Gert Strydom, 5 june 2013
I wanted to find more in what love is,
and its depths I wanted to know as truth
while maybe like a child I did trust
that its part of a real experience
of witch you sometimes miss all of the parts
but something really essential of it still does remain.
I wanted to find more,
I wanted to have something more than just meaning
and then so suddenly and unexpected I did find you,
when I looked at eyes that unblemished caught mine
and now I know much more than only knowledge,
I wanted to find more…
Gert Strydom, 5 june 2013
When your hand folded around mine you did smile
and I saw the depths of your soul
as you caught the profile of my face,
and your skin was soft while you were so very near,
while the essence of my heart was very happy,
and I speak to the Lord of you when later I did kneel down.
When your hand folded around mine
all of my own emotions did betray me,
as I felt age-old like a fossil,
and I wondered if falling in love did inspire you
to take my hand in the church,
when your hand folded around mine
Gert Strydom, 5 june 2013
The ocean was clear as cobalt blue glass
while we swam far out in the greater key,
playing in the warm pleasurable sea,
some colourful small lonely fishes did pass
and no nasty predators did harass
while we both were very happy and free.
The ocean was clear,
some fish swam slowly in a schooled mass
while the small waves rocked only gently,
you teased, played and smiled with me,
there was nothing that did us embarrass,
the ocean was clear…
Gert Strydom, 4 june 2013
As if killed, turned on its own back,
the serpent lies motionless, as if asleep
while something in the black eyes glow
while its measuring spitting, striking distance,
waiting as if by chance, brooding its hidden evil
as it comes alive as a deadly hissing, spitting thing
and kill it certainly will, when movement returns to it
and the white ring around its neck is bright
while it is ready to strike, to deadly hit.
Gert Strydom, 4 june 2013
I saw it whispering, suddenly hissing,
with its waving big head drawn somewhat back
it was looking deadly, ready to attack;
just moments before it was uncoiling,
of it I was very unsuspecting,
there was nothing close by with which to hack,
I saw it whispering,
I waited moments for the killing sting
my breath was away, its skin was black,
the sheer killing courage I did not lack
and now that snake was a venomous thing;
I saw it whispering…
Gert Strydom, 3 june 2013
There’s no thunder’s match falling from the sky
while for days without end rain sieves down,
while we both live in a world of our own
and the cold, wet winter passes us by,
something much deeper lies in your eye
while darkness covers the earth like a gown,
there’s no thunder’s match
in the winter rain, while time does fly
no shining stars are seen that make a crown,
the big pinewoods seem totally overgrown;
some twilight comes, as if the sun did die,
there’s no thunder’s match…
Gert Strydom, 3 june 2013
Bright light shine in, not much is going on,
I open an old door that behind me thud
when I am sure that all people are gone,
my eyes catch a single red rose bud
beneath my knees the floor is cold as stone,
I chew my prayers again like cows do cud.
Bright light shine in,
while my life feels dirty as the black mud
and in that church I am the only one,
feeling in the great world totally alone
while my own sins pierces like a sharp stud,
bright lights shine in.
Gert Strydom, 3 june 2013
In the old painting something was living
displaying dead men in eternal youth,
it had some deeply hidden kind of truth,
about the evanescence of everything,
about the spirit, integrity that was rising
always conquering shattering untruth.
In the old painting,
as forever in life’s own awakening spring,
with their eyes on the point of azimuth
and among them a heroic kind of Ruth
with feelings of a strange awakening
in the old painting.
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013
Too many times back to war I have went,
have seeToo many times back to war I have went,
have seen civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,
where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers
had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,
but out they went as soldiers to face death.n civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,
where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers
had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,
but out they went as soldiers to face death.
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013
(after Roy Campbell)
They praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again,
struggle along for more than sixty times,
abandon all love and poetics that rhymes,
then write a poem over and over again
struggle along for more than sixty times,
they despise a poet whose words do flow
while they struggle to complete every row,
struggle along for more than sixty times
they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
does not even know the very day from night;
they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
are sheltered, from the rest of humanity,
says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
are scared of the great world lying beyond;
while the very words of other poets they copy
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity
and sometimes on them I have a kind of pity,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship,
they want others them as gods to worship,
their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship.
[References: “On some South African novelists” and “On the same” by Roy Campbell.]
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