling in yellow and brown everywhere,
with the wind cutting icily, trying to grab onto jackets,
untimely the rain came without respect
for the rules of nature,
the thunder storm came suddenly.
Suddenly the weather was in each conversation
of the doctor, lawyer and architect,
as if it contained something incomprehensible and evil
nobody trusted the sudden bad weather;
early in the afternoon people left for home,
the thunder storm came suddenly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Will I write about heroic deeds?
Will I write about heroic deeds?
When the sun daily struggles through the clouds of mist,
will I look between kaki-weeds, beer bottles for meaning
if the reports of damage, of evil things
are incessant disguised in cloaks
where the country is full of gangsters,
people stand and pee on street corners against walls,
life is webbed like gossamer
where evil creatures sit and wait on a moment
to suddenly attack
and evil is breeding out everywhere?
Will I write about what I see and how ghastly
weeds are filling the country,
or will I just shut up, be silent about that which exterminates us?
[Reference: Sal ek? (Will I?) by Ian Raper.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Why Me
Why me? was the question running down my spine Why me? so i asked myself Why me? Why me? my heart was panting for an answer Why me? my brain could not find an answer at last it gave a reasonable one that made a lot of meaning I am left in a lonely world, to make me to reason that this world is not worth living Boko Haram sect became a terror Vampire they became over night sucking human blood at will killing innocent victims with out impunity The people turn to shred, through the bomb blast killing them for nothing No shelter to live for survival No food to eat for the day No water to sustain life in turbulence A country we see without a government When people are wiped out of existence, the government will rule the dust of the earth with a pity The government can only pity those that are dead and buried Their people suffer brain touch, heavy heart, crying eyes with out control They suffer without care from the government Why me? was my question do we call this a government The government that sleeps when the houses are on fire Fire the houses are burnt to black dust and crumbs as we touch it again and again Mend are threatening to carry firearms to fight the government that cannot run state affairs The government is sleeping while her house is on fire My country Nigeria is on fire, sitting on the keg of gun powder blasting in the air and we can do nothing
poem by Olayemi Ayo
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When times are bad
When times are bad
and I am with my hands in my hair
and black foreigners from all over Africa
overnight becomes citizens
and have more rights as a citizen than me
and affirmative action
puts her claws into my life
then I wonder about justice
and when merit and experience
will ever again apply
where my ancestors Joost Strydom
from Liefenshoek in the Netherlands
as a merchant seaman of the VOC
in 1678 came to Cape Town,
married his pretty well know wife
Maryna Ras who with a horse
could alone ride days long to Cape Town
with whom noblemen tried to have relationships,
where the indigenous zulu-xhosa-pondo-swazi people
are originating from a group
that during the same time
immigrated far away out of the north
from eMbo at the big lakes in central Africa
under the leadership of Nguni and later Dlamini
and then I wonder how
this country rather belongs to them
and they have to have work opportunities before me
and if you now say anything
about the new migration out of the whole of Africa
for which the country’s borders are now wide open
(in such a way that South Africans
must now get visas for Great Britain)
you are seen as xenophobic
and then there are citizens from right over Africa
who become South Africans overnight
attaining more rights than you
who forced by law
get secure job opportunities
and do people from Mozambique murder
Eugene Terreblance,
drug dealers from Nigeria
are caught by the local police
while against your will
you were forced into an army, into a war
still faithfully pay your taxes
when and where you have a job
and the current government
tries to stay in power
while Aids devours its voter numbers
and you as a white man
are despised by the current regime,
are treaded into the ground
while the country are falling to pieces
and then you pray
to Him (the God of the universe) who controls everything
to drastically intervene
rather than rousing people
for a civil war.
[Reference: VOC Verenigde Oost Indiëse companje.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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a Country
How can we determine what a country is?
If everyone of us wants to bind
a different meaning to it? Finding our own salvation
our own destruction in it?
That it is a region wherein we exist,
have to make a living, a region that is differentiated for us,
obtained through a struggle in which a flag and anthem
have to bind together but at times rather divide
a place wherein we are born
or of which with time we have become children
which we recognize as our own
and from which we are inseparable,
is no new knowledge, but that life sprouts
from the piece of ground that is own to each one,
that we experience the wonders
in our lives, times that we share with one another
and that we are together in this place and time
where everyone wants to be treated worthy as a human,
with the ability
to make a living on merit
wanting to protect that which we possess
and want to preserve it, trying to save our possessions,
lives and time
to keep to the length of days
where everyone can talk his own language, can write
uniquely perpetrate an own culture
and being able to safe the majesty
of nature for our children and their children
are some of the things that I claim legitimately
and by laws and oppression
the government
is showing me the door
so as if my own country
is not innate to me and only belongs to some?
poem by Gert Strydom
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An elegy for South Africa
Weep South Africa
as you are no longer my country
and I live here
as if I am
from another planet
as part of a small minority
in a country where dark Africa
declares murderers as heroes
and act like barbarians
and dance and scream.
At a time the orange, white and blue
streamed proud over you
and people at work,
school to parliament
bended their knees to God
who was their supreme leader
right through hordes
at blood river,
the onslaught of the British Empire
and with God on our side
we would quarter
for nobody and nothing.
Our own culture flowered,
children went through schools
right through university
to distinguish themselves
and you could even leave the doors unlocked,
could make a living somewhere,
the police were a servant and a friend
and we under our own rule.
How many times our ancestors
tried to teach other people of God,
distributed medicine and food
and we even faced
the communists and Cubans in Angola,
till on a day a man
for the wide world a hero,
out of our own ranks betrayed his brothers
and he laid the whole country lame
and didn’t sell it out,
but rather gave it away.
Today incompetents are everywhere in control
of state departments
right through into the parliament,
money is squandered,
a whole generation
through their own choosing
did not receive any school education,
whites are affirmed and impoverished by the law
and criminals and foreigners stream in
from all over Africa
to start a new life here.
Today another Afrikaner son is slaughtered
(one of more than three thousand) ,
what happens tomorrow and the next day?
[Reference: Murder on Eugene Terreblance. General condition in the country.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rainbow
I'm here to shed light on your day
We're not having any black or grey,
Ride the rainbow high and low
Spread the colour wherever you go.
From the rainbows seven colours true
Painting the sky with dazzling hue,
Red, orange, yellow, green,
Blue, indigo and violet seen.
In every life there's a rainbow
With nothing but the world below,
It has no gate, it has no door
It arches like a bridge from shore to shore.
Each individual colour is so clear
Which never ceases to bring cheer
Way, way up in the sky
And we really do not know why.
©Hazel 2012
poem by Hazel Connelly
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The exiles
As an exile I live
in a country that despises me,
despises my whole nation, our language,
the colour of our skin
where the president
has opened the doors wide
to all of Africa,
and citizens from other countries
are more welcome here than us
but even if he tries
to drive me and my people
into the sea, as immigrants
right into the wide world,
like my ancestors
I have sprouted from this very earth
and there’s no other place
where I can make a living,
no other place that calls me
with the same intensity
and although work is being reserved
by the colour of skin
and my patience is running very thin
and I struggle to survive
in the situation that I am in
no highfalutin balderdash
of this country only belonging
to those who are black
is going to break my people or me
and still we trust God,
to change circumstances,
to change the mindset op people,
and if not to conquer and destroy
to make this country a place
in which all its citizens
have the opportunity
to make a living
and to be free in speech,
in dignity, in association,
in religious beliefs,
to live a life
according to your own culture and values.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Submission (in answer to Don Mattera)
I have seen a white old man and woman
turned onto the street,
living in cardboard boxes
with their small white dog
in the new disastrous improved South Africa,
I have seen white people taking their own lives
when black mine owners robbed them of salaries
and there was no job to get,
no living to be made
and they did this
instead of starting to beg.
I have seen white men and women
with university degrees
leaving the country
in numbers that are more than a million
to find a place to have a life
somewhere else in a foreign country,
I have waited for more than a hour queuing
at a local bank to make a cash deposit,
as a payment to someone
and the way that things are going,
with the black economic empowerment
and people not up to doing a simple job,
soon all of private industry
will be falling apart
as the government departments are doing.
I have noticed friends and family members
who were robbed, hijacked in their vehicles,
raped, tortured and killed
while the South African Police
did their very best to make a arrest
and like in all other things
are not up to it.
I know people who live in despair,
who are totally without hope
while the country’s borders
are flung wide open
to the rest of Africa
to first have a chance at a job
and their degrees and experience
in the face of this means nothing
but not one does bend
under the black heel to submission,
at the mercy of God
their lives go on…
[Reference: “Submission” by Don Mattera.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Daily Lifesavers
GOD gave us lifesavers of which we do not see
but when we need them, there they will be.
most are the angels sent from above
to protect you and i, and the ones that we love.
the others are people just like you and me
they are from all professions
of that you will see.
the doctors and nurses when
we have an emergency
are there for our aches and pains
and to set our bodies free.
the firefighters who risk their lives every day
and for them dear GOD
our prayers we do say.
we have the law enforcers who protect our streets
from all the dangers that the public just might meet.
the lawyers and judges who protect our rights
and for us, they do fight.
but the biggest lifesavers is the
everyday man (and woman)
who gives each other a helping hand.
the brick layer who builds your house
to protect you, your children, and your spouse.
the electricians, plumbers, carpenters
people from all walks of life
doing every thing that needs to be done right.
these are the lifesavers of which i speak
for they are the people who are unique.
poem by Louis Rams
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