Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
(after William Wordsworth)
There was something strange that did draw my sight
as if she was an angel of the light,
as a apparition from heaven sent
she filled more than a single moment;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
Like me she was but a mortal being
but her glance and her voice made my heart sing,
right there maybe God did not intervene,
her company was sweet, somewhat serene;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
Her lovely bright eyes did mine squarely meet
and she was sculpted perfect to her feet,
her actions was at her will, true and free
and bright like the sun she smiled at me;
a women with her own ways and own will
but made great with some divine perfect skill.
[Reference: “She was a phantom of delight” by William Wordsworth.]
Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
(after John Harington)
I saw a girl with eyes shining, ablaze
with cheeks much softer than a single rose
and saw her on some pleasant summer days,
broken things do not fit, she did disclose,
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
It was too early for of love to speak,
saw unhappy tears running down her cheek,
while I did not know how I did cause pain,
have no ideas of what actions remain,
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
The good deeds and words which are very kind
at times speaks to the heart, the soul and mind,
nothing rekindles a quenched desire,
less it’s some divine, Godly kind of fire;
with good intentions, trouble was my own;
I know no way to melt a heart of stone.
[Reference: “On Isabella Markham” by John Harington.]
Gert Strydom, 16 july 2013
(after George Wither)
While gentle you lie sleeping next to me
I am thinking of stealing one small kiss
and between us both, kisses must come free;
is it some robbery if I do this?
Maybe looking at you, you will awake,
a kiss will not leave you poor indeed,
but plenty more is there only to take
while many more I do constantly need,
while sleeping you smile, as if to proceed.
[Reference: “A stolen kiss” by George Wither.]
Satish Verma, 16 july 2013
Blood and bones
become qualification
watching and being watched.
Eyes in introspection
incubation
waking the black dawn.
Anguished
blank stares, after dispossession
collapse on the hills in confusion-
umpteen times. Ontogeny
repeats filial love
after parental loss.
Monofloral we stay,
you cannot do anything
except to collect the honey.
Shot in the face, my name.
The next tragedy
begins at home!
Break the cutlery
there is no water,
frogs will not jump today.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
(after N.P. van Wyk Louw)
African coots and wild geese drift past
the bulrushes and bushes of reeds
and deeper in the marsh
there is something that comes alive.
As a small child I am at the tributary
and see something strange coming out of the water
and suddenly a monitor appears
that astounds me with its swishing tail
before it gets on its hind legs and touches the air with its tongue
and to me it looks like a crocodile
while another swims around in the stream
and in fright I want to yell and yell.
[Reference: “Seeikoeivle” by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
In the winter morning’s mist
fat and tame as a chicken
next to the overgrown tree
out came the plover chick
and for a moment I looked at it
and the tiny speckled bird looked at me.
A car passed by with its lights
burning like rays of the sun
against the fog’s canopy
and on the sidewalk
the little bird came still nearer
and drops of dew glistened
on its feathered coat
and in the wide world
limited to each other’s company
was the little plover and I.
There was something to that moment
as perhaps Adam had wandered in the wild
as the bird was at ease
and around us was a kind of tranquillity.
Gert Strydom, 15 july 2013
When butterflies gambol blue-purple during Easter
everywhere in the vineyards
and bees do pollinate, read signs in nature,
and for the last time dew shines on the leaves
while the last bit of summer sun hangs hot
then I think of the sacrifice that You bring
and still the birds do sing their songs
while Your crucifixion becomes a reality to me.
Satish Verma, 15 july 2013
like ether, permeating all space
mesmerizing,
he walked away, head of his enemy
in his hand,
like a trophy?
frighteningly orangish
a decapitated body shudders.
The holy war
demands its price of a joke.
The face of red and blue.
A terrible reminder of a snaky past
that kills the puppets. The hands
dance in air.
The irrepairable, pink wounds
bleed, sweat smoke
of death?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 15 july 2013
like ether, permeating all space
mesmerizing,
he walked away, head of his enemy
in his hand,
like a trophy?
frighteningly orangish
a decapitated body shudders.
The holy war
demands its price of a joke.
The face of red and blue.
A terrible reminder of a snaky past
that kills the puppets. The hands
dance in air.
The irrepairable, pink wounds
bleed, sweat smoke
of death?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 14 july 2013
Do not stoke the desires tonight,
my moon is away on the cusp of doubts.
Count you must the needles in heart, of
ifs and buts? A fragile truce was anathema
to me. The nagging day lies ahead-
of my failing gifts. Living was a whispering
silence, no secrets had a spite for you.
A fine drizzle of thoughts fills the lungs,
mind cries for the space to arrange
the corpses of dreams.
The uncertainties take a heavy toll.
A new voice precedes a wet moon,
the sun was rising late today, living apart.
Satish Verma
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