Gert Strydom, 11 march 2016
Life is a gift, a chance to exist
and some people have been great
while others will be greater still
and we do shape our life as best we can
act out the roles
of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter and son,
find someone to hold as the dearest of all
but still human we are
when at times we err, we fall
and our dreams are shattered into pieces
but yet constantly we do try,
we do reach to the unknown
with something more
than just a flickering of hope.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2016
Standing in a milk line you were
talking of depravity, of blood lines
and the breast enhancement.
A teenage fringe bomber wants
to sew the civil society and explodes
himself before the empty bakery.
A young gal throws her son
from the ninth floor and then jumps
to get the justice from indifferent god.
Can we talk and wash away our
guilt? Crossing the river was
not enough, we need drinking water.
Bits of human flesh are plastered
on the walls. The death wears a
face of daddy to kill the times.
Gert Strydom, 10 march 2016
In the winter outside it’s already dark
where we sit in the bus, ordered to a determined trip
and vague acquaintances from the daily coming en going do rise
while some others do dare loud conversations.
Outside a sickle moon hangs bright when the bus does brake
and your fingers do lock around mine and your eyes glitter like shining suns.
Your smile do entice a smile of my own and the worries disappear
where we are in a dungeon as slaves travelling between work and home
and strings of lights hang high and catch the eye,
as a enchantment to the cold city
but most of the people are grim, some somewhat sad
others are very tired and the bus does wobble on
roars up the hillock like an overeaten monster
that does vomit at the set bus stop.
Gert Strydom, 10 march 2016
I have not seen the spark of life
and yet I do know that it does exist
as people, animals, trees and plants
are alive all around me
and all the secrets of love I do not know
but wherever I do look its compassion does glow
and God in His glory I have not seen
but still He does His goodwill on me bestow.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2016
Was busy
carving out the white clouds
like stanzas, unflawed.
Now I begin to fall apart.
No meaning was left in a drink.
You could see only your image
drowning in a scented charity.
At last I am watching myself.
Black paper. The ink was white.
Speechless. No body language.
Only you will discover the space
between the unspoken words.
Only buttons know the hollowness
of a floating gun. Meeting you in
an empty glass. Future will always
talk of a setting sun.
Gert Strydom, 9 march 2016
(after Jan Swanepoel)
Behind me the sun shines blindingly bright
and the stormy wind devours along with me.
When I pull the lever to full throttle, my thoughts are clear as crystal
and I am not blinded by glory, patriotism and the will of God.
When I bind myself to the last moment of my life
it flashes past me like a movie in a bioscope,
the reason for my existence comes together in one endeavour:
to baptise the hellish enemy in destruction
and down I dive out of the cobalt-blue
past the crackle of heavy ordnance, past canister-shot
while I keep the aeroplane aimed precisely on the target
but for a last moment like the drawings of a great artist
my life is caught in a flaming death
to which all meaning does cling.
[Reference: “Kamikaze” by Jan Swanepoel.]
Satish Verma, 9 march 2016
Graveyard of stillbirths.
I am walking on severed legs.
She was pushed off a moving train.
Could not be raped.
No I don’t see any sickly aberration.
It was ossification of stunted intellect.
Who was desperate to exit the hazy
flesh? Peel off my skin. It is dirty.
You are becoming furniture. Drunk.
Immovable. The bed was moving.
Holding the breasts of mannequins
you walk down the stairs for a rejoinder.
Gert Strydom, 8 march 2016
I
From the place that he calls home
mighty Prince Lucifer rose
stretched himself out under the sky’s dome
while everything was still at repose
throughout the world men were quarrelsome
a flock of birds did past close
but to him no final defeat had yet come
and he tasted the bittersweet victory
of the Lamb of God being nailed to a cross
and from that day his life had been transitory
filled with small victories and great loss
as his revolt (the age-old story)
had come at a personal cost
as had been recorded by history.
II
For mere moments he stood in awe
caught by the perfection of the rising sun
but still in place was God’s character, His law,
while a new day had begun
and he remember how it once had been,
of all the beautiful and great things that he had seen,
how perfect, how matchless had been his life
but now by his freewill he was leading a life of strife
and new strategies was in every thought
but for all the chaos and calamity that he brought
the omnipotent power of the Son
was still helping everyone
while God was ever-present watching him as a tiny speck,
continually holding him in check.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2016
Why do I always remember the time
of departure?
The parting maze of tears?
I accept another day that will never be
the same.
I will carry the cadaver of sin,
the crime of silence, amidst the dancing
dunes.
Who will go after the barbs of rays?
Father, go slowly in the sea.
I am closing the windows now, take
care of the clock
and potter’s wheel.
The cruel age is harping on the new
designs.
My epilogue is short with love of
death which does not go beyond you.
Gert Strydom, 7 march 2016
In a building there are people singing “Gloria in excelsior”
and it’s beautiful like a choir of angels
but I do receive a track that insists on my salvation
and the traffic light does change.
Around me people past in a bunch
and on the other side an old white man holds out his hand
with a “good afternoon to you, sir” he greets me
and just there tries to block my way.
A flower vendor tries to push a bunch of deep red roses in to my hand
and says “buy them for the madam”
while the wind is jerking on his thin shirt
“mister, she will really like the roses.”
Right at the home affairs building
a camera is lifted to focus on me,
a hand with a pen is held out
and I slip and almost do lose my balance
and right there I wonder about the things that are happening in this town,
I want to escape into the veldt,
do see everybody standing with a stretched out hand
or maybe I want to return back to my Pretoria.
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