Servitors of the highest God
On the plain of Dura
a twenty-seven meter high
golden statue stand,
that people can see for miles far
and the esteemed people,
commanders and princes
and the king is there
with a big crowd
and almost everybody that serves him.
In different languages it is announced
that everybody must fall down,
have got to pray to it
when the music instruments play
and we see the king
sitting boldly on his throne
and the people are excited,
it’s a great festival
and suddenly there is silence,
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Achilles at Troy
The walls of the enemy city believed by them
to be made by the gods,
rise up in front of us
stripped, empty like hills,
looking impregnable
and higher up I see some archers
with their armour shining in the midday heat
rising bows and shooting arrows into the sky
believing, wishing and praying to hit one of us.
I drive with my chariot far out of their reach,
around and around the city, as if inspecting it
for any frailty, a place to penetrate with force
searching for Hector
while fierce fighting is going on
and anger, great rage roars within my heart
when at the main gate I stop and wait,
before roaring at the top of my voice
for Hector to come out, to face me.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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The battle of Majuba Hill
With Major General Sir George Pomeroy in command
the Hussars, Gordon Highlanders,60th rifles
and a contingent of the naval brigade,
climbed Majuba hill
and was in battle forced down
the back again.
At dawn the British army
had taken the steep hill
and the Boer commando’s camp
laid on the plain below
and Major General Sir George Pomeroy,
was just a bit to comfortable
with their position on the summit
and the Boers were at their mercy,
or so they thought.
The Boers saw British soldiers
on top of Majuba hill
waving the Union Jack
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Two toddlers in the municipal park
(in answer to Elisabeth Eybers)
Naked next to each other
two black toddlers are left
with a wormed small maleness
and a exposed female groove
and with wiggling legs they walk on
to where the canal of a dilapidated stream meanders
and where at time ducks or swans may have been,
there now are only empty concrete furrows,
as if a dark power holds the park, the town, the country,
the whole continent in its gigantic claws
and everything is declining,
is being broken down into pieces on a gigantic rubbish pile
and they look at a blue headed lizard
that lies and baking in the sun
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poem by Gert Strydom
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At the zoo
There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.
Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.
Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.
Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
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poem by Gert Strydom
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In the inner square
In the inner square
just outside the police station
a little group stands around a drum
in which coals are burning
and flames are shooting up
in the dark night.
Between them a man is standing,
holding out his hands
to get them warm
and above them the stars are bright
like lights in the night
but the moon
has a strange colour that particular night.
A woman constable walking past
stops and asks the man:
“Are you not one of those wild men
who are following the prisoner? ”
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Ballade of the entrepreneur
I
On the way to the office
Jacaranda trees are flowering,
here and there some people stop me
asking for a cigarette,
some want a Rand or two
and the day is very bright after the night of pleasure.
There are smoke fumes curling into the air at Iscor,
a train passes groaning on the track,
while machines are whining unendingly.
The girl at reception smiles at me
and bend over so that I see her well-proportioned breasts
before she blushes,
men with white helmets and white coats
rush into my office
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poem by Gert Strydom
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My Peggy Mitchell (Chant Royal)
Her smile seems so serene and sweet as if it’s everlasting
while she is still basking in rays of sunshine
although storm clouds are gathering,
and her beauty is something of the divine
and almost careless
our loving comes in swiftness
while she is drawing attention,
telling me things that no other woman will even mention
but she has an own dignity
are spirited to my apprehension
and from all cares she seems free.
In her humanity there is something
that does not meet the eye, something sublimely fine
and far too easily she makes my heart sing
when every smile of hers is mine
and I see a kind of kindness
shining through her loveliness
a kind of deep emotion
bringing a deepness to every affection,
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Because I do not wish to hope again
I
Because I do not wish to hope again,
to like an eagle spread my wings,
because I do not wish to gain
experience and to learn new things
and do not wish to soar up against the blue sky,
wondering what lies
beyond the scope of the vision of an eye
and with time in me all hope dies
why should I be afraid
when the darkness closes in,
when destiny has knotted my life in its braid
and I do not know what comes with the new morning?
II
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Here I am, a man that is world-weary (in answer to T.S. Eliot)
I
Here I am, a man that is world-weary,
in a month without rain
and passion and the pain
are still aflame and burning in me.
At the gates of death, destruction and desolation
I did in my youth trod
fired a rifle, a canon and whatever gun in angry shot
and then had a obligation
II
to be true to my country, to be true to you
but now I am getting weary
while life is slowly getting eerie
as if it’s coming to an end, as if I have lost the glue
that has hold my body and my spirit together
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poem by Gert Strydom
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