Everything/Anything and…Chess…"Despite the documented evidence by chess historian HJR Murray, I've always thought that chess was invented by a goddess"–George Koltanowski: from the foreword to:"Women in chess, players of the Modern Age"
Die 8ste Januarie het ons met aanlyn skool begin en vandag – 3 Maart – was die laaste dag – en ek dink ek het ‘n drankie nodig – soos die gedig hierbo se! Dit was harde werk, al die beplanning moes oorgedoen word sodat ons deur Zoom dit kon onderrig en die kinders dit tuis kon doen met die hulp van ouers – na die Onderwyser se aandeel afgehandel is. Dit was ‘n heeltemal ander manier van ‘doen’ en aanpassings moes gemaak word – waarmee Onderwysers baie goed is. Baie keer – byna daagliks, moet jy aanpassings maak, want sommer uit die bloute kan heelwat dinge in die skool gebeur en jy moet op jou tone kan dink en gereed wees vir daardie aanpassings. Dus, jy moet buigbaar wees en dit kan hanteer as jy vinnig dinge moet verander, vir welke rede ookal.
Die vertaling van die gedeelte van die gedig in plein Engels: I wish I had some vintage wine that has been stored for years deep in the belly of the earth, wine that tastes of flowers and the countryside, of dancing, folk singing, and happy sunshine!
Ek is nie ‘n wyndrinker nie – daarmee bedoel ek dat dit nie deel is van my daaglikse lewe nie, maar ek is eerder ‘n een-keer-‘n-jaar-glasie-persoon. Rooiwyn is my gunsteling – ek kry hoofpyn van witwyn of sjampanje.
Die Karlienblom is my groot gunsteling blom! Ek het so bietjie rondgespeel met die waterverf – iets wat ek nog nooit regtig aangepak het nie – eerder iets wat ek die kinders leer en dis iets wat hulle moet doen – hierdie keer het ek self probeer. Ek het net rondgespeel om die verf en papier te toets, veral die kwaliteit van die verf en wat dit op die tipe papier doen om te weet of ek ander verf moes koop – en ook dalk ander tipe waterverf papier. Ek het dit nogal geniet en dink dat verf met waterverf nogal ‘n lekker tydverdryf kan wees en baie makliker as olieverf is. Ek hou daarvan dat jy ‘n fout ken ‘fix’ met die waterverf. Ek het eenkeer olieverf op ‘n klein doek probeer, dit het nogal uitgekom soos die video wat ek gevolg het, maar dit was uiters moeilik om met die olieverf te werk – veral as jy dit nie voorheen gebruik het nie. Ek dink nie ek sal dit weer probeer nie, terwyl die waterverf iets is wat ek beslis weer wil probeer. Ek hoop jy het my pampoen raakgesien!
CENTO A poem consisting only of lines from other poems. This, from the Italian word for patchwork, is almost a technique rather than a form, especially as it can be of any length, and any metre, and need not rhyme; however, as the finished poem is referred to as a cento, just as a sonnet is called a sonnet, it is a form.
This is not my own poem. It’s actually not even a ‘real’ poem. All these lines are Shakespeare’s writing. What I’ve done, was to take lines – with the same theme, which is the moon, and put them together – and I was trying to get it to make sense. The title is my own though, of course. This is what you call a ‘cento.’
I do love Shakespeare and my favourite is Hamlet, maybe because it was the book prescribed when it was my matric-year. It was always a nightmare, having to study Shakespeare and knowing all those quotes – I think I studied about 50 of the quotes. We had to know from what Act/Scene the quote was and you never knew which quotes you would get, but even that didn’t put me off from Shakespeare.
Moonrider
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth It is the very error of the moon Swifter than the wandering moon Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires
Sweet moon, I thank thee for they sunny beams So many journeys That I, being govern’d by the waterymoon Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon You moonshine revellers and shades of night How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Another moon: but, o, methinks, how slow And the moon changes even as your mind Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon My lord, I am a mile beyond the moon
If you read my blog regularly, you will know that I do write my own poems from time to time. Here’s another – but in Afrikaans.
Ek stuur jou die goud oor die dansende blou waters nie die koue hartelose soort, maar die goud van ‘n herfsblaar malend oor ‘n golwende terras wat ‘n helder skynsel nalaat: kontrasterend teen die skemer
Ek stuur jou die goud van ‘n vertroueling met die warmte: warmte van ‘n spinnende vlam van vuur wat jou alkant omsingel en dié van ‘n liefdevolle glimlag wat jou las sal verlig en jou plesier sal verskaf
Ek stuur vir jou die goud van ‘n laatmiddag sonsondergang langdurig en langsamerhand die warmligte aanraking van die strale wat jou deurboor: laag vir laag tot in jou siel
Ek stuur jou die goud van goue vonkelende wense en geluk alhoewel ek nie fisies daar is, maar my gedagtes wel, wat nooit verwelk: my gedagtes, altyd aan jou sy! Ek stuur vir jou die goud! –Nikita 19:00 17/03/2012
Carol Burnett: Words, once they are printed, have a life of their own. A blogreader thought this poem was written by Annesu de Vos and she had replied to Kim’s tweets. Wow, great to see what Annesu thought about a poem I’ve written. I don’t see myself as a poet or professional, but I’m still impressed with her comments.
Ek is bly om te sien dat sommige mense, soos die link hier onder, my gedigte geniet en erkenning gee daaraan. Nie soos sommige ander mense op die internet wat dink dis okay om ander se gedigte te kopieer en geen erkenning te gee nie.
Funny how videos from youtube channels disappear after a few years. Why do people upload it in the first place, just to delete it later. I had to find another link of this video.
English readers: This poem in this entry is about South Africa. I dedicated the 14th August 2008 to Afrikaans, the language I love and my mother tongue. This is, in our history, used to be an important day as we celebrated Afrikaans as our language. Afrikaans was forbidden to use by Afrikaans speaking people in the Cape when the English occupied the Cape. A sign/tag was placed around children’s necks in schools saying, “donkey”, if they had dared to speak Afrikaans.
On 14th August 1875 the GRA was founded. Their task was to promote Afrikaans. They also requested – on the 24th August 1878 – for the Bible to be translated into Afrikaans.
In this poem I refer to some places and nature. On the link of my 2008-entry, you can see the Afrikaans Language Monument. Good news for Afrikaans too: WordPress and Facebook have gone Afrikaans! If you choose Afrikaans as your language in the settings in WordPress, you will find most terms on your dashboard in Afrikaans.
Hoogenhout, a famous South African poet, said the following after Afrikaans was forbidden in schools in the early 1920s.
“English! English! All is English! What you see and hear
In our schools, in our churches, our Mother tongue is killed”
Was dit Hoogenhout wat in ‘n gedig gesê het:
“Engels! Engels! Alles Engels! Engels wat jy sien en hoor; In ons skole, in ons kerke, word ons moedertaal vermoor. Ag, hoe word ons volk verbaster, daartoe werk ons leraars saam. Hollands nog in seek’re skole: is bedrog, ‘n blote naam! Wie hom nie laat anglisere, word geskolde en gesmaad. Tot in Vrystaat en Transvaal al, oweral dieselfde kwaad. ‘Dis vooruitgang’, roep die skreeuwers, ‘dis beskawing wat nou kom! Die wat dit nie wil gelowe, die is ouderwets en dom…’.”
I‘ve been to a few countries and many places in the UK. I still think South Africa is the most beautiful country in the world. We have such an abundance of beauty and diversity in nature. We have the greenest canyon in the world- which is also the 3rd largest in the world, we have the highest waterfall in Africa and the 2nd highest in the world, the 3rd longest Tufa waterfall, the deepest mines, the largest zoo, the smallest butterfly, the largest diamond, the second largest amount of windmills on farms (280 000), the largest impact crater on earth, white lions, the largest ostrich population and much more.
On this link of the The Drakensberg Mountains, you can read about my hiking trip in the Mountain when I was 15. I was on top of Mount Aux Sources, the highest peak of the mountain range in South Africa. The actual highest peak of this mountain range is in Lesotho and the peak is called, Thaba Ntlenyana (which means: beautiful little mountain). “Thaba” means “mountain” – the attributive “yana” means “little”.
You can see a pic of one of the two chain ladders you have to go on to reach the summit. At the bottom of this post I have included an Afrikaans song by the Art teacher in my Secondary school. He was one of the two teachers on our hiking trip! He sings about “sidewalk people” and I’ve translated it roughly for you to understand.
More interesting facts – from quite a few years ago:
*Pretoria has the second largest number of embassies in the world after Washington, D.C.
*The University of South Africa – UNISA – is a pioneer of tertiary distance education and is the largest international correspondence university in the world with 250,000 students.
*Afrikaans is the youngest official language in the world.
*The Singita Private Game Reserve in the Kruger National Park was voted the best hotel in the world by the readers of travel publication, Conde Nast Traveller.
*Stellenbosch University was the first university in the world to design and launch a microsatellite.
*South Africa houses one of the three largest telescopes in the world at Sutherland in the Karoo.
South Africa is the first country to host a Fide rated Chess tournament where players from different countries played their games online! See my entry about the South African Open Chess Championships that took place in Cape Town. Read HEREmy post dedicated to Afrikaans only- last year 14th August.
This stamp was issued October 1975. It was issued on the Inauguration of the Afrikaans Language Monument and features the 1st edition of the Arikaanse Partiot (January 15, 1876), one of the first newspapers in Afrikaans rather than Dutch. On this link you can see more stamps of South Africa.
Met die stigting van die Genootskap van Regte Afrikaners op 14 Augustus 1875 in die Paarl is ‘n tydvak van georganiseerde stryd om die Afrikaanse taal ingelui. In artikel IX van die Genootskap se bepalings word beoog om ‘n Afrikaanse maandblad uit te gee. Op hierdie dag in 1876 verskyn die eerste uitgawe van die maandblad Die Afrikaanse Patriot, wat die orgaan van die GRA sou wees. C.P. Hoogenhout was die eerste redakteur onder die skuilnaam Oom Lokomotief, wat deur die redakteurs na hom oorgeneem is. In Die Patriot dek die GRA die terreine van hul doelstelling, naamlik die van land, volk en taal. Daarin is leiding gegee ten opsigte van landsake, die Afrikaanse taal, geskiedenis en belangrike nuus. —lees meer op die link!
LEES HIER!!
Jan 2015 –Indien jy beplan om my eie gedigte te ‘leen’ vir jou Facebook bladsy of jou privaat blog of website, kan jy asseblief so vriendelik wees om my daaroor in te lig en daarna ook my skryfnaam ‘Nikita’ daarby te publiseer -soos dit by al my eie gedigte hier op my blog is! Dit is ‘n klein en simpel versoek. Ek vind my eie gedigte op heelwat ander websites and dit is vir my aangenaam om te weet dat ander mense my gedigte waardeer, maar daar is kopiereg reëls en ek sal dit waardeer indien jy dit sal respekteer en erkenning gee aan die skrywer van die gedig. Dan — vind ek ook my gedigte op internet bladsye van mense met sekere politieke sieninge en oorweginge waarmee ek nie saamstem nie. Ek het herhaaldelik gevra om my gedigte te verwyder en my versoeke word bloot geignoreer. Dit wys dat daar mense is wat nie ander se werke (eiendom) respekteer nie. Dit is die groot rede waarom ek die boodskap hier plaas.
Suid-Afrika: my land
Jy’s indrukwekkend, manjifiek
jou sondeurdrenkte landskappe
weerkaats helder beelde in my siel
jou pragtige wonders flikker oneindig
lank in die stilte van jou nagrus
Mount Aux Sources – so elegant en grasieus
verrys jy vanuit die voetheuwels, soos
‘n fakkel by die Spele ets jy lekkende
beelde teen die muur van my geheue
en voel ek jou hitte gloeiend teen my hart
O Blyde! ek fantaseer oor jou
magiese kragte wat jy sorgloos
en galant in die galery van my
stille gemoed stilletjies uitpak terwyl
my dawerende applous eggo
oor die velde van my gedagtes
Moederstad! hoe inskiklik laat jy my
telkens hakkel wanneer ek my herinneringe
sagkens koester – jou fasades!
waar ek jou gambiet betree
en gewillig my pionne oorgee
En saans voel ek jou fluweelagtige
skoonheid van elke sonsondergang
stadig neerdaal in my gemoed terwyl
ek stadig drink van jou geloofs-fonteine
wat borrellend bruis in oorvloed
Fragmentaries vier ek feeste
ek dans en omhels jou en jy –
jy blus my gees telkens met jou
magiese heildronke: een-vir-een
op ‘n toekoms – wat mag wees!
–Nikita –14/8/09 14:00
Sidewalk People
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move like shadows in the street past me
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move faceless past my heart
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move like shadows in the street past me
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move faceless past my heart
I wish I could look at a photo
to see what your world deep inside is like
borrow a piece of your dreams
I wonder who you are
I wish I could understand the language
in which you channelled your thoughts
I wish I could for a moment
share your path of life
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move like shadows in the street past me
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move faceless past my heart
perhaps it’s best for sure
‘cos if we know all of all
the sadness maybe
too hard too much
the love too beautiful
walk past one another
I stay I and you stay you
a single road leading somewhere
I wish I could understand
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move like shadows in the street past me
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move faceless past my heart
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move like shadows in the street past me
Sidewalk People Sidewalk People
Move faceless past my heart
—translated–nikita
image: google
Sypaadjie Mense
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg soos skimme in die straat verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg gesigloos voor my hart verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg soos skimme in die straat verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg gesigloos voor my hart verby
ek wens ek kon ‘n kiekie kyk
hoe jou wêreld diep daar binne lyk
‘n stukkie van jou drome leen
ek wonder wie jy is
ek wens ek kon die taal verstaan
waarin jy jou gedagtes baan
ek wens ek kon ‘n oomblikkie
jou lewenspaadjie deel
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg soos skimme in die straat verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg gesigloos voor my hart verby
miskien is dit dalk beter so
want as ons iets van almal weet
die hartseer dalk te swaar te veel
die liefde dalk te mooi
stap maar bymekaar verby
ek bly ek en jy bly jy
‘n enkelpaadjie iewers heen
ek wens ek kon verstaan
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg soos skimme in die straat verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg gesigloos voor my hart verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg soos skimme in die straat verby
Sypaadjie mense Sypaadjie mense
Beweeg gesigloos voor my hart verby
‘n Blogger het my vandag gevra na “Die Elwekoning”…sien haar boodskap op “my gedigte/poems”-bladsy. Ek kon geen spoor van die gedig, in Afrikaans vertaal, kry nie. Dit was vir my ‘n aangrypende gedig toe ek dit in Engels lees en het ek besluit ek vertaal dit gou vir haar.
English readers: I’ve translated this Goethe-poem in Afrikaans for a blog-reader. As a rule I don’t like to translate, only if the poem is really touchy or if it “speaks” to me…almost like this Erl King-poem. On “my poems/gedigte” page you will find a few translations…English to Afrikaans vice versa and a few of my own which I tried. I’m no professional, I have done no particular course in writing poetry, so WYSIWYG…what you see is what you get. Just my own thoughts in words.
Die Elwe-Koning
Wie ry daar so laat deur die donker, somb’re nag?
Dis ‘n vader met sy kind
Hy hou die knaap klemmend in sy arm
Hy hou hom veilig, hy hou hom warm.
“My seun, waarom lyk jy so beangs?”
“Sien vader nie die Elwekoning nie?
Die Elwekoning met sy kroon en trein?”
“My liewe kind, dis mis wat opstoot in die vlakte.”
“Kom nou, liewe kind, kom nou saam met my
Ek het lekker speletjies om met jou te speel.
Lieflike blomme blom op die strand,
My moeder het baie kledingstukke van goud.”
“My vader, my vader, hoor jy nie die
beloftes wat die Elwekoning fluister vir my?”
“Wees rustig my kind, bedaar, dis die
nagtelike wind se ritseling deur gedroogde blaar’ .”
“Wil jy nie saam met my kom, my seun?
My dogters sal jou liefderyk versorg,
My dogters dans hul nagtelike dans
Hul sal jou wieg totdat jy slaap.”
“My vader, my vader, sien jy nie daar?
Die Elwekoning-dogters in die donker daar?”
“My seun, my seun, ek sien duidelik
hoe grys die wilgerbome lyk.”
“Ek’s lief vir jou, jou skoonheid bekoor my, my seun.
En as jy nie gewillig is, dan moet ek jou forseer!”
“Nee vader, my vader, hy gryp my arm!
Die Elwekoning het my seer gemaak!”
Die pa sidder, sy ry is wild
In sy arms hou hy die kermende kind
Hy kom tuis met ‘n geswoeg en gesweet
In sy arms – die lewelose kind.
Nikita-25/6/09
Oorspronklike gedig deur Goethe Oeps! Hier het ek so pas die vertaling van SJ du Toit op Litnet opgespoor..waarom kon ek dit nie twee dae terug kry nie? Omdat ek Elwekoning twee woorde gespel het! ..wel, nou kan jy my vertaling vergelyk en natuurlik sien waarom ek nie ‘n digter is nie! hehe Die Elwekoning
(Goethe)
Wie ry daar so laat deur nag en wind?
Dit is ‘n vader met sy kind;
Hy druk die knapie so styf in die arm,
Hy hou hom veilig, hy koester hom warm.
“My seuntjie berg bang sy gesiggie, vir wie?”
“Sien Vader die Elwekoning dan nie?
Die Elwekoning met mantel en sleep?”
“My kind, dit is ‘n newelstreep.”
“Kom, kindjielief, kom saam met my!
So heerlik speel hul waar ek bly;
Veelkleurige blomme groei op die strand,
Van goud gaan jou kleed wees uit moeder se hand.”-
“My Pappie, is Pappie dan heeltemal doof
Vir wat Elwekoning my saggies beloof?”
“Bly stil, wees rustig maar, my kind!
In dorre blare duisel die wind.”-
“Gaan jy, lief seuntjie, met my saam?
My dogters ken almal reeds jou naam;
My dogters dans voor die nagt’like rei
En wieg jou en dans en sing so bly.” –
“My Vader, kan Vader dan glad nie gewaar
Elwekonig se dogters in die donker kol daar?”
“My seuntjie, my seuntjie, ek sien dit heel goed:
Die ou-gras skyn geel aan die randjie se voet?”
“Jou skoonheid bemin ek, my siel is ontsteld;
En as jy nie wil nie, gebruik ek geweld!”
“My Pappie, my Pappie, nou vat hy my raak!
Elwekoning het my seer gemaak!”
Die vader skrik; hy ry soos die wind,
En hou in sy arms die kreunende kind,
Bereik sy plaas in bange nood;
Die kind lê in sy arms dood.
Vertaling – SJ du Toit
The Erl-King
WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?”
“My son, ’tis the mist rising over the plain.”
“Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, ’tis thy fancy deceives;
‘Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.”
“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
‘Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight.”
“I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou’rt unwilling, then force I’ll employ.”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last.”
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,–
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Erlkönig Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.
Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?
Siehst Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht!
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron’ und Schweif?
Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.
Du liebes Kind, komm geh’ mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele, spiel ich mit dir,
Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind,
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.
Willst feiner Knabe du mit mir geh’n?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön,
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düsteren Ort?
Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh’es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.
Ich lieb dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt,
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!
Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an,
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan.
Dem Vater grauset’s, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not,
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.
(click on the mosaic to have a clear view of the images in the mosaic – Hawker’s Hut is in the first image)
Photo updates
As I promised this morning, I’m back to tell you about Hawker and his hut. Hawker was a vicar, very famous and the same time eccentric. He built the Rectory Farm with his own money – as the previous one was beyond repair. The Rectory has five chimneys which represented the five parishes where he served previously. He cared for education and built the local primary school – St Mark’s School. The school was built in the shape of a cross. As a result of the Rectory and school, he was a poor man for the rest of his life. Hawker was not only a vicar, but also a poet. He also introduced the Harvest Festival like we know it today. On the cliffs of Morwenstow – he built a hut from driftwood. In his hut he used to read his mail and write his poems. Apparently he enjoyed getting mail and was quite sad/upset when the postman didn’t bring him any mail. What made him eccentric, – apart from other likes/dislikes – is the fact that he smoked opium! He was married twice and his first wife was about 20 years his senior. On his death-bed, 14 August 1875, he was received into the Catholic Church.
We stayed at a B&B in Morwenstow, a tiny hamlet. Shop is about 1,5 miles from Morwenstow towards Bude. Shop is a tiny village where you will find a primary school, a tiny local shop with a post office and a few houses. Walking distance from the B&B – towards the cliffs of Morwenstow – is Crosstown, also a tiny hamlet. It is when walking towards Crosstown, that you experience the fresh breeze blowing inland from the jagged coastline and this is where you will find Hawker’s hut, the smallest property of the National Trust. I borrowed a small booklet about this corner of Cornish-land from Carol at the B&B and will need to contact her in order to get the title of the booklet. I think I got distracted by Hector, their dog and I didn’t even finish all my writing about Hawker from the booklet. I’m going to quote what I have for you to enjoy. I’ve also found some of his poems and a ballad, which is almost like a national anthem for the people of Cornish-country. In my next entry I will have pictures about Boscastle, a beautiful coastal fisherman’s town. In 2004 Boscastle was flooded and I was surprised to see how the town has recovered.
Robert Stephen Hawker began his priesthood at Morwenstow in 1834. He became one of the best-known, most talked-about clerics in the kingdom. His exploits coping with shipwrecked sailors alone made him a legend in his lifetime. His parish had a background of smuggling and wrecking, non-conformity and a degree of poverty. His people were mostly farmers and labourers and many of the labourers were poverty stricken. He immediately identified himself with the people and the place and put himself on the map and in the history books as one of the most colourful figures of all time in the West country. “Footprints of Former Men” is one book written by him. He had long hair but loathed beards and was proud of his ears which had no lobes – saying the Duke of Wellington had such ears and that the same features could be traced in all the acurate pictures of Our Lord. Oscar Wilde said “One should always be a little improbable.” R. S. Hawker was more than a little. He had quirks and passions – strong dislikes. Hawker perpetuated the legend (some say he invented it) that the saint Morwena was the daughter of Breachan, a Celtic King who lived in the ninth century. He claimed that he had seen the ghost of saint Morwena. Morwenstow origins from the Celtic word “Morwen” – which means “white or fair as the sea” – and the Saxon word “stow” which means “Church”. John Betjeman visited the parish in the 1930’s and wrote in his research notes: “Out of the trees rise the vicarage chimney stacks in the form of miniature church towers, part of the Gothic fancy of the builder, the Rev RS Hawker, its poetic and Tractarian vicar…”
Are they not all Ministering Spirits? By Robert Stephen Hawker
We see them not – we cannot hear
The music of their wing –
Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The Angels of the spring!
They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows;
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose.
I gather it for thy dear breast,
From stain and shadow free:
That which an Angel’s touch hath blest
Is meet, my love, for thee!
The Butterfly By Robert Stephen Hawker
Bird of the moths! That radiant wing
Hath borne thee from thine earthly lair;
Thou revellest on the breath of spring,
A graceful shape of woven air!
The glories of the earth are thine,
The joyful breese, the balmy sky;
For thee the starry roses shine,
And violets in their valleys sigh.
Yet was the scene as soft and bright
When thou wert low in wormy rest:
The skies of summer gushed with light,
The blossoms breathed on Nature’s breast.
But thou that gladness didst not share,
A cave restrained that shadowy form;
In vain did fragrance fill the air,
Dew soften and the sunbeams warm.
Dull was thy day – a living death,
Till the great change in glory came,
And thou, a thing of life and breath,
Didst cleave the air with quivering frame!
My son! my son! read, mark, and learn
This parable of summer skies,
Until thy trusting spirit yearn,
Like the bright moth, to rush and rise.
Lo! round and near, a mightier scene,
With hues that flesh may not behold;
There all things glow with loveliest mien,
And earthly forms have heavenly mould!
Oh! for that place of paths divine,
By the freed soul in rapture trod;
The upper air, the fields that shine,
For ever in the light of God!
‘The Song of the Western Men’.
A good sword and a trust hand!
A merry heart and true
King James’s men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do!
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die ?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
Out spake our Captain brave and bold
A merry wight was he;
‘If London Tower were Michael’s hold’
We’d set Trelawny free
‘We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land:
The Seven is no stay:
With ‘one and all’, and hand in hand;
And who shall bid us nay?.
‘And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! Come forth!
Ye cowards all;Here’s men as good as you
‘Trelawny he’s in the keep and hold:
Trelawny he may die
But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!
by Robert Stephen Hawker 1825
Crosstown, where there is a 13th Century pub, “The Bush-Inn”. Crosstown is about 500m from the B&B. It’s also the road towards Hawker’s Hut. The Rectory Farm is about 500m from the Bush-Inn. The Rectory Farm is the 2nd image top-left in the mosaic-image.
The road to Shop…at this fork – which is about 800m from the B&B – you turn right…
Inside Hawker’s hut.
The roof of Hawker’s hut.
The church of St Morwenna and St John the Baptist at Morwenstow. There are more than 40 graves – mostly from shipwrecked sailors.
The church from a different view.
A ship’s figurehead serves as a grave marker in the churchyard at the church of St Morwenna and St John the Baptist, Morwenstow.
St John’s Well
If you look closely, you will see the graves of the soldiers.
This is Hector, the B&B-dog, he is about 12 years old.
Click here for the route and details. This walk is about 2-3 miles. The link will open in a new window.
This incident happened on Friday and we were there Friday till 11 am before we left the area. See the original news articlehere. The link will open in a new window.
Sea search called off for missing man
Sunday 12th April 10:00
THE search has been called off for a man who went missing off the Cornish coast. A massive rescue operation was launched on Friday evening after two men got into difficulties on cliffs in North Cornwall. One person was rescued by emergency services halfway down the cliff face at Hawker’s Hut at Morwenstow, north of Bude. He was winched to safety by the helicopter crew from RNAS Culdrose.
The search, which included Bude lifeboat crews, the Bude Coastguard team and officers from Devon and Cornwall police, continued for the second man on Friday night and Saturday before it was abandoned yesterday afternoon. The name of the missing man, who is in his early 20s, is not known at this time.
The circumstances surrounding the rescue operation are still unclear. Speaking on Firday, a spokesman for Bude Lifeboat Station said: “We found clothes belonging to the second casualty at Hawker’s Hut. I don’t think the two people were swimming – it’s more likely that they were climbing down the cliff to see the rock pools and then got into trouble.
“We have a big spring tide at the moment which is very powerful – we are just hoping that he’s not in the water.”
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:
As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part,
And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.
Shakespeare
Have fun and create your own Wordlehere. The link will open in a new window. Follow the link and copy/paste your text and…voila! This is my Shakespeare contribution and I hope you enjoy it too!
Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
I believe this is a good combination: chess, poetry, art and music! I’ve started recently reading Dean’s poetry blog and glad that I’ve discovered his blog. This poem in this post, is today’s entry on his blog and I’ve really enjoyed it and thought to share it with you. If you’re a lover of poetry, make sure to visit his blog, if you don’t, you will regret it! If you don’t like poetry, then you still should visit his blog and you will immediately fall in love with his poems! I have a present for you today too, let’s call it an early Christmas present if you like, a composition by Jim Brickman. Finally, for my chess-lovers (and those who think they might become chess-lovers!) I’ve got a few games here (do check back as I have about ten more to blog in this entry!) played a few days ago in the Dresden Olympiad. This post is almost as good as “wine women and song!”:) All links will open in a new window.
Remember me to the world
And all the beautiful girls
I never kissed; if there’s one regret
That is it: that I left any lovelies’
Lips unblessed, her heart repressed
Remember me to the wind, which
Blows wherever it goes; still, or not
Any feeling does not cost, but what you
Do with it: recall I am that
Innocent, awake to only wonder told
Remember me to the sun; the heat,
The blaze, worries public or hidden,
I have had them all, unbidden: most
Of all when you see that woman or girl,
Remember me, my dear, to the blessed world
Read more about Dean on his biography-link on his blog!
Over 500 poems and prose poems published since 1972 in over 130 literary publications in Canada, the USA, England, Australia, New Zealand, etc., such as Descant, Carleton Literary Review, Poetry WLU, The Prairie Journal, Freelance, Nexus, Bitterroot, Oxalis, Bogg, Aileron, RE:AL, Art Times, Pegasus, Impetus, On The Bus, and many others. More have been published in newspapers, magazines, online and in anthologies, recorded and paper.
Music: Jim Brickman: Dream comes true
Please click HERE to play through the game of Nyback from Finland vs Carlsen played in round 6, Dresden 2008.
Carlsen
Please click HERE to play through the game of Dominguez from Cuba vs Gata Kamsky in round 6, Dresden 2008.
In every case of reflective activity, a person finds himself confronted with a given, present situation from which he has to arrive at, or conclude to, something that is not present. This process of arriving at an idea of what is absent on the basis of what is at hand is inference. What is present carries or bears the mind over to the idea and ultimately the acceptance of something else.–Dewey
Dewey defined reflective thought as ‘active, persistent, and careful consideration of any belief or supposed form of knowledge in the light of the grounds that support it and the further conclusions to which it tends’.
Image: blog.lib.umn.edu/evans391/
Bring me the sunset in a cup, by Emily Dickinson
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps —
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!
Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin’s ecstasy
Among astonished boughs —
How many trips the Tortoise makes —
How many cups the Bee partakes,
The Debauchee of Dews!
Also, who laid the Rainbow’s piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite —
Who counts the wampum of the night
To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who’ll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?
The day we arrived in South Africa for our holiday (2007), we were quite shocked to see on the news that the plantations in the Eastern part of the country…The Lowveld… were all under fire! Especially for me it was very sad to watch the news as that part of the country is where I grew up and used to travel a lot. If you’ve travelled the country, you will know that the Kruger National Park is also in the Lowveld-area. Also, it was in that part of the country where we were headed for a week’s holiday too. I took photos of the plantations, but I really don’t want to look at it. If you click on the page that says..”movies”, you can watch the “Swadini”-movie and see one or two photos from the plantations… As far as I know, it was the first time ever that there was a fire, to this extend, in the plantations. Recently, I came across the site where I found these images of the fire and if you visit the website, you will be able to see enlarged images of the fire. I was also lucky to find an artist’s works of the “Lowveld fires”. I don’t want to say “enjoy” as any fire like this is really not to “enjoy”, I only want to share the images with you. I also have great respect for every dedicated fireman in the world, doing their important job!! Enjoy the poem/prayer and the beautiful music to “cool you down” after viewing these fire images!:) The music is the beautiful “Blue Danube” of Strauss.
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
The Fireman’s Prayer
When I am called to duty, God
Where ever flames may rage,
Give me the strength to save some life
Whatever be its age,
Help me embrace a little child
Before it is to late,
Or save an older person from
The horror of that fate,
Enable me to be alert
And hear the weakest shout,
And quickly and efficiently to put the fire out
I want to fill my calling and,
To give the best in me
To guard my every neighbor and protect his property,
And if according to your will
I have to give my life,
Please bless with your protecting hand
My children and my wife.
It’s not anything, and it’s not something, yet it isn’t the negation of something, either. Traditional logic is no help, since it merely regards all negation as derivative from something positive. So, Heidegger proposed, we must abandon logic in order to explore the character of Nothing as the background out of which everything emerges.
Carefully contemplating Nothing in itself, we begin to notice the importance and vitality of our own moods. Above all else, Nothing is what produces in us a feeling of dread {Ger. Angst}. This deep feeling of dread, Heidegger held, is the most fundamental human clue to the nature and reality of Nothing.
Human Life as Being-There Human beings truly exist, yet our “being-there” {Ger. Dasein} is subject to a systematic, radical uncertainty. Because we know that we will die, concern withour annihilation is an ever-present feature of human experience: Death is the key to Life. The only genuine question is why we are at all. Once we experience the joy[!?!] of dread, we recognize that our lives are limited—and therefore shaped—by death.
In just the same way, Heidegger argued, so Nothing is what shapes Being generally. This reveals the most fundamental, transcendent reality, beyond all notions of what-is slipping over into what-is-not. Even in the historical tradition, according to Heidegger, Nothing is shown to be the concomitant rather than the opposite of Being. The only genuine philosophical question is why there is something rather than nothing.
Source here
Parts of this book deserve 5 stars. Much of what Sartre has to say in it is cuttingly insightful, indeed life-changing. His writing is lucid (perhaps too lucid for philosophy – this was Merleau-Ponty’s opinion) and the book is a great read. But underlying everything, with huge passages directed exclusively to it, is Sartre’s own ontology, mish-mash of Descartes (via Husserl), Hegel and Heidegger, which falls well short of Heidegger’s own subtlety. This has led to a certain contempt among serious continental philosophers for Sartre’s work. Ironically, for all that, he has had an obvious powerful influence on many of them. This is not a book to be ignored by ANYONE….amazon.co.uk….reader-review
Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre (21 June 1905 – 15 April 1980), commonly known simply as Jean-Paul Sartre (pronounced [ʒɑ̃ pol saʁtʁə]), was a French existentialist philosopher, playwright, novelist, screenwriter, political activist, biographer, and literary critic. He was the leading figure in 20th century French philosophy.
In 1964 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, but he declined it[1] stating that “It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form.Read more about Sartreon this link which will open in a new window.
English readers…I’ve translated the first Afrikaans poem for you…then you can slide down to read more in English…
In die Hoëveld
1. In die Hoëveld, waar dit oop is en die hemel wyd daarbo,
Waar kuddes waaigras huppel oor die veld,
Waar ’n mens nog vry kan asemhaal en aan ’n God kan glo,
Staan my huisie, wat ek moes verlaat vir geld.
En as ek in die gange van die myn hier sit en droom
Van die winde op die Hoëveld, ruim en vry,
Dan hoor ek die geklinkel van my spore, saal en toom,
Sawens as ek bees of skaap toe ry.
On the High-veld
1. In the High-veld where it’s open and heaven’s wide up there
Where herds of tall grass frisk about the veld
Where you can breath freely and believe in God
Stands my little house which I’ve left for money
And If I sit here in the tunnels of the mine, dreaming
About the High-veld wind, wide and free
Then I hear the sound of my tracks, saddle and bridle
At dusk when riding to the livestock.
image:mooikrans.co.za
2.Op die Hoëveld, waar dit wyd is, waar jy baie ver kan sien,
(Die ylblou bring ’n knop dan in jou keel)
Staan my huisie nog en wag vir my, wag al ’n jaar of tien,
Waar die bokkies op die leigrafstene speel.
Maar as die tering kwaai word en ek hoor die laaste fluit,
Dan sweef ek na die Hoëveld op die wind
Ek soek dan in die maanlig al die mooiste plekkies uit
Waar ek kleiosse gemaak het as ’n kind.
Toon van den Heever (1894-1956)
Al die gedigte wat nou volg, is NP van Wyk-Louw gedigte!
My venster is ’n blanke vlak
My venster is ’n blanke vlak
in skaduwee en skemering,
waar ek my nagte waak en wag
op magiese deursuiwering:
dat hierdie siel deursigtig word
in vreemde voorgevoelde lig,
tot kring bo kring opglans en straal
in eindelose vergesig;
dat wat ek nog verlore waan,
o my verlore dae in my,
in hierdie stille skemering
hul vorming en gestalte kry,
tot ek my eensaamheid besit,
volmaak, as kosbare gewin,
van duister wense en van smart
die uiterste deurstraalde sin.
N P van Wyk-Louw
VROEGHERFS
Die jaar word ryp in goue akker blare
in wingerd wat verbruin, en witter lug
wat daglank van die nuwe wind en klare
son deurspoel word; elke blom word vrug,
tot self die traagstes; en die eerste blare val
so stilweg in die rook-vaal bos en laan
dat die takke van die lang popliere al
teen elke ligte môre witter staan.
O Heer, laat hierdie dae heilig word:
laat alles val wat pronk en sieraad was
Of enkel jeug en vér was van die pyn;
Laat ryp word Heer, laat U wind waai, laat stort
my waan, tot al die hoogheid eindelik vas
en nakend uit my teerder jeug verskyn.
Osterley Park
Nagreën
Die reën skuifel deur die straat,
verby my venster, mensverlaat …
Soos ’n trossie narsings wat verkwyn,
flikker die druppels teen my vensterruit
waar die geel straatlig daardeur skyn;
en voel die wind
met bleek vingers, soos ’n kind,
aan die swaar gordyn, wat plooi
in die lamplig, teer en droef papawerrooi.
Image: wvs.topleftpixel.com
Grense
My naakte siel wil sonder skrome
in alle eenvoud tot jou gaan,
soos uit diepe slaap ons drome,
soos teen skemerlug die bome
opreik na die bloue maan;
gaan met al sy donker wense,
en die heilige, nooit-gehoorde
dinge sê, waarvoor die mense
huiwer, en wat om die grense
flikker van my duister woorde.
Image: astroden.com/images.htm
Voël
’n Voël vlieg voor my venster verby,
’n naalddun lyn wat daaroor gly
en die glas in twee vlakke sny;
die wêrelde val apart en bly
elk in sy enkelheid geskei –
ek hierbinne, en daarbuite hy.
Die liefde in my
Dis altyd jy, net altyd jy,
die een gedagte bly my by
soos skadu’s onder bome bly,
net altyd jy, net altyd jy.
Langs baie weë gaan my smart,
blind is my oë en verward,
is alle dinge in my hart.
Maar dit sal een en enkeld bly,
en aards en diep sy laafnis kry,
al staan dit winter, kaal in my,
die liefde in my, die liefde in my.
Nog eenmaal
Nog eenmaal wil ek in die skemeraand
weer op ons dorp en by ons dorpsdam staan,
weer met my rek op in die donker skiet,
en luister, en al word ek seer en dof,
hoe die klein klippie ver weg in die riet
uit donker in die donker water plof.
Uit Nuwe verse (1954)
Miskien sal ek die wingerd prys
en nooit meer van hom drink
en net in ’n verbeelde glas
die koel gedagte skink:
dié wat in jare donkerte
sy wynsteen kon laat sak
en niks wat somers is meer het
nie pit nie dop of rank:
miskien nog van Gods weë weet:
– Sy paaie en Sy pyn:
maar ingewikkeld alles ken
en mens wil wees én rein.
Uit Tristia (1962)
Afskeid
Jy’t weggegaan en jy bewoon
‘n silwer herberg in die sneeu
jou venster kyk nog elke nag
met drie blink oë na die plein
die plein is boom en wind en boom
en wind en wind
en wintermiddag voer daar iemand
die meeue krummels teen die wind
Uit: Tristia (1962)
English readers:This is my 1000th entry and I want to celebrate it with some beautiful poetry…in Afrikaans…but, there’s some links for you to follow…English/French and other languages…poems to enjoy. There’s a brilliant bird-site for you to enjoy…South African birds…do take a look, it’s worth visiting this site! The poems in this entry are mainly from two wonderful South African well-known poets…and poems I really love. The first poem is about the Highveld and I was 11 years of age and had to know about 4-6 poems every week… to recite on a weekly basis and some were really long…as a child you don’t always understand why you have to learn certain things in life, but now I do appreciate my Afrikaans Language teacher from Primary after all these years, of course we had to learn English poems too…but let’s leave that for later, Afrikaans is a much more beautiful language, especially when it comes to poetry!
On this link here you can read more fantastic poems in different languages…the link will open in a new window.
To see more fantastic bird pictures….please click here and the link will open in a new window. There is an English page as well as an Afrikaans page…the link will open in the English page. If you want the Afrikaans page, you will have to click on “front page”.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/unluckypuppy/482675237/in/set-72157594195589241/ I know Wipneus is going to freak out about these images from “unluckypuppy” on flickr. She’s a “stargazer!” and loves anything about space. This lily-flower’s name is also Stargazer! I think it’s beautiful! When I came across these images, I had to post it with some poems and I’ve found these lovely poems, enjoy them with the song by Don McLean–Starry, Starry Night! I like Van Gogh’s art too, so thought you would enjoy his “Starry Night” at the same time, also, I’ve Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for you to enjoy too! and the link where you can download it.
Image:pickupflowers.com
A Sonnet of the Moon
Look how the pale queen of the silent night
Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he, as long as she is in his sight,
With her full tide is ready her to honor.
But when the silver waggon of the moon
Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.
So you that are the sovereign of my heart
Have all my joys attending on your will;
My joys low-ebbing when you do depart,
When you return their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.
I saw thee once — once only — years ago:
I must not say how many — but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe —
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death —
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn’d — alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight —
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! — oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked —
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All — all expired save thee — save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes —
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them — they were the world to me.
I saw but them — saw only them for hours —
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo!, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep —
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide way [[away]]. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go — they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me — they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers — yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle —
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven — the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still — two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
On this link, you can find all Poe’s works and his biography too.
Image: flickr…unluckypuppy..follow the link at the first image
Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer’s day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze, Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can’t forget.
Like the strangers that you’ve met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they’re not listening still.
Perhaps they never will…
Alfred Noyes (September 16, 1880 – June 28, 1958) was an English poet, best known for his ballads The Highwayman (1906) and The Barrel Organ.
Born in Wolverhampton, England, he was the son of Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes. Noyes attended Exeter College, Oxford, leaving before he had earned a degree.
At 21 years of age, he published his first collection of poems, The Loom Years. From 1903 to 1908, Noyes published five volumes of poetry books, including The Forest of Wild Thyme and The Flower of Old Japan and Other Poems.
In 1907, he married Garnett Daniels. He was given the opportunity to teach English literature at Princeton University, where he taught from 1914 until 1923. Noyes’ wife died in 1926, resulting in his conversion to Roman Catholicism. He wrote about his conversion in The Unknown God, published in 1934.
Noyes later married Mary Angela Mayne Weld-Blundell, from an old recusant Catholic family from Ince Blundell in Lancashire. They settled at Lisle Combe, near Ventnor on the Isle of Wight and had three children: Hugh, Veronica, and Margaret. His younger daughter married Michael Nolan (later Lord Nolan) in 1953.
He later started dictating his work as a result of increasing blindness. In 1953, his autobiography, Two Worlds for Memory, was published.
Noyes died at the age of 77 and was buried on the Isle of Wight. He authored around sixty books, including poetry volumes, novels, and short stories.
During the next five years, Noyes published five additional volumes of poetry, including Poems (1904). One of Noyes’ most ambitious works, Drake: An English Epic, was first published in 1906. The twelve-book, two hundred page epic is thought to be too long by some critics, but nonetheless, an impressive example of Noyes’ talent and creativity. Arguably Noyes’ most beloved poem, The Highwayman, was published in Forty singing seamen and other poems in 1907.
Noyes spent much of the Second World War in North America, returning to Great Britain in 1949. Two Worlds For Memory, in which he described his life between America and Great Britain, was published in 1953. He published his last volume of poems in 1956, A Letter to Lucian, and his last book in 1957, The Accusing Ghost, or Justice for Casement. (During the First World War Noyes, while engaging in propaganda work for the British government, publicly alleged that the recently-exexcuted Irish Nationalist Roger casement had been a homosexual. After WB Yeats published a poem on Casement in the 1930s attacking Noyes by name, Noyes announced that he now believed the diaries cited as evidence of Casement’s homosexuality were forged. THE ACCUSING GHOST argues this case. The diaries were not then available to the public; they were released after Noyes’ death and most (though not all) commentators now believe them to be genuine.)On 25 June 1958, Alfred Noyes died on the Isle of Wight and was buried in the Roman Catholic cemetery at Freshwater.”
The Highwayman a poem by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He’d a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He’d a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened–his face was white and peaked
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o’er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching
Marching marching
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
“Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight
Her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy’s ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding
Riding riding
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Image:trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/United_Kingdom/photo373524.htm “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Alleen wandel ek
soos ‘n los-wolkie
wat sweef oor hoë berge,
heuwels, valleie en dale
Skielik sien ek ‘n plaat Affodille
‘n blink-geel, songeel,
goudgeel versameling
wat skitter en skyn
langs die meer onder die bome
swewend en dansend
buigend en juigend
nÁ die Somerreëns
Langsamerhand – soos die sterreskyn
Glinsterend – soos in die Melkweg-lyn
Al langs die kant van die baai
Vang my blik die verruklike dans
die aanskoulike geswaai
van koppies wat draai
onder die hange van ‘n krans
Ver-weg op my rusbank
lê ek uitgestrek
Langsamerhand weerkaats
die dansende skynsel
in my binne-oog
Die opgewondenheid van alleen-wees
vervul my hart met plesier
en ek dans die dans!
van die blinkgeel, songeel,
goudgeel, bly-geel Affodille!
Wordsworth’s house in Cockermouth, where he was born. He spent his later years in Dove Cottage – in Grasmere – and in 1813 they moved to Rydal Mount, where William and Mary stayed until their deaths in 1850 and 1859. Whilst at Rydal Mount William became Distributor of Stamps for Westmorland, and had an office in Church St Ambleside. In 1820 he published his ‘Guide through the District of the Lakes’. In 1842 he became the Poet Laureate, and resigned his office as Stamp Distributor. William married Mary quite late in his life. Something which I read about him, which you don’t read on all sites, is that he went to France in 1791 and met Annette Vallon. She gave him French lessons, for free, and they fell in love and she got pregnant. She had a girl and her name was Caroline. William wanted to return to support her with the child, but because of the war between England and France, he couldn’t return. I read this piece of info in the book…”Among the Lakes and fells” by John Kahn.
We’ve been away for the past week. We went to the Western part of the Lake District… had a few rainy days, so spent some of the days to visit some very exciting places. Only when we arrived at Mockerkin, the owners of our cottage informed us about Wordsworth’s house in Cockermouth and Beatrix Potter’s Hill Top-farm in Hawkshead and we were left with hundreds of leaflets, maps and books about surrounding areas. I’ve got zillions of wonderful pictures to sort out, but for a start, thought to post this poem which William Wordsworth wrote. I had the wonderful opportunity to read his sister, Dorothy’s Lakeland Journal, due to the weather! And, once again, due to the weather… I’ve translated William’s poem in Afrikaans, but I’ve also changed it a little bit, so it’s not exactly the same…and I call my poem…the Dance of the Daffodils! For now, you have to be satisfied with this poem, as I’ve got some unpacking to do…and tomorrow is a day with friends, so not much time for blogging, but I’ll try my best to upload a few more about the visit to William’s house in Cockermouth. Sadly, we didn’t visit Dove’s cottage in Grasmere, where he spent his later years, as our time was a bit limited when we went to Hill Top farm. If you visit Hill Top farm, you get a timed ticket, which means you buy the ticket and can only enter the time your ticket tells you. In this way the National Trust try to control the number of visitors as the house is quite small and not many people at any one time can move around the house comfortably. Also, it’s a way to preserve to property, but more about Hill Top farm in another entry later this week!
I’ve got so much to share and so many pictures to go through, but first things first…follow the link I’ve given to read a bit more. Please click on images for a larger view.
Wordsworth Museum
William Wordsworth’s sister, Dorothy, kept this diary…a diary which is worth reading! There is also the “Grasmere and Alfoxden Journals” to be read. I will definitely try and get hold of the “Grasmere”-diary to read too.
Plaque inscription
Front garden as seen through a window from the inside of the house
Rear garden through a window in Wordsworth’s house
Hand water pump!
Rear garden and house as seen from the garden
Bench in rear garden
Foot bridge behind Wordsworth house across River Derwent
River Derwent… River Cocker and River Derwent meet in Cockermouth Dove cottage in Grasmere…which we didn’t visit
This is just to say:
I’ve just eaten
ALL the Mingles
in the box
behind the TV
-which you don’t like
because of the wooden smell-
Forgive me
they tasted so creamy
and I felt so pampered
and rotten spoiled!
This is my version of the poem by Williams Carlos Williams: This is just to say. You can follow this link and read his original poem as well as the “reply” to it…really sweet!
https://chessaleeinlondon.wordpress.com/2007/09/18/this-is-just-to-say-2/ I was tagged by Reisiger to do a shopping list from certain items and where I usually buy it…well, I’ve done a mosaic instead and you will have to click on the mosaic to see what’s on there…and also from which shops I sometimes buy…and what brands etc… I’m quite sure the images are self explainable…
Doritos, my other favourite
This top is a special top…it’s got some sequence on it and I just love the fabric it’s made of and..it’s my favourite colour! Please click on the image – and zoom in – to have a clear view of it! I’ve bought it at a shop in Sutton. Sutton has got a big shopping centre, called St Nicholas. On the pictures that follow, you can see some really nice South African goodies! I’ve bought these at the South African shop at London Bridge… and they are some of my favourites! You can even buy the Aromat from Tesco’s now. Do try it if you haven’t… I love it in salad and on baked potato! Yum! Oh dear, I will have to go again, as my mouth is watering for that Fanta Grape!!
The soothing twilight of my mind Self-evidently frolicand sprightly Your little shadow gradually quivering – as a flakelet – endless peals of laughter vibrating in my mind and the reflection is inevitably intertwined between Haydn and Wagner and the whirlpool of my ancient thoughts flowing through the soothing twilight of my mind –Translated: Nikita – 16/2/2012
[For a friend to understand the Afrikaans]
This poem is just a poem about my thoughts going back to South Africa and my childhood days – also on the farm where I grew up. My country and its people will always be in my thoughts!
Please click HEREto read the book Thought-Forms by: Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater on the site of the Gutenberg-project. In this book you will read about colour and thoughts.
Enjoy the music of Haydn…Piano concerto in D major – one of my favourites!
Haydn by Thomas Hardy
Source: wikimedia Franz Joseph Haydn ==March 31, 1732 – May 31, 1809== was one of the most prominent composers of the classical period, and is called by some the “Father of the Symphony” and “Father of the String Quartet”.
A life-long resident of Austria, Haydn spent most of his career as a court musician for the wealthy Hungarian Esterházy family on their remote estate. Isolated from other composers and trends in music until the later part of his long life, he was, as he put it, “forced to become original”.
Joseph Haydn was the brother of Michael Haydn, himself a highly regarded composer, and Johann Evangelist Haydn, a tenor.
English readers… I translated an English poem wich I posted 2 days ago…”I know a place”…by Wayne Visser…in Afrikaans…you can read the poem at the bottom of this post in English. One Afrikaans-blogger has asked me for a translation as he’s thought that this poem would be fantastic in Afrikaans too….and I would like to agree with him, although Wayne’s poem is already a very good poem to describe your feelings/places about Africa and I believe only a person who knows Africa can describe it the way Wayne has done. I’ve sent him an email to respond on the translation I’ve done and he has responded…you can read his comments…he also responded in Afrikaans, saying that Afrikaans is a beautiful language for poetry…which I’ve said many times to my chess player friends…I do love English poetry too, but my favourite poems are without doubt the Afrikaans poems….not because it’s my mother tongue, but for the reason that Afrikaans is such a rich language and you can play with words a lot more than the English language.
As a native-speaking English person I know how much Afrikaans people are constantly ripped off by the English. Having a completely mixed up family I am also lucky to be completely bilingual. This all means that i have the best of both worlds, which I would like to share a bit of.
Afrikaans is an extremely expressive and descriptive language with words that can’t even possibly be translated into English…This is what meggwilson says on HER BLOG here…
Visit Wayne’s website HERE to read his English poems…
Nadat ek Wayne se gedig geplaas het, het Bib my gevra vir ‘n vertaling en gedink dat dit net so mooi gedig in Afrikaans kan wees. Wel, ek het probeer en ek glo ek sal nog oor die volgende paar dae “werk”/skaaf aan wat ek nou hier plaas. Ek het geen idee of Wayne Afrikaans magtig is nie en sal graag wou hê hy moet self ook ‘n vertaling doen, sou hy Afrikaanssprekend ook wees…ek het hom nou gekontak per email en hom gevra vir sy kommentaar …laat ons sien of hy gaan reageer… nuusberig…nuusberig…nuusberig…Wayne het ‘n boodskap gelos oor die plasing van sy gedig, jy kan dit in die “kommentaar-blok” lees…
Ek weet van ‘n plek in Afrika
Ek weet van ‘n plek in Afrika
Waar ek die son op my rug voel skyn
En die sand tussen my tone speel
Waar ek die seemeeu op die windjie hoor
En golwe op eindlose strande breek
Ek weet van ‘n plek in Afrika
Waar die berge die blou lug ontmoet
En valleie die groen wingerde huisves
Waar bome hul pers kleed sprei
En die bosveld sy room kleed dra
Ek weet van ‘n plek in Afrika
Waar die dondergode hul stemme laat hoor
En sien ek hul weerligspiese neerdaal
Waar ek die reuk van reenwolke intrek
En die soet van die stowwerige doudruppels proe
Dis ‘n wildernis, die plek
Van Evolusie en dinosorusse
Waar lewe begin het, hier was die eerste mens
Van lewende fossiele en olifante
Waar leeus brul en springboktroppe spring
Dis die plek van swaarkry
Van woestyne en doringbome
Waar paaie doodloop en jagters jag
Van horisonne en grense
Waar reise begin en sonsondergange bloei
Dis die plek van vryheid
Van ontdekkings en pioniers
Waar donkerte geskuil – en die lig deurgebreek het
Van ware legendes en wonderwerke
Waar dagbreek begin en hoop helder brand
My hart is tuis in Afrika
Waar die tromme se ritme in my klop
En tydlose liedere in my ore sing
Waar die reenboogmis in my oë skyn
En vriende se glimlagte my welkom heet
My gedagtes ontspan in Afrika
Waar die mense na aan die aarde leef
En seisoene die veranderde gemoed aandui
Waar besige markte handel dryf
En die Skepping sy stadige gang steeds gaan
My siel is gelukkig in Afrika
Haar strome bring lewe in my are
Haar winde bring genesing vir my drome
Wanneer haar verhaal vertel is
Verenig dit ons in ons noodlot.
I know a place in Africa…
Inspiring poetry written by Wayne Visser,
a South African currently based in Nottingham, UK.
I know a place in Africa
Where I can feel the sun on my back
And the sand between my barefoot toes
Where I can hear the gulls on the breeze
And the waves crash on the endless shore
I know a place in Africa
Where the mountains touch the skies of blue
And the valleys shelter vines of green
Where the trees spread out a cloth of mauve
And the bushveld wears a coat of beige
I know a place in Africa
Where I can hear the voice of thunder gods
And watch their lightening spears thrown to earth
Where I can breathe the scent of rain clouds
And taste the sweet dew of dusty drops
This is the place of wildness
Of evolution and dinosaurs
Where life began and mankind first stood
Of living fossils and elephants
Where lions roar and springbok herds leap
This is the place of struggle
Of desert plains and thorn trees
Where pathways end and hunters track game
Of horizons and frontiers
Where journeys start and sunsets bleed red
This is the place of freedom
Of exploration and pioneers
Where darkness loomed and light saw us through
Of living legends and miracles
Where daybreak came and hope now shines bright
My heart is at home in Africa
Where the sound of drums beat in my chest
And the songs of time ring in my ears
Where the rainbow mist glows in my eyes
And the smiles of friends make me welcome
My mind is at ease in Africa
Where the people still live close to the soil
And the seasons mark my changing moods
Where the markets hustle with trading
And Creation keeps its own slow time
My soul is at peace in Africa
For her streams bring lifeblood to my veins
And her winds bring healing to my dreams
For when the tale of this land is told
Her destiny and mine are as one
It’s been quite awhile since I’ve blogged poetry! I love poetry, as I said before…on this link here on my ..blogger-blog I once blogged one of Wayne’s poems and I want to blog it here too…as I do love South Africa –which is part of Africa…one secondary school child argued with me a few weeks ago about our country’s name..said that..there isn’t a “West Africa” as a country nor “East Africa” as a country, so how can I say that I am from South Africa and I say “South Africa” is a country! hehehe…Wayne visited my blogger blog-post and left me a message at that particular post…so let’s see if he will find this one too…lol! I came across Meggwilson’s blog where she says exactly what I’ve said so many times…even on my blog too….
As a native-speaking English person I know how much Afrikaans people are constantly ripped off by the English. Having a completely mixed up family I am also lucky to be completely bilingual. This all means that i have the best of both worlds, which I would like to share a bit of.
Afrikaans is an extremely expressive and descriptive language with words that can’t even possibly be translated into English…you can read it HERE….
I’ve translated this poem of Wayne in Afrikaans on this link and you can also read Wayne’s comments about the translation on this link.
I know a place in Africa…
Inspiring poetry written by Wayne Visser,
a South African currently based in Nottingham, UK.
I know a place in Africa
Where I can feel the sun on my back
And the sand between my barefoot toes
Where I can hear the gulls on the breeze
And the waves crash on the endless shore
I know a place in Africa
Where the mountains touch the skies of blue
And the valleys shelter vines of green
Where the trees spread out a cloth of mauve
And the bushveld wears a coat of beige
I know a place in Africa
Where I can hear the voice of thunder gods
And watch their lightening spears thrown to earth
Where I can breathe the scent of rain clouds
And taste the sweet dew of dusty drops
This is the place of wildness
Of evolution and dinosaurs
Where life began and mankind first stood
Of living fossils and elephants
Where lions roar and springbok herds leap
This is the place of struggle
Of desert plains and thorn trees
Where pathways end and hunters track game
Of horizons and frontiers
Where journeys start and sunsets bleed red
This is the place of freedom
Of exploration and pioneers
Where darkness loomed and light saw us through
Of living legends and miracles
Where daybreak came and hope now shines bright
My heart is at home in Africa
Where the sound of drums beat in my chest
And the songs of time ring in my ears
Where the rainbow mist glows in my eyes
And the smiles of friends make me welcome
My mind is at ease in Africa
Where the people still live close to the soil
And the seasons mark my changing moods
Where the markets hustle with trading
And Creation keeps its own slow time
My soul is at peace in Africa
For her streams bring lifeblood to my veins
And her winds bring healing to my dreams
For when the tale of this land is told
Her destiny and mine are as one
I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa’s
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa
When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When Africa honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing
I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life
When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of music
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history
I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world’s shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred
This coming Sunday it’s Mothering Sunday in South Africa and in a few other countries. Please click HEREto read how Mothers Day is celebrating in different countries and to read about the history of Mothers Day.
Mother’s Day in South Africa
In South Africa, Mothers Day is celebrated on the second Sunday in the month of May. People of South Africa celebrate Mother’s Day in its true spirit by acknowledging the importance of mothers in their lives and thanking them profusely for alltheir love and care. People also gift flowers and cards to their mother as an expression of their heartfelt feeling of gratitude and affection.
The most commonly used flowers on Mothers Day is the traditional carnation. In South Africa, Mother’s Day is taken as an opportunity to thank not just mothers but also grand mothers and women who are like mothers.
Mothers are pampered by caring children on the day. Many children treat their mother with a delicious breakfast in bed but owing to the changing lifestyles, a large number of people take their mother out for dinners. Young children present their mothers with homemade gifts while the elder ones buy gifts for their mothers.
Earliest History of Mothers Day
The earliest history of Mothers Day dates back to the ancient annual spring festival the Greeks dedicated to maternal goddesses. The Greeks used the occasion to honor Rhea, wife of Cronus and the mother of many deities of Greek mythology.
Ancient Romans, too, celebrated a spring festival, called Hilaria dedicated to Cybele, a mother goddess. It may be noted that ceremonies in honour of Cybele began some 250 years before Christ was born. The celebration made on the Ides of March by making offerings in the temple of Cybele lasted for three days and included parades, games and masquerades. The celebrations were notorious enough that followers of Cybele were banished from Rome.
Early Christians celebrated a Mother’s Day of sorts during the festival on the fourth Sunday of Lent in honor of the Virgin Mary, the Mother of Christ. In England the holiday was expanded to include all mothers. It was then called Mothering Sunday.
image:fiftyflowers.com
Image: teacherscorner.net
Everybody knows that a good mother gives her children a feeling of trust and stability. She is their earth. She is the one they can count on for the things that matter most of all. She is their food and their bed and the extra blanket when it grows cold in the night; she is their warmth and their health and their shelter; she is the one they want to be near when they cry. She is the only person in the whole world in a whole lifetime who can be these things to her children. There is no substitute for her. Somehow even her clothes feel different to her children’s hands from anybody else’s clothes. Only to touch her skirt or her sleeve makes a troubled child feel better, by Katharine Butler Hathaway For when you looked into my mother’s eyes you knew, as if He had told you, why God had sent her into the world…it was to open the minds of all who looked to beautiful things, by James M. Barrie. A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie. ~Tenneva Jordan Quotes: searchwarp.com/swa321894.htm
Story of Anna Jarvis
The story of Mothers Day is the story of firm determination of a daughter, Anna Jarvis who resolved to pay tribute to her mother, Mrs Anna M Jarvis and all other mothers of the world. Anna Jarvis dedicated her life to fulfill her mothers dream of the recognition of day for honoring mothers. Though never a mother herself, Founder of Mother’s Day, Anna Jarvis is today recognised as the ‘Mother of Mothers Day’. An apt title to define the remarkable woman’s ceaseless devotion to her mother and motherhood in general. Anna Jarvis: Childhood
Anna Jarvis was born in Webster, Taylor County, West Virginia, on May 1, 1864. She was the ninth of eleven children born to Ann Marie and Granville Jarvis. Her family moved to Grafton when Anna was a year old. It was here that the Anna did her schooling. In 1881, she enrolled at the Augusta Female Academy in Staunton, Virginia, now Mary Baldwin College. After finishing her academics, Anna returned to Grafton and did teaching in a school for seven years.
Anna Jarvis: Inspiration for Mothers Day
Anna Jarvis got the inspiration of celebrating Mothers Day quite early in life. It so happened that one day when Anna was 12 years old, Anna’s mother Mrs Jarvis said a class prayer in the presence of her daughter. To conclude the lesson on ‘Mothers of the Bible’, Mrs Jarvis said a small prayer,
“I hope that someone, sometime will found a memorial mothers day commemorating her for the matchless service she renders to humanity in every field of life. She is entitled to it.”
Anna never forgot this prayer. And at her Mothers graveside service, she recalled the prayer and said, “…by the grace of God, you shall have that Mothers Day.” The words were overheard by her brother Claude.
Anna Jarvis: The Struggle for Mothers Day
After the death of her mother in 1905, Anna Jarvis resolved to honor her mother. She became all the more serious in her resolution when she found that adult children in the US were negligent in their behaviour towards there parents. Besides the desire of her mother that someone would one day pay tribute to all mothers, living and dead and appreciate their contributions made Anna decisions even more stronger.
In 1907, Miss Anna began an aggressive campaign to establish a National Mothers Day in US. On the second death anniversary of her mother she led a small tribute to her mother at Andrews Methodist Church. By the next year, Mother’s Day was also celebrated in her own city of Philadelphia.
To give shape to her resolution, Miss Anna Jarvis along with her supporters began to write hundreds of letters to those holding the positions of power advocate the need for a national Mothers Day. A fluent speaker, Anna used every platform to promote her cause. Though the response was cold initially, she achieved a breakthrough by gaining the support of great merchant and philanthropist, John Wanamaker of Philadelphia. The movement gained a fresh impetus with his support. In 1909, forty-five states including Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Canada and Mexico observed the day by appropriate services. People also wore white and red Carnations to pay tribute to their mothers, according to the tradition started by Anna Jarvis. Anna chose carnations because they were her mother’s favorite flowers. White carnation was her most favorite because it represented the purity of a mother’s heart. A white carnation was to be worn to honor deceased mothers, and a red one to honor a living mother.
By 1911, Mother’s Day was celebrated in almost every state of the Union. And in 1914, President Woodrow Wilson made the official announcement proclaiming Mother’s Day as a national holiday that was to be held each year on the second Sunday of May.
Anna Jarvis: Purpose of Celebrating Mothers Day
mothersdaycelebration.com/story-of-anna-jarvis.html
Elisabeth Eybers (geb. 1915)
Die vrou
Somer en herfs en winter trek in wye
onafgebroke wisseling deur die land,
maar sy bly draer van die lente want
liefde het haar verhef bo die getye.
Haat en verwoesting plant hul lamfervlae
in honderd stede en oral sink die nag;
vir háár op wie ook bloed en worsteling wag
klink nog die lied van vrede en welbehae.
Die uitgeteerde ruiter neig sy sens
en aarselend voor die klaarheid van haar blik
erken selfs hy sy heerskappy se grens:
in haar wat die onsterflikheid bewaak
ontkiem die toekoms in die flou getik
van lewe wat voorwêreldlik ontwaak.
For My Children
How motherhood would change my life, not for one moment did I expect;
And equally change me – an apprentice mother tutored by motherhood each day.
As I thrilled to watch my children grow, their joy of life I strived to reflect –
Endeavouring not to cause their tears, while kissing their little sorrows away.
What a delight to turn tiny eyes from tearful to brighter than the sunrise.
Now they do it for me and swell my heart with but a simple word!
I’d give my life for them without any hesitation; I know they realise
That my love is the one unchangeable thing in an ever-changing world.
As I turn out my memory box, happy times and laughter I remember.
A little wooden heart, a serviette holder, a purple paper rose,
All made with love and an effort to evoke a hug, a tear, a smile so tender.
What these gifts truly meant to me, only God in heaven knows.
On my down days, a call from one of them who has sensed I’m feeling low,
Makes the sun shine warmer, birds sing sweeter and butterflies colourfully play.
Sure I was there to show them their first puppy, rabbit or rainbow.
But they’ve shown me how to see all things in a fresh and finer way.
I recall the times when I truly believed my heart would burst with pride
At one of their successes; I ask how a child of mine could do so well.
A blessing each one has been, a gift from God – a fact I’ll never hide.
I beg Him to guide and protect them, then in peace I’ll continue to dwell.
From a moment long gone when plump little arms were entwined around my neck
With the words, ‘I love you, Mommy,’ to the undeserved gifts they send,
It’s my kids who provide me with great joy and imbue me with deep strength
To smile at the future so graciously, with each as a loyal and loving friend.
Heather Smit
Everything Mom
How did you find the energy, Mom
To do all the things you did,
To be teacher, nurse and counselor
To me, when I was a kid.
How did you do it all, Mom,
Be a chauffeur, cook and friend,
Yet find time to be a playmate,
I just can’t comprehend.
I see now it was love, Mom
That made you come whenever I’d call,
Your inexhaustible love, Mom
And I thank you for it all.
By Joanna Fuchs Best Mom Award
For all the things I didn’t say,
About how I felt along the way–
For the love you gave and the work you’ve done,
Here’s appreciation from your admiring son.
You cared for me as a little tot,
When all I did was cry a lot,
And as I grew your work did too–
I ran and fell and got black and blue.
I grew some more and it didn’t stop;
Now you had to become a cop,
To worry about mistakes I’d make;
You kept me in line for my own sake.
I got older, and the story repeated;
You were always there whenever I needed.
You guided me and wished me the best,
I became wiser and knew I was blessed.
So, for all the times I didn’t say,
The love I felt for you each day,
Mom, read this so you can always see
Just how much you mean to me.
Mom, Thanks for everything!
By Karl Fuchs
This picture was taken today… the church can be seen from our house! Click on the image for a larger view. Enjoy the poem I’ve chosen to support the picture…
Sunset
When I was growing as a little kid
I dread for sunset to come
And darkness to fill the earth I was so afraid of being alone
Lying on my small bed waiting for the sun to rise
O Lord I thank thee
For allowing me to see how beautiful the sunset is Each day colours of the sunset is so different from yesterday
I marvel and is awed by your masterpiece
And throughout my journey
I’ve learned sunset in life is often rest and peace Not something to be afraid of
But something to look forward to A haven, a sanctuary
Now as I watched the flame of the sun
Slowly changing into grays
Intertwined in blazing but subdued red and orange I can see the Lord’s arms spread across
A sunset telling me I am home
This pic is from the BBC’s website, taken near Harrismith, South Africa
When I was at Primary School I had to know this poem. I’ve translated this poem as I’ve thought it’s just a brilliant poem to be shared and enjoyed by English readers too. Update 2011: I was lucky that this translation was chosen as part of a Reading Series in South Africa. I’ve just received my booklet from the publishers in South Afria. The series: Enchanted Stone Series – Wonderful Verses by F. Viljoen & L. Southey. The book is a Reader 3 Level 6-book.
This is my translation of the poem…”Dans van die reen”
‘n Vriendelike versoek: Indien jy van my vertaling van die gedig hou, kan jy asseblief ook so gaaf en vriendelik wees en die Kopiereg-reel gehoorsaam en erkenning gee aan die vertaler van die gedig? Baie dankie, ek sal dit waardeer. Ek het die moeite aangegaan om die gedig te vertaal en dink darem dat dit net goeie maniere is om ook erkenning te gee waar nodig.
English readers: If you enjoy this translation of my poem and you would like to use it on your site – or somewhere else: It’s just good manners and being polite to acknowledge the person who translated the poem! There is the law of copyright and I think we should all obey it. Nikita is my nickname I use for the blog, my own Afrikaans poems and poems I translate. Thank you for your consideration.
The Dance of the Rain
Song of the violinist: Jan Konterdans
translated by:Nikita
DIE DANS VAN DIE REËN – Eugene Marais
Lied van die vioolspeler. Jan Konterdans.
Uit die Groot Woestyn
O die dans van ons Suster!
Eers oor die bergtop loer sy skelm,
en haar oge is skaam;
en sy lag saggies.
En van ver af wink sy met die een hand;
haar armbande blink en haar krale skitter;
saggies roep sy.
Sy vertel die winde van die dans
en sy nooi hulle uit, want die werf is wyd en die bruilof groot.
Die grootwild jaag uit die vlakte,
hulle dam op die bulttop,
wyd rek hulle die neusgate
en hulle sluk die wind;
en hulle buk, om haar fyn spore op die sand te sien.
Die kleinvolk diep onder die grond hoor die sleep van haar voete,
en hulle kruip nader en sing saggies:
“Ons Suster! Ons Suster! Jy het gekom! Jy het gekom!”
En haar krale skud,
en haar koperringe blink in die wegraak van die son.
Op haar voorkop is die vuurpluim van die berggier;
sy trap af van die hoogte;
sy sprei die vaalkaros met altwee arms uit;
die asem van die wind raak weg.
O, die dans van ons Suster!
[Uit: Versamelde gedigte – Eugene Marais]
On THIS LINKyou can read more about him and read one of his books online…”The Soul of the White Ant”… a study of termites…
Read HEREon BBC about the death of the rain queen in 2005. She was the sixth rain queen…Makobo Modjadji, the rain queen of the Balobedu people. And…THISis the “valley” of the rain queen.
Rain Queen Modjaji
More about the Rain Queens on this link…..Please click HEREto read more and to see whereabouts the Rain Queen lives!
Visitors to the area always brought Modjadji gifts and tribute, including cattle and their daughters as wives, to appease her so that she would bring rain to their regions. The custom is allied to an emphasis on fertility of the land and the population. The name Lobedu is thought to derive from the practice, referring to the daughters or sisters who were lost to their families. The Rain Queen extends her influence through her wives, because they link her politically to other families or villages. Her status as marrying women does not appear to indicate lesbianism, but rather the queen’s unique ability to control others. During the Mfecane, which took place in the early 19th century, Modjadji moved her tribe further south into the fertile Molototsi Valley, where they founded the present day Kingdom In South Africa they sell these little African dolls and I love them.I want to call this doll my little “rain queen.” Read on THIS LINK about the Balobedu people.
Beautiful song! called the “Rain Dance”.- by Adiemus
This song’s title is also called…”Rain Dance”-by Michael Chapdelaine
Today…15th October 2008…I’ve received this msg from Wayne Visser…(see his poem and site in this entry too….(poem about Africa)…and if you’re interested in his request…then please contact him…he’s looking for people writing poems..but about Africa!
Hello again I thought I’d let you (and your lekker vriende) know that I’ve launched a “Poets of Africa” blog – http://poetsofafrica.blogspot.com/.Just email me on wayne@waynevisser.com and I will give permission for you to post. www.waynevisser.com
Afrikaanse digters welkom! Kwa heri Wayne” Links will open in a new window.
Today…21st March 2008… is World Poetry Day! I do love poems, I love to read poems and I like to write my own too. On my blog at the top you will now find a page saying…”My poems…gedigte”…a few of my own poems…also you will find a couple of English poems which I’ve translated from Afrikaans…beautiful poems…one from a famous writer/poet/scientist/naturalist…Eugene Marais…”The Dance of the Rain..” take a look and enjoy! also one by Totius…his little daughter died after being struck by lightning..in his arms and he wrote a poem about her…very sad poem….or you can read it HERE…the link will open in a new window. You can also read “The Dance of the Rain” on THIS LINK it’s a very powerful/beautiful poem…full of metaphors…and read about Eugene Marais and the Rain Queen…on that link. The link will open in a new window.
enjoy…the Dance of the Rain!..originally in Afrikaans…”Die Dans van die Reën” by Eugene Marais. If you click on the page saying…”My Poems/gedigte”…you will find more of Wayne Visser’s poems also one which he has asked me to translate…and some of my own poems too, also the poem of the girl that was struck by lightning is to be found on that page. – see the top of my blog for the page-link and I’ve translated Wordsworth’s poem (from English to Afrikaans)…I wandered like a lonely cloud…
Image:tploy.com
The Dance of the Rain Song of the violinist: Jan Konterdans
translated by:Nikita
This next poem was written in Afrikaans by Ingrid Jonker and adapted by e.e. cummings…many of her wonderful poems were translated in English and other languages. I love her poems!
Image:johnfenzel.typepad.com Somewhere I have never travelled – Iewers het ek nooit gereis nie
Ingrid Jonker…..adapted by e.e. cummings
+ somewhere I have never travelled,
gladly beyond any experience,
your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
~~~~~
iewers het ek nooit gereis nie daardie groen verte
verby alle herinneringe jou oë dra hul stilte
in jou geringste gebaar is daar iets wat my omsluit
of wat ek nie durf aanraak nie iets te ná
~~~~
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself
as Spring opens(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
~~~~
jou oë van landskappe sal my maklik blootlê
al het ek my hart gesluit soos twee hande
jy ontvou my keer op keer soos die lente
bedrewe en heimlik haar eerste roos
~~~~
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
~~~~
en as jy my sou verlaat geslote dan
sou my voorhoof sluit mooi en onmiddelik
soos die hart van ‘n blom sou droom
van ‘n wit sneeu wat alles oral bedek
~~~~
nothing which we are to perceive in this world
equals the power of intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
~~~~
niks wat ons in hierdie wêreld kan versin
ewenaar die krag van jou broosheid die tekstuur
van jou oë tref my die groen van sy veld
een bevestig die ewige en die vir altyd met elke sug
~~~~
(I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
~~~~
ek weet nie wat dit is wat jou laat vou
en ontvou nie ek verstaan net êrens op my reise
die stem van jou oë is dieper as alle rose
nee nie eens die reën nie het sulke hande On THIS LINK you can read more about Ingrid…a link to Wikipedia…there’s a Youtube-song to watch…Afrikaans song…one of Ingrid’s poems…and there’s another song to listen to! The link will open in a new window.
and….on THIS LINK you can read more about e e cummings…the link will open in a new window. If you’re a teacher THIS SITE is really a great site to use for poetry/literacy…try it- the link will open in a new window.
image:worldgolf.com/images/destinations/africa/southafrica.jpg This next poem is written by Wayne Visser…you can read about him on THIS LINK …the link will open in a new window.
I know a place in Africa…
Inspiring poetry written by Wayne Visser,
a South African currently based in Nottingham, UK.
I know a place in Africa
Where I can feel the sun on my back
And the sand between my barefoot toes
Where I can hear the gulls on the breeze
And the waves crash on the endless shore
I know a place in Africa
Where the mountains touch the skies of blue
And the valleys shelter vines of green
Where the trees spread out a cloth of mauve
And the bushveld wears a coat of beige
I know a place in Africa
Where I can hear the voice of thunder gods
And watch their lightening spears thrown to earth
Where I can breathe the scent of rain clouds
And taste the sweet dew of dusty drops
This is the place of wildness
Of evolution and dinosaurs
Where life began and mankind first stood
Of living fossils and elephants
Where lions roar and springbok herds leap
This is the place of struggle
Of desert plains and thorn trees
Where pathways end and hunters track game
Of horizons and frontiers
Where journeys start and sunsets bleed red
This is the place of freedom
Of exploration and pioneers
Where darkness loomed and light saw us through
Of living legends and miracles
Where daybreak came and hope now shines bright
My heart is at home in Africa
Where the sound of drums beat in my chest
And the songs of time ring in my ears
Where the rainbow mist glows in my eyes
And the smiles of friends make me welcome
My mind is at ease in Africa
Where the people still live close to the soil
And the seasons mark my changing moods
Where the markets hustle with trading
And Creation keeps its own slow time
My soul is at peace in Africa
For her streams bring lifeblood to my veins
And her winds bring healing to my dreams
For when the tale of this land is told
Her destiny and mine are as one
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Africa ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
~~~
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Africa ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
~~~
The child is not dead not at Langa
nor at Nyanga not at Orlando
nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
~~~
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass
Ingrid Jonker March 1960
(Translation of: “Die Kind” ) Poems now owned by Simone Jonker…daughter of Ingrid
On THIS LINK you can see podcast-videos of her poems in both Afrikaans/English…worth visiting! The link will open in a new window.
All links in this post will open in a new window.
I will always like the music of Queen..this song is called..Las Palabras de Amor. Enjoy!
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightfowardingly, without complexeties or pride. So I love you because i know no other way than this…” Pablo Neruda “A kiss is something you cannot give without taking and cannot take without giving.”
“Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know”. William Shakespeare in Twelfth Night (II, iii, 44-45) “Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.” Alexander Smith Enjoy this song by South African singer…Steve Hofmeyr…”You got me”…
And this South African Golden Oldie! Ge Korsten with “Liefling” and liefling means..”darling”…
Enjoy this song…”Fields of Gold” by Eva Cassidy
Enjoy this song by Ilse de Lange: “What does your heart say now?”
Slide down for the article…”Romance in Chess”…
Listen to the poem on this audio file too…by Robert Burns….source:http://www.chivalry.com/cantaria/lyrics/redredrose.html Notes: According to “Scottish Songs Illustrated,” this song is a Robert Burns rewrite of an older street ballad, which is said to have been written by a Lieutenant Henches, as a farewell to his betrothed.
0, my love is like a red, red rose,
that’s newly sprung in June.
0, my love is like a melody,
that’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,
so deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will love thee still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.
And fare the weel, my only love!
And fare the well awhile!
And I will come again, my love.
Tho it were ten thousand mile!
Read on THIS LINK too the poem by Elizabeth Barret Browning…”How do I love thee”…enjoy! One of my favourites!
”How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. Today I’m in a mood to blog about love… What is love? What is your view, we discussed this at work….and we all agreed to the following conclusions…..Is it a sensation..a shared feeling between two people… ..based on physical and emotional attraction.. spontaneously generates when the right person appears. And of course also, it can spontaneously degenerate when the magic “just isn’t there” anymore. You fall in love, and you can fall out of it.
Love is the attachment that results from deeply appreciating another’s goodness. What we value most in ourselves, we must value most in others. God created us to see ourselves as good ….hence our need to either rationalize or regret our wrongdoings….In the Bible He said…after creating us humans… “and that was good”… So, too, we seek goodness in others. Nice looks, an engaging personality, intelligence, and talent may attract you, but goodness is what moves you to love.LOVE IS A CHOICE. Love is active. You can create it. Just focus on the good in another person …..and everyone has some!! If you can do this easily, you’ll love easily.
Love is care, demontrating active concern for the recipient’s life. Love is responsibility. Love is respect, the ability to see a person as he/she is, to be aware of his/her unique individuality. A big part of love is putting another person’s happiness ahead of your own. If you have to “prove” your love to someone, I don’t believe that he/she loves you the way you might think he/she does.When you love another person you don’t ask them to sacrifice a part of themselves in the name of that love. Love is not about jealousy. It is not about conflict. It is not about testing. Love is not about spitefulness. How do you show love to other people? Nobody expect you to “love” all people the way you love your husband/wife, but it is expected from us to “love your neighbour as you love yourself”.
Enjoy the poem: Love Song by T S Eliot
Communication, Communication, and Communication……..on THIS LINK you can read how important communication in a relationship between a married couple is.The link will open in a new window.
T S Eliot On THIS LINK you can read his extract “The Game of Chess”.
Click HEREto read more love poems on my blog.
And…on THIS LINK on my blog….you can read the poem of E A Poe…Annabel Lee…a beautiful love poem. Ben Jonson
T H E F O R E S T . IX. — SONG. — TO CELIA.
Drink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither’d be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
Love Song
I lie here thinking of you:
the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves, smears with saffron horned branched the lean heavily against a smooth purple sky! There is no light only a honey-thick stain that drips from leaf to leaf and limb to limb spoiling the colors of the whole world- you far off there under the wine-red selvage of the west!
~~~William Carlos Williams
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Song to Celia
by Ben Jonson
Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did’st onely breath,
And sent’st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.
Robert Browning
A Woman’s Last Word
Let’s contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!
See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent’s tooth is
Shun the tree—
Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.
Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!
Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.
That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:
Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.
–Robert Browning
Next I have a National Poet of South Africa…A G Visser. He’s written some beautiful love poems in Afrikaans! A.G. Visser en Lettie Conradie.
Hy trou in 1913 met Lettie, oorlede in 1920,
en in 1927 met Marie de Villiers.
Read more about A G Visser here on this link.
Liefdes gedigte: A G Visser Misère
(Triolet) The light that lies
In women’s eyes
Just… lies and lies!
In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink,
Dat die liefde iets is
so beroerd ongestadig?
Dat die hand wat uit gulde
bokale laat drink,
In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink
Dat dit eendag nog edik
en gal weer sal skink,
Ongevoelig meedoënloos,
wreed, ongenadig?
In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink
Dat die liefde iets is
So beroerd ongestandig! http://www.gedichtenbundel.be/testliefdefoto1Eheu fugaces…
Si jeunesse savait.
Si vitesse avait.
Onthou jy nog, Anita lief,
Die aand daar by die strand,
My hart vir jou ’n ope brief,
Jou handjie in my hand?
Die maanlig het die see gesoen,
Die see … die strand, nog heet –
En ons … wat kon ons anders doen?
Kan ons dit ooit vergeet?
Cherie Yvonne, het jy vergeet
Die les in Afrikaans?
Die beste taal het ons geweet,
Die tyd in ou la France.
En aan my hemel onbewolk
Was jy die goue son;
“Toujours l’Amour” was onse tolk;
Onthou jy nog, Yvonne?
Mooi Gretchen, kan jy nog onthou
Ons tyd van soete min?
Die Neckar met sy waters blou,
Jou ogies blou daarin?
Die donkergroene dennewoud
Was liefdes-heiligdom –
Alt Heidelberg, die jeug van goud,
En jy – sal nooit weer kom!
En, bonnie Jean, onthou jy nog
Die eiland van die Swaan?
Ben Lomond en die donker loch
By heldere somermaan?
Aan rosebanke trek ons twee
(Was dit ’n droom – wie weet?)
Wit swane oor die lewensee –
Kan ek dit ooit vergeet?
Maar eenmaal in die lewe kom
Die liefde weergaloos;
En eenmaal in die gaarde blom
Volmaak ’n wonderroos.
Verwelk, helaas, my tuin se prag –
Weg met die donker stroom –
Die wind deurwaai my hof by nag
En vind my met my droom.
O lippe wat nog lag en lonk!
O harte wat nog klop!
Steeds doem gestaltes ewig-jonk
Uit die verlede op.
“Eheu fugaces anni …” sing
Gedagtes wat nou skroei;
Op velde van herinnering
Pers amarante bloei!
Ballade van die roos
’n Ou Spaanse gesegde noem die volgende
drie stadieë in die lewe van ‘n roos:
In die more: rosa pallida.
In die middag: rosa perfecta.
In die aand: rosa incarnada
Waarheen ook my oë mag staar
En waar ook my voete mag gaan,
Geduriglik droom ek van haar;
Haar beeltenis lief lag my aan,
Ek sien – as die sterrelig taan –
’n Roosknop wat stadig ontvou: –
– My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan –
O „Pallida Rosa”, vir jou!
O blomkelk, met skoonheid belaan,
Ek smag op die middag-uur lou
My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan
O „Rosa Perfecta”, na jou!
Ek ken jou nog nie – dit is waar –
Maar êrens moet jy tog bestaan;
Die aandson gloei rooi op die blaar
En ’k voel jy’s g’n ydele waan,
Want rooi sprei die liefde haar vaan!
En donker die oë getrou
– My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan –
O Roos „Incarnada” – van jou!
Was jy ’n rosebloesem
En ek die roos se geur,
Hoe heerlik deur die lewe
Steeds rondom jou te swewe.
Beswymend aan jou boesem,
Betower deur jou kleur.
Was jy ’n rosebloesem
En ek die roos se geur.
Was jy ’n lied se woorde
En ek die melodie.
Hoe sou die dag verheerlik
Jou skoonheid so begeerlik;
Die nag tril van akkoorde
En soetste harmonie.
Was jy ’n lied se woorde,
En ek die melodie.
Was jy die hoogste kranse,
En ek die sonnegloed.
Jou wange sou dan verwe
En op jou lippe sterwe
My eerste moreglanse
En laaste awend-groet;
Was jy die hoogste kranse
En ek die sonnegloed
Maar jy ’s Prinses van Verre
En ek… ’n troebadoer;
Al gloei ook my gesange
Van liefde en verlange,
– Die vuurvlieg vir die sterre –
Wat my ten hemel voer;
Jy bly Prinses van Verre
En ek… ’n troebadoer.
Stille Rivierstroom….Nick Taylor
Die middagson helder en klaar
Sien neer van sy blou hemelbaan;
Die roos sal haar hart openbaar
Aan wie haar geheime verstaan.
Jou huis is waar jou hart is
My hart is leeg geween
Vandat sy verdwyn het
wandel ek oral alleen
Sing oor somer briese
Jou weemoed sleep weer oor
Saammet die lowerstruike
sing my ‘n hemelse koor
Chorus:
Liefde, Liefde’s ‘n stille rivierstroom
wat vloei deur ons woestynland
Droog die rivier weg
dan sal al die klein vissies sterf
Ek stap deur lee strate
Die echo’s maak my seer
My hart is soos my hande
soekend maar bly altyd leeg
Woestyne kan my nie keer nie
Ek baan deur storms my weg
Ek sal die rivier weer terugvind
voor hierdie klein vissie sterf
Chorus
ROMANCE IN CHESS? Romance in chess? ‘What could possibly be less romantic than chess?’ you might be asking. After all, chess is a game of war based on logic, isn’t it? There is nothing romantic about war or logic.
Many players are familiar with the famous quote by Dr. Siegbert Tarrasch from the preface to his classic manual The Game of Chess : ‘Chess, like love, like music, has the power to make men happy’ (which politically correct writers of more recent times change to ‘the power to make people happy’). Less familiar is Tarrasch’s preceding sentence, ‘I have always a slight feeling of pity for the man who has no knowledge of chess, just as I would pity the man who has remained ignorant of love.’
Chess once served a social function of allowing young men and women to meet above the board. Echecs et Féodalité : Raoul de Cambrai (Chess and feudalism; from Culture et curiosités, see the link box in the upper right corner of this article) tells of a poem by Bertolai, a 10th century poet from Laon, France. The poem, about a war of succession in Northern France, references chess twice. In the second reference chess is used as an excuse by the daughter of the new overlord Guerri to woo the hero Bernier to her chambers. Her chamberlain, assigned the task of arranging the meeting, says to Bernier, ‘My young lord, you can be proud of yourself, since the daughter of Guerri, the most noble woman from here to the south of France, asks that you join her in her apartments, to play chess. You should comply, but don’t play chess.’
The significance of this might be lost in our age of instant gratification, but as recently as 100 years ago, chess still occasionally served as a means to a more romantic end.
This popular illustration by Clarence Frederick Underwood (American, 1871-1929), is often listed under various titles. Our favorite is Knight takes Queen. This theme is not as unique as you might think. One web site has a collection of more than 50 drawings and photos, all with the theme ‘Couples playing chess’ (see the link box again). The images invariably have titles like ‘The right move’, ‘The greatest game in the world’, or variations on the word mate : ‘Impending Mate’, ‘Check and mate’, etc. The word ‘checkmate’ even figured in at least one early valentine. ‘My little love do you remember,
Ere we grew so sadly wise,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each others eyes?’
Source: http://chess.about.com/library/weekly/aa05b12.htm
Wow, one chess player on the chess site tells me he’s busy reading this book! E..er…
Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888-1965) was born in St. Louis, Missouri, of an old New England family. He was educated at Harvard and did graduate work in philosophy at the Sorbonne, Harvard, and Merton College, Oxford. He settled in England, where he was for a time a schoolmaster and a bank clerk, and eventually literary editor for the publishing house Faber & Faber, of which he later became a director. He founded and, during the seventeen years of its publication (1922-1939), edited the exclusive and influential literary journal Criterion. In 1927, Eliot became a British citizen and about the same time entered the Anglican Church.
READ HERE more about TS Elliot.
On THIS LINK you will find the entire “Wasteland” by TS Elliot. A Game of Chess by T. S. Eliot
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
“What is that noise?”
The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
Nothing again nothing.
“Do
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot –
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Checkmate…or in short..mate… means…the game is over! You don’t capture the King… the King is in such a position that he can’t move… like some children would say…”he’s stuck”…. The ultimate goal in chess is to checkmate the King…Read HERE more about checkmate!
Enjoy this poem! one of my favourites since High School!
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
It was all for our rightful king We left fair Scotland’s strand; It was all for our rightful king We ever saw Irish land, My dear – We ever saw Irish land.
Now all is done that men can do, And all is done in vain, My love and Native Land farewell, For I must cross the main, My dear – For I must cross the main.
He turned him right and round about Upon the Irish shore, And gave his bridle reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear – And adieu for evermore!
The soldier from the wars returns, The sailor from the main, But I have parted from my love Never to meet again, My dear – Never to meet again.
When day is gone, and night is come, And all folk bound to sleep, I think on him that is far away The live-long night, and weep, My dear – The live-long night, and weep.
In this chess game I played, I had to think carefully how to move my Queen so I don’t cause a stale mate! This is something that can easily happen. I played black.
Henry Steel is South Africa’s Closed Chess Champion 2007. South Africa’s Closed Chess Championship took place during December, just before Christmas! Please click HERE for the results.
Click HERE to play through the games of round 11. This is a good end-position between Klaasen and Op’tHoff in round 11.
On this next image you can see another good end-position of Cawdery and Mabusela’s game in round 11.
I came across Tauriq’s blog…and he seems to be getting very excited about chess events taking place in South Africa, as his blog contains poems about different events! I think it is quite cool! Well done Tauriq! I like it! Here’s one about the Closed Championship…..enjoy!
SA Closed 12 Warriors entered the circle
3 will stay in the cube
The rest must die.
9 tombs will scatter
the terrain of 64 squares
Engraved, the names of sacrifice.
But unlike most wars,
there are no funerals here.
Flowers remain strewn everywhere.
Unlike most battles,prisons have no cells,
dungeons hold no chains.
The blood is spilt in the mind,
And in this cube, only the strong remain.
The Warrior of The Grey Zone
The Guru of Soweto,
The Pretorian Prince,
And a doctor who finds
solutions in the stars,
have gathered.
Aribters stalked the main stage
And the Bard found his way
on a table among trivial manuscripts.
It was a time when the young lions
faced initiation at the hands of the elders
and ragged-toothed, smelt the shores
of Dresden.
The Guru was laid low by a swing of Steel
The Greyzone was silenced into purgatory
A man from Springbok bullied on tops boards,
while luck ran out for the man of Gluck.
Later a Berg of Will departed, forced,
as death spoke of a pawn unpromoted.
Remain the mountain, my friend.
We await with arms open on e8,
humbled as we mourn.
The doctor is yet to return from the atmosphere.
Dresden will shudder
and smile,
when we say,
” A Cube has fallen from the stars
and out of its many values…
…we will finally become understood.”
Click HERE for more chess poetry by Tauriq!
Will South Africans have to steel themselves for the future? Read the article at the bottom of this post and try answering this question!
This Battle took place on 16th December 1838.For some South Africans, like myself, the 16th December will always be a day to “remember”…a day to commemorate….on this day, the Battle of Blood River took place between the Zulu impis of Dingane and the Voortrekkkers. On this picture you can see the Voortrekker laager in a D-shape. That was because of the two rivers that meet there, the Donga – and the Ncome rivers. Sarel Cilliers, a Voortrekker leader and a preacher, had promised God that they will build a church and commemorate this day as a Sabbath day to thank God for helping them. God intervened in this Battle and till 1993, this day was always a public holiday in South Africa to commemorate the events of that day. Today, after 1994, it is now called a day of “Reconciliation”. Read HEREabout it. On the first image you can see information about the two groups and on the Wiki-link, you can even read more…. This is a fantastic site to read more and there are really great pictures to see too…CLICK here to read more and you can even visit other historical sites!
On THIS link there is a time line and you can see all the kings of the Zulu, very interesting reading!
“On December 16th, dawn broke on a clear day, revealing that ” ‘all of Zululand sat there’ ,” said one Trekker eyewitness (Mackenzie 1997:74). On his deathbed 30 years later, Sarel Cilliers recalled that before the battle commenced, the Trekkers had made a vow to God that if He should deliver them, they would build a church and commemorate the day as a Sabbath.”
Read HEREabout the Battle of Blood River between the Voortrekkers and the Zulu impis of Dingane.
From the news front:News24.com 24.com/news/?p=tsa&i=790538 South Africa
2007-12-16 22:13
Johannesburg – Democratic Alliance leader Helen Zille has slammed the singing of Umshini wam (Bring me my machine gun) by delegates at the African National Congress’s 52nd national conference in Polokwane. “What will the world conclude about delegates who sing Bring me my machine gun – and that on the official Day of Reconciliation?” asked Zille.
“The contest for the top job has become a battle for access to perks of various offices and the institutions of state to use against other opponents” she said in a statement.
Zille could understand why ANC president Thabo Mbeki and others lamented this state of affairs.
This next poem is about Blood River…
source: http://365spore.blogspot.com Deur Theo Wassenaar
Die Slag van Bloedrivier
==16 Desember 1838==
Die Ooste gloei. Dit is die dag.
Wat vóór die Ooster-poorte wag
En aarsel om die donker waas,
Waar voor sy oog hang, weg te blaas:
Want o, wat sal sy oog aanskou –
Dan bloed, dan bloed, dan moord en rou?
Maar nee, hy skeur die sluier oop…
Dáár word Suid-Afrika gedoop!
Wat is dit, wat ek ginds gewaar,
Daar langs die donker berge, dáár?
Dit is Dingaan se swarte drom,
Dit is Dingaan! Die Zoeloes kom!
Gryp, Trekker, gryp jou kruit en roer
En staan jou man, jou naam is Boer!
Beskawing moet hier segevier,
Of Afrika is vir die dier!
Hul kom! Hul kom met woede aan,
Soos vuur, in hoë gras geslaan,
Wat, op die wind se vlug gedraag,
Al knett’rend oor die grassaad jaag,
En vir geen pad of vóórbrand stuit;
Die vlamme-arrems gryp vooruit,
Verteer al wat hul beet kan kry,T
ot as alléén nog orig bly.
Hul kom! Hul kom soos aasvoëls aan,
Die wye vlerke oopgeslaan,
En bek en pote rooi gekleur
Van prooi, nog pas uiteengeskeur.
O hoor hoe dreun dit, soos hul kom!
Die woel en wemel rond en om,
Van skildvel, assegai, barbaar!
Van Zoeloes, Zoeloes aan mekaar!
Hul storm! Hul storm! Die swarte drom,
En skreeu en bokspring soos hul kom.
Maar in die Treklaer is dit stil,
Want elke Boer weet wat hy wil:
So oog hou wag; sy hart herhaal
Die vroom gelofte elke maal,
En naas hom staan sy Sanna klaar,
Die kruit en koeëls lê bymekaar.
Hul kom! Hul Kom! . . . maar ry aan ry
Stort neer om daar vir goed te bly.
Die Sannas bulder, die osse brul
En hardloop rond, met angs vervul;
Dit kletter hier, dit knetter daar,
Dit reën asgaaie op die laer.
Hul kom! Hul kom!. . . maar deins weer trug.
Hul kom! . . . maar kom met weifelsug,
Hul kom! . . . maar weifel weer, weifel,
Hul kom! . . . dit was die laaste keer.
Dis moed, wat volhou na begin,V
ertroue is dit, wat oorwin.
Sou vier maal honderd Trekkers dan
Vir twaalf maal duisend Kaffers kan
Verslaan? Aanskou die water maar,
Aanskou die sloot, die vlakte dáár:
Drie duisend lyke daar lê daar rond! . . .
Pretorius alleen is lig gewond.
O hart, wat blydskap het gesmaak,
Wie kan die trotse dag genaak,
Van Afrika’s beskawingsdoop,
En koud bloed deur sy hart laat loop?
Ja, Stem van donker Afrika,
Ons, wat jou naam met eer moes dra,
Ons woon hier op ‘n wêrelddeel,
Ons moes regeer, en is verdeel!
Persone wat aan die Slag van Bloedrivier deelgeneem het/People taking part in this battle
(lys is nie 100% bygewerk nie, maar die volgende persone is reeds geverifieër)
Source: http://www.boerevryheid.co.za/forums/showthread.php?t=11001
Hoofkommandant
Andries Wilhelmus Pretorius
Assistent Hoofkommandant
Karel Pieter Landman
Kommandante
Johannes H de Lange (Hans Dons), Jacobus Potgieter, Pieter Daniel Jacobs, Stephanus Erasmus, Jacobus Uys, Lukas Meyer
Veldkornette
Johannes C Steyn, Gert Viljoen, HA Pretorius, Gert van Staden, Stephanus Lombard, Jan Scheepers, Hermanus Fourie, William Cowie, Casper Labuschagne, Jan Joubert (ook kanonnier en godsdiensleier)
Godsdiensleiers
Charl Cilliers, Jan du Plessis
Kanonniers
Piet Rudolph, Gerhardus Pretorius
Manskappe
Aucamp Piet
Badenhorst H
Badenhorst P
Bantjes Jan Gerritze
Beneke J
Bester Barend
Bester Lourens
Bester Paul Michiel
Bezuidenhout Daniel P
Biedolf
Bierman Isak
Biggar Alexander (kolonel)
Bodes Barend
Bornman Johannes Jurgens
Boshof Jan
Botha Ernst Adriaan Lodewyk
Botha Hendrik
Botha JC
Botha L
Botha PJ
Botha PR
Botha Theunis
Botha TF
Bothma Carel A
Bothma Daniel
Breytenbach Chris
Breytenbach Johannes Jacobus
Breytenbach Jacob Coenraad
Breytenbach Johan Hendrik
Bronkhorst Jacobus
Bronkhorst Johannes Jacobus
Bronkhorst Sam
Bruwer Eduard CD
Bruwer Hans
Bruyn Piet
Buitendag CH
Burger Jacobus J
Buys Piet
Claassens Christiaan
Coetzee J
Coetzer JJ
Coetzer Phillippus Jeremias
Coetzer Thys
Crombrink G
Cronje Abraham
Cronje Piet
Henning Dafel
Jan Dafel
Thomas Richard Dannhauser
De Beer Abraham
De Beer Christiaan M
De Beer C (sr)
De Beer Jan Christiaan
De Beer Johannes A
De Beer Stephanus A (sr)
De Beer Zacharias Jacobus
De Clercq Abraham
De Clercq B
De Clercq C
De Clercq J
De Jager A
De Jager Frederik J
De Jager Izak J
De Jager JW
De Jager Lodewyk
De Lange Adriaan (jr)
De Lange Robert
De Wet Kootjie
De Wet P
De Winnaar S
Dreyer C
Dreyer F
Dreyer I
Du Plessis Francois
Du Plessis Jan
Du Plessis P
Du Plooy Wouter
Du Plooy Hendrik
Du Plooy Willem
Du Preez PD
Dysel F
Engelbrecht Adriaan
Engelbrecht E
Engelbrecht Gerhardus
Engelbrecht H (Jong)
Engelbrecht HH (sr)
Engelbrecht Johannes Hendrik
Enslin Johannes Jacobus
Erasmus Antonie
Erasmus Barend
Erasmus Cornelis
Erasmus Daniel Elardus
Erasmus Hans
Erasmus Jacobus
Erasmus Pieter
Erasmus
Erasmus SE
Esterhuizen Jan
Ferreira Marthinus Stephanus
Fick Hendrik
Fisher Jan
Fourie Christiaan Erns
Fourie Dirk
Fourie Hermanus
Fourie Philip
Geer Carel
Giesing F
Gouws Daniel
Gouws J Marthinus
Gouws Jacob J
Gouws PM
Grove Hermanus
Greyling Jan
Grobbelaar Nicolaas Johannes
Grobbelaar Pieter Schalk
Hammes PJ
Hattingh C
Hattingh F
Hattingh JH (Hans)
Herbst M
Heydenreich Cornelis Frederik
Human PG
Jacobs Gabriel
Jacobs J Daniel
Jacobsz Jan
Hanse Willem
Jordaan Willem
Joubert Abraham Benjamin
Joubert Jan (Jacobus seun)
Joubert Jan (jr)
Joubert Pieter J
Joyce Robert
Kemp G
Kemp Jacobus
Kemp Petrus J
Klaassen P
Klopper Jacobus
Klopper H
Koekemoer C
Koekemoer Marthinus
Kritzinger Lewis
Kruger Jan
Kruger PE
Kruger TJ
Laas Cornelis
Laas Matthys
Labuschagne JP
Labuschagne JH (Jan Groen)
Labuschagne Willem Adriaan
Landman Jan AKP (sr)
Landman Jan (Doringberg)
Leech
Le Roux D
Le Roux Nicolaas
Liebenberg C
Liebenberg C (sr)
Lindeque P
Lombard Hermanus Antonie
Lombard Hans
Lombard S
Lotter J
Ludick MJ
Malan David D
Malan DJJ
Malan Jacob Jacobus
Malan Stephanus
Marcus F
Marais Coenraad
Marais Johannes L
Marais Stephanus Abraham
Mare Wynand Wilhelm
Maritz Pieter, Maritz Salmon Gerhardus
Maritz Stephanus
Martens Hendrik Jacobus
Martens J Thomas (sr)
Martens J Thomas (jr)
Marx Frans
Meintjies Albertus Jacobus
Meintjies Jacobus William
Meintjies Schalk
Mey Christiaan Lodewyk
Meyer Jacob
Meyer Lukas
Meyer Jan
Meyer Theodorus
Mienie Carel Johannes Hendrik
Mienie Jan Willem
Mienie Frederik Christiaan
Mienie Willem
Moolman I
Muller Christiaan
Naude Francois Paulus
Naude Jacob
Naude Philip Jacobus
Neethling Hendrik Ludolf
Neethling Schalk Willie
Neethling Willem
Nel LJ
Nel Theunis Jacobus
Nel Willem Gabriel
Nortje Joachim
Oberholzer Jan Albert
Olivier O
Olivier (Lang) Gert
Oosthuizen JJ (sr)
Oosthuizen Jan
Oosthuizen Marthinus
Opperman C
Opperman D
Parker Edward
Pieterse Frederik
Pieterse Nicolaas
Pieterse HJ
Potgieter Cornelis
Potgieter Evert F
Potgieter Hendrik
Potgieter J
Potgieter Matthys
Potgieter Hendrik Theunis
Potgieter Theodorus
Pretorius AP
Pretorius B
Pretorius Dewald Johannes
Pretorius Gideon
Pretorius MW
Pretorius Nicolaas
Pretorius Piet
Pretorius P (P seun)
Pretorius Samuel
Pretorius WJ
Pretorius Willem H
Prinsloo Jochemis (H seun)
Prinsloo NJ
Prinsloo W
Raads D
Raads G
Raath Philip
Raath Pieter
Raath Roelof
Ranger Simon
Reineke Adam
Retief Jacobus
Roscher P
Robbertse I
Robbertse Jan
Robbertse Matthys
Roets Hendrik
Rood
Roos Cornelis J
Roos G
Roux Dirk
Rudolph Bernard
Rudolph Pieter
Scheepers Coenraad F
Scheepers Gert
Scheepers H
Scheepers Jacobus Johannes
Scheepers Marthinus
Scheepers M (G seun)
Scheepers Stephanus Johannes
Schoeman Gert
Schoeman Johannes
Schutte Jan Harm Thomas
Slabbert G
Smit C (C seun)
Smith F
Snyman Coenraad FW
Snyman JH
Steenkamp Hermanus
Steenkamp Jan Harm
Steenkamp Piet L
Steyn Johannes Christoffel
Steyn Hermanus
Steyn Pieter
Strydom DJ
Strydom Hendrik
Strydom J
Strydom Pieter Gerhardus
Swanepoel Willem
Swart Pieter Johannes
Uys Dirk C
Uys Jan
Uys JJ (jr)
Uys Piet
Van der Berg H
Van der Berg Isak
Van der Merwe Andries
Van der Merwe C
Van der Merwe Christiaan Pieter
Van der Merwe Frederik J
Van der Merwe Jan
Van der Merwe Josias
Van der Merwe Lukas J
Van der Merwe LP
Van der Merwe M
Van der Merwe Willem
Van der Schyff D
Van der Schyff JD
Van Deventer Jan
Van Dyk Joseph
Van Dyk Sybrand
Van Gass Ferdinand P
Van Gass JF
Van Jaarsveld A
Van Loggerenberg H
Van Niekerk Izak Andries
Van Niekerk JAP
Van Niekerk P
Van Rensburg Lucas
Van Rensburg Nicolaas M
Van Rooyen GF
Van Rooyen Gert Reinier
Van Rooyen GT
Van Rooyen I
Van Rooyen Lukas
Van Rooyen Stephanus
Van Schalkwyk Christiaan
Van Schalkwyk Gert
Van Staden Cornelis
Van Staden VC
Van Straten Jacob
Van Venen D
Van Vuren Janse Lukas Gerhardus
Van Vuuren P
Van Zyl Jacobus
Venter A
Venter PA
Venter WD
Vermaak CI
Vermaak J
Viljoen Christoffel
Viljoen Gideon
Viljoen Johan H
Viljoen M
Viljoen Sarel
Visagie Jan Bloedrivier is slegs ‘n week voor Geloftedag (16 Desember 2007) geskryf en gekomponeer. Bloedrivier is vir die eerste keer gesing op 16 Desember 2007 op Bloedrivier. Bloedrivier word op DV 18 Januarie 2008 in ‘n ateljee opgeneem waarna hy in CD formaat beskikbaar sal wees.
In 1838 is God se hulp gevra om die boere in hul nood te steun, te behoed en te bewaar
‘n Monument sal hulle bou en die dag sal heilig bly,
Hul enigste wapen – hul geloof – met die Here aan hul sy …
Die nag was kul en donker, die impi’s staan en wag,
die lampies op die ossewaens soos Mahlozi’s in die nag
‘n Strandwolf sluip daar tussendeur, hy’s onheilspellend daar
Die mis sak toe, die vyand druis, hul wag op die bevel.
In die geslote walaer, in ‘n see van heidendom
is daar ‘n lig wat helder skyn – die lig van Christendom.
Die stemme van ‘n mannekoor weerklink deur digte mis
Psalm agt-en-dertig, stel almal weer gerus.
KOOR
Maar dieselfde God van Bloedrivier is steeds ons God vandag
Hy verstaan ons grootste vrese, Hy staan by ons deur die nag
Kom ons almal vat weer hande, erken sy grote Mag
Want dieselfde God van Bloedrivier is steeds met ons vandag
Twee skote van ‘n dubbel-loop, die stryd het pas begin
Die isilongo kondig aan Dingaan – ons sal oorwin
Maar God ons Vader is met ons, die vyand word verslaan
Die veld drink bloed, soos op Golgota – dit moet ons verstaan
KOOR
Maar dieselfde God van Bloedrivier is steeds ons God vandag
Hy verstaan ons grootste vrese, Hy staan by ons deur die nag
Kom ons almal vat weer hande, erken sy grote Mag
Want dieselfde God van Bloedrivier is steeds met ons vandag
I would like to blog about Edgar Poe…I came across poems and just loved his poetry, in particular, this one about Annabelle Lee….and in the same time, thought to find bits about love, as this poem is about the love for Annabelle Lee…I couldn’t link the site here from where I found these bits about Love I agree with, as there are links to adult sites and it wasn’t appropriate for all to read. It’s been quite a time that I gathered information about Love, as people have different “views”, but I do think most people agree about more or less the same when it comes to love. Feel free to list what you think “love” is! I will make my list with about 10 here…this list could be much longer, as we all know there are so much to say about this topic! Love is….. …..a cup of tea in bed when you’re still sleepy! …..a flower from your own garden… …..the chirping of birds in trees …..a smile saying….”I love you!” …..carrying those heavy bags of whatever! …..massaging tired shoulders! …..getting the bathtub ready! …..showing polite manners…. …..the sunbeam on your face…. …..raindrops splashing about….
Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short story writer, editor, literary critic, and one of the leaders of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the early American practitioners of the short story and a progenitor of detective fiction and crime fiction. He is also credited with contributing to the emergent science fiction genre.[1]Born in Boston, Edgar Poe’s parents died when he was still young and he was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia. Raised there and for a few years in England, Poe grew up in relative wealth, though he was never formally adopted by the Allans. After a short period at the University of Virginia and a brief attempt at a military career, Poe and the Allans parted ways. Poe’s publishing career began humbly with an anonymous collection of poems called Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only “by a Bostonian.” Poe moved to Baltimore to live with blood-relatives and switched his focus from poetry to prose. In July 1835, he became assistant editor of the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond, where he helped increase subscriptions and began developing his own style of literary criticism. That year he also married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year old cousin.Read more about Edgar Poe here…
And on THIS LINKyou will find all his poems and works. How do you define love?
Some say it’s mysterious, magical, complex, difficult, imaginary, thought-provoking, inspirational, intuitional, joyous, immeasurable, ecstasy, and undefinable. Perhaps.
It is important to stand in Love, not fall into it.
Love is waking up to find the object of your affection in the dream you were having asleep on your shoulder.
Could it be that Love is a story that can never be fully expressed?
Love is a bond or connection between two people.
Love is the ability and willingness to allow those you care for to be what they choose for themselves, without any insistence that they satisfy you. – Leo Buscaglia
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. – 1 Corinthians 13:5-7 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I do like this poem!! by Poe…..
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
-The End-
On this link HERE you will find ALL of Edgar Allan Poe’s poems, prose and stories! Also a Biography and even a Resources-link!
As you know, I was tagged by Meghna ….…to do a meme! Read what a meme is….(pronounced like in “dream”)…on a post of 2 days ago……OK, it was REALLYvery difficult to decide WHERE to start first, as my time is now very little after starting an IT course today! So, I had to think quickly what I will post, as there are so MANY things I could write about!!, but to limit it to only SEVEN! That was very difficult….I made a list, crossed out, started with another, crossed out again…and then just started with what jumped to my mind!!I will have to do another one and another and another and another and…..wow….
First of all, I do LOVE teaching, as I see teaching as a CALLING and not just a job…(like I heard some teachers saying that here in London..) for me it is NOT just a job!……..My great grandad left Holland to teach in South Africa and I think the teaching -blood is running through my veins! Click hereto see pictures of the current school. The link will open in a new window. The old school, which was in his very own house, is about 2 km from the current school.
I used to teach Primary and don’t think I ever want to teach Secondary……but if I have to…..It will have to be a subject like ICT only, as I do like IT and to incorporate ICT in any aspect of my teaching.
I love reading, I LOVE books…not just “like” it….I have about a library packed away in South Africa and have slowly started to build one again. Children’s books….adult books…If I’m teaching, you will always find me in a bookshop, leaving with many books! A book as a present to me…and you will make my day! I also like writing stories. During secondary school, I used to get good marks for creative writing…what we also call “composition”….and I was always eager to get homework in composition….I just loved to let my mind flow….one of my favourite books is “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck. Another book by him…”Of mice and men”…read at the bottom of my post about a play…
Poetry!!! On this picture you can see a famous and well-known South African poet…Totius…(pen name) …..J D du Toit….he wrote some fantastic poems, some of them very moving, like the one about the death of his own child, killed by lightning….really an emotional poem! His daughter stood by an open window, when lightning struck and he was there to witness everything…as his poem tells us…read my translated version of his poem at the bottom of the post…
South Africa!!! ……..I love my country to bits! I have a passion for South Africa. South Africa will always be THE place to be!! No other country is as beautiful as South Africa. People who want to differ…they haven’t been there….and if they still do after being there…then they haven’t seen South Africa!!! On this picture you can see Simonstown…Cape Town…Read the blog…anamericaninpretoria.blogspot.com – and you will see why she loves South Africa too. One reason why I LOVE my country and will always do, no matter what!
And…….of course……..if you don’t know it by now…you will NEVER know! CHESS! I never played it at school. During Primary at the age of about 10, my brother taught me…I got my first chess book at the age of 12 from my one sister…..with Fischer/Spasski games in the back….I do like Bobby Fischer’s games…..I played them through as a child as I had no one to play with! No one in my family wanted to play chess…then at Secondary…it was always just BOYS when we were called to play chess…and I felt intimidated by them…no other girls! And the boys…always giving you the “look”…as if they wanna say…”hey…a girl playing chess!! how is that possible!”…I really started to get into chess when at my second school, the Headteacher asked me to start chess…….and I was over the moon! My kids really did well….I left at that school with two teams, each team…. 10 players and two reserves and a lot of Junior children…in South Africa they are Gr1-Gr3 (7-9 year old) kids in line to join the teams later… (If you click on this pic, you will see a good checkmate position, this player’s rating is a bit low, he only started playing quite recently, but has picked-up very quickly and sometimes, I really have to be very careful with my moves! We play friendlies and while playing, I try to help him with the closing of his games, as this is where his problem lies at the moment.)
I like the colour red ….although purple-pinkish is also one of my favourites…This top is a beautiful top!
…CATS!! I’m a catlover! Cats are peaceloving animals! They have personalities of their own and they have their own language to speak to you!! Listen to your cat!! and try to understand its language!!
The poem that follows now, is the one Totius wrote about his child. Read my English Translation further down….and I hope you enjoy it…although it’s a very sad poem!
John Steinbeck may have written “Of Mice and Men” as a novella, but he always had theatrical aspirations for it. After the book launched his literary celebrity in 1937, he turned it into a play, which began a respectable Broadway run later that year, and a critically acclaimed film followed. More stage and screen versions have been attempted, but no matter how good the dramatization, “Of Mice and Men” will always be that slim junior-high classic that (despite the teacher’s harping on foreshadowing) unlocked the gripping power of narrative storytelling…
O die pyn-gedagte
Totius….(JD du Toit)
O Die pyn-gedagte: My kind is dood! . . .
dit brand soos ‘n pyl in my.
Die mense sien daar niks nie van,
en die Here alleen die weet wat ek ly.
Die dae kom en die nagte gaan
die skadu’s word lank en weer kort;
die drywerstem van my werk weerklink,
en ek gaan op my kruisweg voort.
Maar daar skiet aldeur ‘n pyn in my hart,
so, dat my lewe se glans verdwyn;
Jou kind is dood met ‘n vreeslike dood!
En – ek gryp my bors van die pyn.
O Die bliksemgedagte! . . . Ja, lieflingskind,
een straal het jou skone liggaam verskroei,
maar bliksemstrale sonder tal
laat my binneste brand en bloei.
Sy was so teer soos ‘n vlindertjie,
sy’t lugtig omheen geswerf;
‘n asempie wind kon haar vlerkies breek
en – kyk watter dood moes sy sterf!
Hoe weinig die kinders wat so moet sterf,
dis een uit die tienduisend-tal,
en ag, dat dit sy was, en ek moes sien
dat sy dood in my arms val!
O Die pyn-gedagte: My kind is dood! . . .
dit brand soos ‘n pyl in my;
die mense die sien daar niks nie van,
en die Here alleen die weet wat ek ly.
Update…..as I promised…my own translation of the poem!
Oh the painful thought
Oh the painful thought: my child is dead!
It burns like a dart in my flesh…
People don’t see anything….
Only God knows my suffering!
Days come and nights go
Shadows grow tall and short
Behind me, the echo of my work’s moving spirit;
and I… continue my way to the cross
But then, a pain poked through my heart!
so much, the brilliance of my life disappeared;
Your child is dead; died a horrible death!
And I clenched my chest due to the pain…
Oh the thunderbolt-thought!….yes, beloved child!
One flash of lightning scorched your tender body,
but numerous thunderbolts burnt my heart
and left it …. bleeding
She was so tender, like a butterfly …
She glided lightly about;
A breath of wind could damage her tiny wings
and…what a death she died!
Few children die like this
only one in ten-thousand!
and oh!…It’s my little girl..
witnessed by me…. and died in my arms!
Die Vierkleur
DIE VIERKLEUR IS WEER IN GEVAAR . . .
Kom, burgers, trek die perde reg;
Nou vrou en kind goeien – dag geseg!
Jongkêrels, los die nôi se hand;
En seuns, verlaat jul moeders, want
Daar gaan ‘n strydroep deur die land!
Gryp nou die teuels bymekaar –
Die vierkleur is weer in gevaar!
Die regterhand gryp die visier,
Die bors oorkruis ‘n bandolier;
Die spore in die sonskyn blink,
Stiebeuels teen mekaar weerklink,
Die ketel aan die saal rinkink.
Kom, burgers, hou nou bymekaar –
Die vierkleur is weer in gevaar!
Laat aan die trippelaar sy pas,
Maar hou die vuurge hingste vas.
Die agterstes moet ingalop
Tot binne – in die ruiter – trop,
Die ponie en die bossie – kop.
Kom burgers, ry so bymekaar-
Die vierkleur is weer in gevaar!
Trek burgers, almal nou geteld,
Al voort maar deur die wye veld,
En of jul al omlaag verdwyn,
Of op die heuwels weer verskyn –
Wys altyd weer die slingerlyn.
Kom, burgers, trek so bymekaar –
Die vierkleur is in gevaar!
En moet jul val, val dan met eer,
Met die oog die vyand toegekeer;
Val op die grense, man en perd,
Die oue vierkleur is dit wêrd,
En die eerkroon wenk al uit die vert.
Val burgers, val dan bymekaar –
Totuis ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Maar een Suid-Afrika
Gee my ‘n roer in my regterhand,
Gee my ‘n bok wat vlug oor ‘n rand –
En ‘n flukse perd om hom weg te dra:
Gee my Suid-Afrika.
Gee my ‘n kamp waar bossies groei,
Gee my ‘n fraai volstruis wat broei –
En ‘n Boerseun wat baie wa:
Gee my Suid-Afrika.
Gee my ‘n koppie om op te staan,
Gee my die Swartland met al sy graan –
En nooit of te nimmer hoor jy my kla:
Gee my Suid-Afrika.
Gee my ‘n vlakte ruim en wyd,
Gee my die veld se oneindigheid –
En die lekker geur wat die lug daar dra:
Gee my Suid-Afrika.
Uit: Gedigte
A.D. Keet
(1888-1972)
KOMAAN! Woorde: JAN F.E. CELLIERS
Musiek: DIRKIE DE VILLIERS
Wees sterk! Daar’s ‘n nasie te lei,
daar’s ‘n stryd te stry, daar’s werk!
Daar’s nie na guns of eer te kyk,
daar’s nie na links of regs te wyk,
daar’s net te swyg en aan te stryk–Komaan!
Wees trou! Daar’s ‘n volk te leer
om homself te eer, te bou;
om God en God alleen te vrees,
aan aard en taal getrou te wees,
gesond en waar van hart en gees–Komaan!
Wees fier op ‘n voorgeslag waard,
in wil en in daad gespier!
Hul lewensweg het ons gewys
om trou te wees aan waarheidseis.
Wie laak mag laak, wie prys mag prys–Komaan!
Let us not forget today….People who died for our freedom during the wars! People who served during the wars….Remembrance day…11 November, 11 am….
A bit Afrikaans…
*****My gedagtes gaan ook na my eie pa wat in WWII geveg het, hy het skool op ouderdom 16 verlaat om ‘n Bomwerper te wees. Vandag het ek sy log-boek in my besit – omdat ek sy naamgenoot is – waarin al die vlugte opgeteken is, al die bomme wat afgegooi is, waar dit afgegooi is, watter teikens getref is…ens ens. Hy was in Egipte/Italie. Hy’s op ‘n vroeë ouderdom oorlede aan ‘n hartaanval en die dokter het gemeen dis die spanning van die oorlog, want blykbaar het baie soldate – van WWII – op ‘n vroeë ouderdom gesterf deur spannings-verwante probleme wat die nagevolg is van die oorlog-spanning. *****
Image: sparkyteaching.com
Why the Poppy?
Scarlet poppies (popaver rhoeas) grow naturally in conditions of disturbed earth throughout Western Europe. The destruction brought by the Napoleonic wars of the early 19th Century transformed bare land into fields of blood red poppies, growing around the bodies of the fallen soldiers.In late 1914, the fields of Northern France and Flanders were once again ripped open as the First World War raged through Europe’s heart.The significance of the poppy as a lasting memorial symbol to the fallen was realised by the Canadian surgeon John McCrae in his poem In Flanders Fields. The poppy came to represent the immeasurable sacrifice made by his comrades and quickly became a lasting memorial to those who died in the First World War and later conflicts.
Listen to the song…”The Green Fields of France”…and you can download it here: http://olc.spsd.sk.ca/De/resources/remember/links.html …..
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields
By John McCrae 1915
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reply to Flanders Fields Oh! sleep in peace where poppies grow;
The torch your falling hands let go
Was caught by us, again held high,
A beacon light in Flanders sky
That dims the stars to those below.
You are our dead, you held the foe,
And ere the poppies cease to blow,
We’ll prove our faith in you who lie
In Flanders Fields.
Oh! rest in peace, we quickly go
To you who bravely died, and know
In other fields was heard the cry,
For freedom’s cause, of you who lie,
So still asleep where poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.
As in rumbling sound, to and fro,
The lightning flashes, sky aglow,
The mighty hosts appear, and high
Above the din of battle cry,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below,
Are fearless hearts who fight the foe,
And guard the place where poppies grow.
Oh! sleep in peace, all you who lie
In Flanders Fields.
And still the poppies gently blow,
Between the crosses, row on row.
The larks, still bravely soaring high,
Are singing now their lullaby
To you who sleep where poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
– John Mitchell
Poppies, picture by Tom Barret
The most famous Canadian poem was inspired by one of the fiercest battles of the First World War.
During a lull in the battle, Lt.-Col. John McCrae scribbled the 13 lines of In Flanders Field on a scrap of paper, describing the horror he had seen at Ypres and the hope that it would not be forgotten.
McCrae, a tall, boyish 43-year-old member of the Canadian Medical Corps., was an artillery veteran of the Boer War in South Africa. He went to the line in at Ypres on April 22, 1915, the first time the enemy used poison gas.
But the first attack failed and so did the next wave and the next. For 17 days the allies repulsed wave after wave of the attacking enemy.
“One can see the dead lying there on the front field,” McCrae wrote ‘And in places where the enemy threw in an attack, they lie very thick on the slopes of the German trenches.”
McCrae, worked on the bank of the Yser Canal, dressing hundreds of wounded. At times the dead and wounded actually rolled down the bank from above his dugout. Other times, while awaiting the arrival of batches of wounded, he would watch the men at work in the burial plots which were quickly filling up.
Finally, McCrae and his unit were relieved and he wrote home: “We are weary in body and wearier in mind. The general impression in my mind is one of a nightmare”.
In April 1915, his closest friend was killed.
McCrae, who had written poetry since childhood in Guelph, Ont., sat down and distilled his thoughts about the war into his famous poem.
A full life … As well as being poet and author, John McCrae was a teacher and doctor before going overseas to fight the war.
He mailed the hand-written sheet off to Punch magazine in England and it was published in December 1915.
McCrae never returned home from the war. He died of pneumonia in Boulogne, France on January 28, 1918.
Near the town of Mennin, in Flanders, Belgium, they’ve restored as a shrine the battlefield bunker where McCrae wrote his famous poem. In memory of McCrae and other war dead, a bugler plays the Last Post every evening.
Born to a Scottish family that operated woolen and lumber mills, McCrae graduated from Guelph Collegiate with a scholarship to the University of Toronto.
He earned a B.A. and a medical degree at Toronto, did graduate work at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, served as a gunner with Canadian Field Artillery in the Boer War and then moved to Montreal.
This next poem was written by a South African poet about a South African that died at Vlaandere during the war…
Aan die graf van ‘n onbekende Boerseun in Vlaandere
Erens in Vlaanderland het jy die stof
van ou Europa met jou bloed verjong;
maar by jou wrede heengaan kon g’n tong
jou vroom toeprewel: “Stof is jy, tot stof. . .”
Met ragtime-deuntjies in jou kop het jy
uiteindelik jou Golgota gevind. –
0, opdraand was jou skofte, trekkerskind, –
jy kón nie in jou tuiste vatplek kry!
En êrens in ou VIaanderland staan daar
In eensame klein kruisie. – Seun van God!
Moet ons ou volkie aanhou offer tot
ons, soos U Kruis, oor heel die wêreld staar?
Stil, stil, my hart, al kan jy niks meer dra; –
in Vlaand’re rus ‘n seun van Afrika!
JRL Van Bruggen
An American, Miss Moira Michael, read In Flanders’ Fields and wrote a reply entitled We Shall Keep the Faith:
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders’ fields,
Sleep sweet – to rise anew,
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We cherish too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valour led.
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders’ fields.
And now the torch and poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
Other poets of the time were also stirred to write responses to McCrae’s poem.
America’s Answer
Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders’ dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We’ve taken up. And we will keep
True faith with you who lie asleep
With a cross to mark his bed,
In Flanders’ fields.
Fear not that ye have died for naught.
The torch ye threw to us we caught.
Ten million hands will hold it high,
And Freedom’s light shall never die!
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
R.W. Lilliard
Reply to In Flanders’ Fields
In Flanders’ fields the cannons boom,
And fitful flashes light the gloom;
While up above, like eagles, fly
The fierce destroyers of the sky;
With stains the earth wherein you lie
Is redder than the poppy bloom,
In Flanders’ fields.
Sleep on, ye brave! The shrieking shell,
The quaking trench, the startling yell,
The fury of the battle hell
Shall wake you not, for all is well;
Sleep peacefully, for all is well.
Your flaming torch aloft we bear,
With burning heart and oath we swear
To keep the faith, to fight it through,
To crush the foe, or sleep with you,
In Flanders’ fields.
J. A. Armstrong
Reply to Flanders’ Fields
Oh! sleep in peace where poppies grow;
The torch your falling hands let go
Was caught by us, again held high,
A beacon light in Flanders’ sky
That dims the stars to those below.
Your are our dead, you held the foe
And ere the poppies cease to blow,
We’ll prove our faith in you who lie
In Flanders’ fields.
Oh! rest in peace, we quickly go
To you who bravely died, and know
In other fields was heard the cry,
For freedom’s cause, of you who lie,
So still asleep where poppies grow,
In Flanders’ fields.
As in rumbling sound, to and fro,
The lightning flashes, sky aglow,
The mighty hosts appear, and high
Above the din of battle cry,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below,
Are fearless hearts who fight the foe,
And guard the place where poppies grow.
Oh! sleep in peace, all you who lie
In Flanders’ fields.
And still the poppies gently blow,
Between the crosses, row on row.
The larks, still bravely soaring high,
Are singing now their lullaby
To you who sleep where poppies grow
In Flanders’ fields.
When reading this poem about the moth…it reminded me about the poem written by one of our best poets/writers: C J Langenhoven. he also wrote “The Call of South Africa” our National Anthem. (You can listen to it in Afrikaans and English, it is somewhere on my blog…). If you know the Dutch language, or even Flemish, you would be able to follow it in Afrikaans, as Dutch is the “Mother” language of Afrikaans. Read more about Afrikaans HERE…
The moth in this poem basically thought he won’t be so foolish like the other moths. He would stay away from the flame. But, then he narrows his orb and goes faster and faster…..and all that was left…some ashes!
YesterdayI was on my bike in the park close to where we live. While riding around the park, I couldn’t help being touched by all the different colours of Autumn! My best season is Autumn, because of all the changes. So many changes are taking place and I was cross with myself for not having my camera with me, but here’s some photos I took last week.
Autumn days are here again! In autumn when the trees are brown The little leaves come tumbling down They do not make the slightest sound But lie so quietly on the ground Until the wind comes puffing by And blows them off towards the sky. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn. by John Muir
Just my mood…not in a mood to say anything today Wish I could be at these places in South Africa!! Follow the link at the bottom of this post to read more about Ingrid Jonker and her poems and to see a movie-file too…also on my blog.
Ingrid Jonker died by walking into the sea! To: Ingrid Jonker…Poet…A van Heerden
I see her pain,
I hear her voice
No one understood,
on one looked up
She carried a burden,
She carried herself,
She carried alone
~
Through her words,
Through her thoughts,
Through her lines
Through her phrases
She opened her soul
She opened her heart
She cried out
All on deaf ear
Abandoned
alone confused
loved used
abused
She let them.
~
Their acceptance made her accept,
But she died of that,
inside her soul.
She had too much of this world to carry on…
The water was calling
In her own defence
She gave herself
At her own expense…
This poem is in Afrikaans/English….
Somewhere I have never travelled – Iewers het ek nooit gereis nie
Ingrid Jonker…..adapted by e.e. cummings
+
somewhere I have never travelled,
gladly beyond any experience,
your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
~~~~~
iewers het ek nooit gereis nie daardie groen verte
verby alle herinneringe jou oë dra hul stilte
in jou geringste gebaar is daar iets wat my omsluit
of wat ek nie durf aanraak nie iets te ná
~~~~
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself
as Spring opens(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
~~~~
jou oë van landskappe sal my maklik blootlê
al het ek my hart gesluit soos twee hande
jy ontvou my keer op keer soos die lente
bedrewe en heimlik haar eerste roos
~~~~
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
~~~~
en as jy my sou verlaat geslote dan
sou my voorhoof sluit mooi en onmiddelik
soos die hart van ‘n blom sou droom
van ‘n wit sneeu wat alles oral bedek
~~~~
nothing which we are to perceive in this world
equals the power of intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
~~~~
niks wat ons in hierdie wêreld kan versin
ewenaar die krag van jou broosheid die tekstuur
van jou oë tref my die groen van sy veld
een bevestig die ewige en die vir altyd met elke sug
~~~~
(I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
~~~~
ek weet nie wat dit is wat jou laat vou
en ontvou nie ek verstaan net êrens op my reise
die stem van jou oë is dieper as alle rose
nee nie eens die reën nie het sulke hande
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Africa ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Africa ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead not at Langa
nor at Nyanga not at Orlando
nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a passIngrid Jonker March 1960
(Translation of: “Die Kind” ) Poems now owned by Simone Jonker…daughter Read on this link more and there’s a movie file too.
On THIS LINK – also on my blog – you can find more information about Ingrid and watch a short movie about her too. On THIS LINK you can read more about Ingrid Jonker and listen to a song.
BITTERBESSIE DAGBREEK ~~
Ingrid Jonker
Bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
‘n spieël het gebreek
tusen my en hom
Soek ek na die grootpad
om daarlangs te draf
oral draai die paadjies
van sy woorde af
Dennebos herinnering
dennebos vergeet
het ek ook verdwaal
trap ek in my leed
Papegaai-bont eggo
kierang kierang my
totdat ek bedroë
weer die koggel kry
Eggo is geen antwoord
antwoord hy alom
bitterbessie dagbreek
bitterbessie son
TOE MAAR DIE DONKER MAN
(ook gesing deur Laurika Rauch!)
Ingrid Jonker
Op die groen voetpad
van die horison ver
om die aarde skat,
stap ‘n ou man
wat’n oop maan dra in sy hare
Nagtegaal in sy hart
jasmyn gepluk vir sy oop knoopsgat
en ‘n rug gebuk aan sy jare.
Wat maak hy, mammie?
~~
Hy roep die kriekies
Hy roep die swart
stilte wat sing
soos die biesies,
my hart
en die sterre wat klop
tok-tok liefling,
soos die klein toktokkies
in hul fyn-ver kring.
Wat is sy naam, mammie?
~~
Sy naam is Sjuut
Sy naam is Slaap
Meneer Vergeet
uit die land van Vaak
Sy naam is toe maar
hy heet, my lam
Toe maar, die donker man
Muskietejag moes ek op laerskool leer! Dis was regtig ‘n gedig wat ek baie geniet het! Hy het soveel drama wat jy kan insit met die voordra van hierdie gedig! Muskietejag : A D Keet Jou vabond, wag,
ek sal jou kry,
Van jou sal net ‘n bloedkol bly
Hier op my kamermure.
Deur jou vervloekte gonsery,
Deur jou gebyt en plagery
Kon ek nie slaap vir ure.
Mag ek my voorstel,
eer ons skei,
Eer jy die doodslag van my kry –
My naam is van der Merwe.
Muskiet, wees maar nie treurig nie,
Wees ook nie so kieskeurig nie,
Jy moet tog ééndag sterwe.
Verwekker van malaria,
Sing maar jou laaste aria –
Nog een minuut vir grasie.
Al soebat jy nou nòg so lang,
Al sê jy ook: ek is nie bang,
Nooit sien jy weer jou nasie…
Hoe sedig sit hy, O, die kreng!
Sy kinders kan maar kranse breng,
Nóu gaan die vabond sterwe…Pardoef!
Dis mis! Daar gaan hy weer!
Maar dòòd sal hy, sowaar, ek sweer –
My naam is van der Merwe!
Why do we still listen
to the answers given by the daisies
to the wind to the sun
what has become of the little kokkewiets Behind the closed forehead
where perhaps a twig still tumbles
from a drowned springtime
Behind my word killed in action
Behind our divided home
Behind the heart locked against itself
Behind wire fences, camps, locations
Behind the silence where foreign languages
fall like bells at a funeral
Behind our land torn apart sits the green mantis of the veld
and dazed we still hear
small blue Namaqualand daisy
answering something, believing something, knowing something
This poem was written by C Louis Leipoldt, (1880 – 1947) – a South African poet and you can read an English translation here to, translated by Melissa on her blog…it is one of our best poets we’ve had and this poem is one of my favourites too…do read the English one and enjoy it!
WYS MY DIE PLEK
Wys my die plek waar ons saam gestaan het,
Eens, toe jy myne was –
Vroeër, voor jou liefde vir my getaan het,
Vroeër, toe jy myne was.
Kyk, dis dieselfde;
die silwer see
Blink in die sonskyn,
soos lang verlee
Dit eenmaal geblink het,
‘n welkomsgroet
Vir ons liefde wat uithou en alles vergoed.
~~~
Wys my die plek waar ons saam gekniel het,
Eens, toe jy myne was –
Vroeër, toe een siel vir ons saam besiel het,
Vroeër, toe jy myne was.
Kyk, dis dieselfde; die hemel, blou,
Lag soos voorheen op my en op jou;
Dit skitter nog altyd ‘n welkomsgroet
Vir ons liefde wat uithou en alles vergoed.
~~~
Wys my die plek waar ons saam geloop het,
Eens, toe jy myne was –
Vroeër, toe ons harte so veel gehoop het,
Vroeër, toe jy myne was.
Kyk, dis dieselfde! Net jy nie.
Vra,Wie van ons twee moet die meeste dra ?
Jy wat vergeet het – of ek wat boet
Vir my liefde wat uithou en alles vergoed ?
by C. Louis Leipoldt (ca. 1880 – 1947)
SHOW ME THE PLACE
Show me the place where we stood side by side,
Once, when you were mine –
Earlier, before your love for me died,
Earlier, when you were mine.
Look, it’s the same, the silver sea
Shines in the sun’s rays, just like before
It once shined,
a welcoming
For our love that endured and everything enhanced.
~~~
Show me the place where we knelt together,
Once, when you were mine –
Earlier, when one soul possessed us,
Earlier, when you were mine.
Look, it’s the same, the sky, so blue,
Smiles just as before on me and on you,
It continues to shine as a welcoming
For our love that endures and everything enhances.
Update: This is my post from 1 October 2007…It’s the 1st of October and in the top images you can see what Pretoria, the capital city usually looks like during October! On this link – which will open in a new window – you can see more images.
Leipoldt, C. Louis, 1880-1947 Leipoldt is a South African poet, one of the BEST poets…he describes in this poem the month October. He says October is the most beautiful month…for South Africa, that’s the truth of course if you look at my previous entry’s photos!
C. LOUIS LEIPOLDT
Oktobermaand
Viooltjies in die voorhuis, Viooltjies blou en rooi! Viooltjies orals op die veld, En orals, ai, so mooi!
Dit is die maand Oktober, die mooiste, mooiste maand: Dan is die dag so helder, so groen is elke aand, So blou en sonder wolke die hemel heerlik bo, So blomtuin-vol van kleure die asvaal ou Karoo.
Dit is die maand Oktober: die varkblom is in bloei; Oor al die seekoegate is kafferskuil gegroei; Die koppies, kort gelede nog as ‘n klip so kaal, Het nou vir welkomsgroetnis hul mooiste voorgehaal.
Dit is die maand Oktober: die akkerboom is groen; Die bloekoms langs die paaie is almal nuutgeboen; En orals in die tuin rond ruik jy sering en roos, Jasmyn en katjiepiering, lemoen en appelkoos.
Al was die dag soos yster, lank in die vuur gesteek, Die varings in die klofies deur hitte geel verbleek, Tog as die son daaronder agter die berge gaan, Dan word oor heel die wêreld die mooiste geur geslaan.
Dit is die maand Oktober: die kokewiet is uit; Boomsingertjies en kriekies die hoor jy orals fluit; Fiskaal is op die oorlog: daaronder by die sluis, Daar is ‘n dor ou doringboom sy spens en sy kombuis,
Dit is die maand Oktober: ek dink, die mense vier Vir ewig in die hemel Oktobermaand soos hier! Wat wens jy meer as blomme, as helder dag en nag? Wat kan jy beter, mooier, of heerliker verwag?
Ek is nog in Oktober: my tuin is nog so groen, So wit met al wat mooi is, met bloeisels van lemoen, So pragtig in die môre. so heerlik in die aand! Ek is nog in Oktober, die mooiste, mooiste maand!
Wat gee ek om die winter? Wat praat jy nou van Mei? Wat skeel dit, as ons later weer donker dae kry? Ek is nou in Oktober, die mooiste, mooiste maand, Met elke dag so helder, so pragtig elke aand!
Viooltjies in die voorhuis, Viooltjies blou en rooi! Viooltjies orals op die veld, En orals, ai, so mooi!
Read this newspaper clip below – where an Englishman described how kind the Boers were and that everything that was said in England about the Boers, was not true.
From the Boer War Facebook page
From the Boer War Facebook page
Artist: Ron Wilson….
LW: This post gets updated every now and then – more then than now – when I find more resources and information…new information and links will be added at the bottom of this post. Most links will open in a new window. When you see this link icon – you will know there’s a link to follow up. I hope this helps. I apologise and know it must be very confusing. Please check the bottom of this page for most of the links – without this icon. This post was written 12 years ago! I hope that all links will still be active.
Boer War Diary
The following extracts from a diary, of the authenticity of which we have obtained sufficient assurance, illustrate one aspect of the process of “clearing” tracts of the country occupied by the enemy.
Amsterdam, New Scotland, February 14 1901. This morning, about eight o’clock, the cavalry of the enemy entered the town, the infantry following.
Every garden and tree was stripped of everything. All the livestock was taken. General Campbell arrived; he was very abrupt. He said they, the English, had come to give us food and protection.
Mother replied that we were quite satisfied with the food and protection our own people afforded us. Then he said we were to be ready to leave the following day at 10 a.m.
Feb. 15. Worse than ever. The Provost Marshal, Capt. Daniels entered the house and began searching. They took what they wanted – soap, candles, mealies & c. even to white sewing cotton. When mother came in, Capt. Daniels turned to her and said, ‘Those devils of Boers have been sniping at us again, and your two sons among them, I suppose. If I catch them, they will hang.’
Feb. 17. At dawn Capt. Ballantyne said we would be allowed a quarter of an hour to load, and only to take the most necessary things. Beds, clothing, mattresses, chairs, chests & c., odds and ends of all kinds were burnt. Foodstuffs were also taken. At 9 p.m. we out-spanned in a hard rain. It was pitiful to hear the children crying all night in the wet wagons for water and food.
March 5. Annie very sick. Must be the food, as we have only meat, and mealies (corn) when we can pick them.
March 6. Annie very ill all day. A driving misty rain. Oxen with lung sickness are made to pull until they fall down in the yoke to die.
April 19 [in captivity at Volksrust]. Message that Major Watt, Assistant District Commissioner, wanted to see [Mother] at once. Mother, Annie and Polly Coltzer went with the policeman. Major Watt was in a dreadful rage.
‘You are Mrs. Cameron?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are a most dangerous woman, you have been speaking against the British Government. You are an English woman.’ ‘All my sympathies are with the Boers.’ ‘Make a note of that. All the concessions we intended making you will be withdrawn. You will not be allowed to receive any parcels.’
April 25. We received the following: ‘I beg to inform you that you are to proceed to Maritzburg tomorrow by the 11p.m. train. A wagon shall convey your luggage to the station.’
B. R. Cameron, Prisoner of War, May 31 1901. Green Point, Pietermaritzburg, Natal.
“When is a war not a war?” — “When it is carried on by methods of barbarism in South Africa,” referring to those same camps and the policies that created them.
–see my link in this post: “Churchill makes me smile”– for more on this…see bottom of the page for the link.
Image: anglo-boer.co.za
Image: Tararualibrary…Wording on back:
“Boer war 1900 Troops parading prior to their departure.
Site: Cnr Millers Rd and Stanley St Paynes house on the right still there HBF garage on left hand corner”
Above image: HERE on the site of Tararualibrary. The link will open in a new window.
The British controlled government implemented Pass Laws in 1923 paved the way for further restrictions on non-Whites social and political freedoms when Afrikaner-led political parties gained control of the government in 1948 (the birth of Apartheid). This segregation along racial lines has further widened the gap between the White Afrikaans speakers and Coloured Afrikaans speakers…
Source:Diversity South Africa
Since the people were of white European descent, nobody was seriously punished for their part in the war….so…if they were black??
The Boer War shaped the destiny of South Africa and, as Rudyard Kipling remarked, taught the mighty British Empire ‘no end of a lesson’.
It was said to be the last of the ‘gentleman’s wars’, a ‘white man’s war’ and it would be over by Christmas. It was none of these things. The Boer War was brutal, racially explosive and it took the greatest empire in the world nearly three years to beat a Boer army smaller than the population of Brighton.
The Boer War capitulated the world into the 20th Century, prefiguring the worst excesses of modern conflicts: the indiscriminate bombing of civilians, scorched earth, rape, concentration camps. It was a civil war dividing families, communities and races.
It was a bitter conflict between two small Boer nations fighting for their life and freedom and a great empire asserting what it saw as it’s legitimate authority.
I often get people who got directed here – via google – with the search engine term: Boer – well, I would like to suggest you go back to google, put in a search the following: ‘South African farmer[s]‘ – you might like what you’ll see. Good Luck.
THE BOER NATIONS (“boer” is the Dutch word for “farmer”)
Take a community of Dutchmen of the type of those who defended
themselves for fifty years against all the power of Spain at a time
when Spain was the greatest power in the world. Intermix with them a
strain of those inflexible French Huguenots who gave up home and
fortune and left their country for ever at the time of the revocation
of the Edict of Nantes. The product must obviously be one of the most
rugged, virile, unconquerable races ever seen upon earth. Take this
formidable people and train them for seven generations in constant
warfare against savage men and ferocious beasts, in circumstances
under which no weakling could survive, place them so that they acquire
exceptional skill with weapons and in horsemanship, give them a
country which is eminently suited to the tactics of the huntsman, the
marksman, and the rider. Then, finally, put a finer temper upon their
military qualities by a dour fatalistic Old Testament religion and an
ardent and consuming patriotism. Combine all these qualities and all
these impulses in one individual, and you have the modern Boer — the
most formidable antagonist who ever crossed the path of Imperial
Britain. Our military history has largely consisted in our conflicts
with France, but Napoleon and all his veterans have never treated us
so roughly as these hard-bitten farmers with their ancient theology
and their inconveniently modern rifles. See link at the bottom of this page to continue reading… Concentration Camps
In early March 1901 Lord Kitchener decided to break the stalemate that the extremely costly war had settled into. It was costing the British taxpayer 2,5 million pounds a month. He decided to sweep the country bare of everything that can give sustenance to the Boers i.e. cattle, sheep, horses, women and children. This scorched earth policy led to the destruction of about 30000 Boer farmhouses and the partial and complete destruction of more than forty towns.. Thousands of women and children were removed from their homes by force.They had little or no time to remove valuables before the house was burnt down. They were then taken by ox-wagon or in open cattle trucks to the nearest camp.
Conditions in the camps were less than ideal. Tents were overcrowded. Reduced-scale army rations were provided. In fact there were two scales. Meat was not included in the rations issued to women and children whose menfolk were still fighting. There were little or no vegetables, no fresh milk for the babies and children, 3/4 lb of either mealie meal, rice or potatoes, 1 lb of meat twice weekly, I oz of coffee daily, sugar 2 oz daily, and salt 0,5 oz daily (this was for adults and children who had family members on commando).
In the camps – image – photosearch
hmmm….not very nice of them burning down people’s houses, hey… we all know war is war…but…to take away from women and children! That’s really not very humane!
On this next link, you can read extracts from the Parliamentary debates that were going on during the War in the British Parliament…you will see the death numbers too – not sure if that is correct, you know what politics are like…they will of course hide the exact figures as we all know – anyway..children’s deaths are about 10 times more than adults and women were held as prisioners as they were not allowed to leave the camps if they wished too. I’m sure more of the deaths could be prevented if people were not held in the camps. To say they were “fed” is just an excuse! They knew it was the only way to force the Boers to surrender, as the Boers couldn’t let these women and children dying in the camps like sheep on their way to a butcher!
http://www-sul.stanford.edu/depts/ssrg/africa/hansxcv1.html
Concentration Camps
In early March 1901 Lord Kitchener decided to break the stalemate that the extremely costly war had settled into. It was costing the British taxpayer 2,5 million pounds a month. He decided to sweep the country bare of everything that can give sustenance to the Boers i.e. cattle, sheep, horses, women and children. Read more on the link I’ve given you. — What a shame for the Britain! Putting women and children in concentration camps to starve… that’s just as cruel as Hitler’s gass chambers! Killing people in this way when you know you can’t defeat them….And what’s more… Britain has already got more experience in fighting and wars than the South Africans, a small upcoming nation…..Hierdie Engelse sal ook nooit “jammer” se oor wat hulle weet hulle gedoen het nie. Hierdie konsentrasiekampe was vir my net so erg soos die Duitsers met hulle gaskamers! Ek het ‘n boek gekoop by ‘n museum op Lady Smith and daarin lees ook toe die naam raak van ‘n niggie van my ouma wat in ‘n kamp was! As jy die link “great grandad” volg, sal jy verstaan waarom ek so ‘n passie vir die oorlog-geskiedenis het en gedurig weer terugkeer na iets wat daarmee te doen het. Ek sal graag meer kuns en gedigte wil kry om hierdie week te plaas, veral kuns en ek was nogal verbaas om hierdie een van Coetzer te kry. Ek het afgekom op ‘n baie oulike webbladsy van ‘n ou in die USA en ek gaan die link hier plaas, daar is verskillende
Sources: Enslin Vosloo painting…
Ladysmith Town hall image: tokencoins.com/book/boer.htm#zar04
“Duty called the Cordons to South Africa and the plains of the Transvaal to fight the Boers. The Boers were regarded as an easy enemy and naturally would be overcome quickly. Boers were self reliant farmers dressed in civilian khaki suitable for the vast veldt. Most of British Army still favoured red jackets, white pith helmets and Crimean War tactics. Whereas the Boers formed commando groups to move across country swiftly and stealthily living off the land. They were extremely good shots armed with the accurate Mauser rifle and a common cry was Victory through God and the Mauser.”…from the same site as the site where the image comes from…
On THIS LINK you can read more about the War…read these poems too….see more pictures…some very upsetting…the link will open in a new window. C Louis Leipoldt (excerpt)
A poem written by Leipoldt in Afrikaans and it was translated…
You, who are the hope of our people;
You, who our people can barely spare;
You, who should grow up to become a man;
You, who must perform your duty, if you can;
You, who have no part in the war;
You, who should sing and jump for joy –
You must perish in a children’s camp
You must be eliminated for peace:
Fold your hands tight together,
Close your eyes and say amen!
Whooping-cough and consumption, without milk:
bitter for you is the fate of life!
There is your place, at the children’s graves –
Two in one coffin, a wedding couple!
Al you gain is that we will remember:
Our freedom more precious than woman or child!
~~~~~ also the next one…by Leipoldt
In the Concentration Camp
(Aliwal North, 1901) C Louis Leipoldt (excerpt)
You are cringing away from the gusts of the wind
The chill seeping through the hail-torn tent –
Your scanty shield against torturing torrents;
The June chill bursts over the banks of the Vaal –
And all you can hear are the coughs from your child, and the
ceaseless patter of rain on the canvas.
A candle stub, just an inch before death
faintly flickering in a bottle
(a sty offers more comfort and rest)
But here, at night every thought is
a round of torture and tears.
Here, the early-born child flounders
Here, the aged fades away
Here, all you can hear is wailing and sighs
Here, every second is a lifetime of dread;
Every minute leaves scars on your soul, sacrifice without end.
Forgive? Forget? Is it possible to forgive?
The sorrow, the despair demanded so much!
The branding iron painfully left its scar
on our nation, for ages to see, and the wound is too raw –
Too close to our heart and to deep in our souls –
“Patience, o patience, how much can you bear?”
~~~
Leipoldt also wrote heart-breaking verses on a soap box to the memory of children who could at least be buried in this luxury:
Image: http://appiusforum.net/hellkamp.html – where I refer to hellkamp at an image, it refers to this site (update 2019 – site link is dead – don’t bother to visit!) They made you in England, little soap box
To serve as coffin for our children
They found little corpses for you, soap box
And I have witnessed you as coffin
Equally unforgettable is AG Visser’s description of an orphan in the concentration camp in his poem,
The Youngest Burgher:
The camp of women is ruled by silence and darkness
The misery kindly concealed by the night
Here and there a minute light is flickering
Where the Angel of Death is lingering.
In this place of woe and of broken hearts
A young boy’s muffled whimpers quiver through the night
Who can count all the tears, who can measure the grief
of an orphan alone in the world
Later on in the poem De Wet describes the struggle to the escaped child who wishes to join the commando:
Freedom demands from our ranks
Men of courage who taunt mortal danger.
But also in the camp, the mother, the nurturer
And the innocent child on her breast.
And the reward? Perhaps on the plains
A lonesome grave doused by no tears.
Sometime, perhaps, posterity might honour our heroes…
Boy, do you feel up to it? General, I do!
This Afrikaans poem is about a solder that was beheaded…by a bomb.
Die ruiter van Skimmelperdpan
Op die pad wat verdwyn in die Skimmelperdpan,
By ‘n draai in die mond van die kloof,
Het ‘n bom in die oorlog ‘n vlugtende man
Op ‘n perd soos ‘n swaardslag onthoof.
Aan die saalboom krampagtig die hande verstyf,
Met ‘n laaste stuiptrekkende krag,
En die bene geklem soos ‘n skroef om sy lyf,
Op die perd sit die grusame vrag.
Met sy neusgate wyd en die ore op sy nek,
Soos die wind yl verbysterd die dier,
Met die skuim in wit vlokke wat waai uit sy bek,
En gespan soos ‘n draad elke spier;
By die huisie verby waar ‘n vrou staan en kyk …
In die afkopding ken sy haar man …
Met ‘n onaardse geil val sy bleek soos ‘n lyk …
Perd en ruiter verdwyn in die Pan!
Wee die reisiger wat daar onwetend kom skuil
Waar bouvallig die huisie nog staan,
En vreesagtig by wyle ‘n nagdiertjie huil
By die newelige lig van die maan!
Want by middernag waai daar ‘n wind deur die kloof,
Waai en huil soos ‘n kindjie wat kerm,
En dan jaag daar ‘n perd met ‘n man sonder hoof …
Wie dit sien, roep verskrik: “Heer, ontferm!”
Want die vuurvonke spat waar die hoefslae dreun,
En dit vlam uit sy neus en sy oog;
Styf en stram sit die ruiter na vore geleun,
En die bloed uit sy nek spuit ‘n boog;
En dan eensklaps van uit die vervalle gebou
Kom ‘n vreeslike skrikbeeld gevaar,
Al die hare orent – ‘n waansinnige vrou
Met ‘n hande-wringend gebaar:
“Waarom rus jy nie, rus jy nie, Jan van der Meer?
Waarom jaag jy my elke nag op?
Sal daar nimmer ‘n einde kom … altyd maar weer
Die galop … die galop … die galop?!”
Die afgryslike klank – nog gehuil nog gelag –
En die perd met die romp van ‘n man …!
Dis geen plek vir ‘n Christenmens daar in die nag
Langs die pad na die Skimmelperdpan!
A.G. Visser
Uit: Die Purper Iris.
Slagveld – Majuba
So sing die jonges vol van vreugde,
maar ag, oom Gert se hart is seer
as hy straks diep en dieper peinsend
gaan langs die slagveld van weleer.
Dáár lê Majuba, donker kleurig,
sy sye een en al terras;
dis of die berg van alle eeue
vir wonderdaad geskape was.
Daar lê Laingsnek; dis of Gods hande
dit vir ‘n skanswerk uit wou bou.
En daar’s Ingogo’s kronkelbedding—
net om die vyand op te hou.
Daar’s nog die wonderlike hoeke,
net om die vyand vas te keer;
maar ag, oom Gert voel nou so anders,
sy hart is onverklaarbaar seer.
Hy sien nou oral groot kanonne,
hy weet nie of die ding sal gaan.
Die treine voer nou alle soorte
van wapens uit die hoofstad aan.
Daar is hom ook so baie mense,
en baie goed word aangevoer;
voorheen was daar so min maar nodig:
‘n ryperd, biltong en ‘n roer.
Dis nodig, ja, die tyd die vorder,
en daarom swyg hy maar en kyk.
Maar heel die Amajuba-wêreld,
alles wil hom so anders lyk.
Tog leef hy weer, die troue krygsman,
al trek hy nou maar same net:
‘n oorlogsperd die stamp en runnik
wanneer hy hoor die krygstrompet!
Uit Goue Gode…XV : Verse van Totius
C. Louis Leipoldt: DIE KOPERKAPEL Die koperkapel kom uit sy gat
En sluip die randjie rond:
“Dit het gereën; die veld is nat,
En nat is die rooi-geel grond.”
Die meerkat kom, en sy ogies blink,
En hy staan orent en wag.
En die stokou ystervark sê: “Ek dink
Die reën kom weer vannag.”
Maar die geitjie piep: “Dis glad nie reën!
Dis kollerig, swart en rooi:
Kom jy sulke reën in jou lewe teen –
So glad, so styf, so mooi?”
En die wyse steenuil waag sy woord:
“Dis bloed, dis mensebloed!
Dis die lewensbloed wat hierdie oord
Se bossie-wortels voed!”
Wittekind in die Konsentrasiekamp
(Aliwal Noord, 1901) O, pazienza, pazienza che tanto sostieni! Dante. Jou oê is nat met die trane van gister; Jou siel is gemartel, deur smarte gepla; Van vrede en pret was jy vroër ‘n verkwister; En nou, wat bly oor van jou rykdomme? Ja, ‘n Spreekwoord tot steun–daar’s geen trooswoord beslister: “Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan dra! Hier sit jy te koes teen die wind, wat daar suie Yskoud deur die tentseil, geskeur deur die hael– Jou enigste skuil in die nag teen die buie; Die Junielug stort oor die stroom van die Vaal– Jy hoor net die hoes van jou kind, en die luie Gedrup van die reendruppeltjies oor die paal. ‘n Kers, nog maar anderhalf duim, voor hy sterwe, Brand dof in ‘n bottel hier vlak naas jou bed. (‘n Kafhuis gee makliker rus: op die gerwe Daar lê ‘n mens sag, en sy slaap is gered!) En hier in die nag laat jou drome jou swerwe ‘n Aaklige rondte met trane besmet. Hier struikel die kind, wat te vroeg was gebore; Hier sterwe die oumens, te swak vir die stryd; Hier kom ‘n gekerm en gekreun in jou ore; Hier tel jy met angs elke tik van die tyd; Want elke sekond van die smart laat sy spore Gedruk op jou hart, deur ‘n offer gewyd. En deur elke skeur in die seil kan jy duister Die wolke bespeur oor die hemel verbrei; Geen ster skyn as gids; na geen stem kan jy luister– (Eentonig die hoes van jou kind aan jou sy!) Wat sag deur die wind in jou ore kom fluister: “Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan ly! Vergewe? Vergeet? Is dit maklik vergewe? Die smarte, die angs, het so baie gepla! Die yster het gloeiend ‘n merk vir die eeue Gebrand op ons volk, en die wond is te na, Te na aan ons hart en te diep in ons lewe– “Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan dra!” Uit: Oom Gert Vertel en Ander Gedigte, C. Louis Leipoldt, Uitg. Mij. v/h. J. Dusseau & Co, Kaapstad 1921
Images..:south-africa-tours-and-travel.com
Read on THIS LINK about Jan Smuts. The link will open in a new window.
The title of a painting,” said Marcel Duchamp, “is another colour on the artist’s palette.” He also talked of treating the title “like an invisible colour”. Duchamp’s remarks were part of his ongoing argument with the art of painting…………………………….
The painting shows – well, what it obviously doesn’t show is the Boer War, or any individual episode from Britain’s Imperial war in South Africa, which had ended the year before this picture was painted. But the likely link between words and image isn’t hard to find. A lone woman stands by a stream at the bottom of a field or garden. She was the fiance or wife or sister of a man killed in the war. She’s lately heard the news, and gone off on her own. Or she’s been in mourning some time, but the place – this is where they used to walk, and never will again – calls out a sudden pang of memory and grief.
The Boer War is her back story, then, her motivation, the reason for her state of mind. It is the content of her invisible thought bubble. It is, in a sense, a perfectly straight descriptive title for this picture. For how do you show the Boer War except by depicting scenes from the war? And why shouldn’t those scenes include, not only battlefields and sieges, but also the scenes of bereavement and desolation that were the immediate consequence back home?
Read the complete article… HERE …. This next poem was written by Totius and it’s about the Afrikaner nation/Afrikaans that was stepped upon/damaged by the English and his message in this poem for the Afrikaner nation/Afrikaans is: “you’re strong, you will get up again, you will be a strong nation again and you should forgive what was done to you. The scars will be there, but you should grow to be strong again.”… a very deep poem… Vergewe en vergeet
Daar het ‘n doringboompie
vlak by die pad gestaan,
waar lange ossespanne
met sware vragte gaan.
En eendag kom daarlanges
‘n ossewa verby,
wat met sy sware wiele
dwars-oor die boompie ry.
“Jy het mos, doringstruikie,
my ander dag gekrap;
en daarom het my wiele
jou kroontjie platgetrap.”
Die ossewa verdwyn weer
agter ‘n heuweltop,
en langsaam buig die boompie
sy stammetjie weer op.
Sy skoonheid was geskonde;
sy bassies was geskeur;
op een plek was die stammetjie
so amper middeldeur.
Maar tog het daardie boompie
weer stadig reggekom,
want oor sy wonde druppel
die salf van eie gom.
Ook het die loop van jare
die wonde weggewis –
net een plek byl ‘n teken
wat onuitwisbaar is. Die wonde word gesond weer
as jare kom en gaan,
maar daardie merk word groter
en groei maar aldeur aan.
Totius The Concentration Camps
1. Introduction The concentration camps in which Britain killed 27,000 Boer women and children (24,000) during the Second War of Independence (1899 – 1902) today still have far-reaching effects on the existence of the Boerevolk. This holocaust once more enjoyed close scrutiny during the visit of the queen of England to South Africa, when ten organizations promoting the independence of the Boer Republics, presented her with a message, demanding that England redress the wrongs committed against the Boerevolk.
Women and children in the camps – image:hellkamp
2. Background The Second War of Independence was fought from 1899 to 1902 when England laid her hands on the mineral riches of the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek (Transvaal) under the false pretence of protecting the rights of the foreigners who swarmed to the Transvaal gold fields. On the battlefield England failed to get the better of the Boers, and decided to stoop to a full-scale war against the Boer women and children, employing a holocaust to force the burghers to surrender. 3. Course of the holocaust 3.1. The war against women and children begins Under the command of Kitchener, Milner and Roberts, more than homesteads and farms belonging to Boer people were plundered and burned down. Animals belonging to the Boers were killed in the cruellest ways possible while the women, whose men were on the battlefield, had to watch helplessly.
Leaving sheep to rotten – image: hellkamp
The motive behind this action was the destruction of the farms in order to prevent the fighting burghers from obtaining food, and to demoralize the Boers by leaving their women and children homeless on the open veld.
Before the blast – images:hellkamp
The Blast
After the blast
Destroyed for king and country
However, England misjudged the steel of the Boer people. Despite their desperate circumstances, the women and children managed to survive fairly well in the open and their men continued their fight against the invader.
Women and children on the run…away from the English
More severe measures had to be taken. The English hoarded the Boer women and children into open cattle trucks or drove them on foot to concentration camps.
3.2. False pretences
To the world England pretended to act very humanely by caring for the fighting Boers’ women and children in “refugee camps”. An English school textbook published in 1914 in Johannesburg, but printed in England, Historical Geography: South Africa, by JR Fisher, makes the following claim:
“During the later stages of the war, the relations, women and
children, of those Boers still in the field, were fed and cared
for at the expense of Great Britain, a method of procedure which,
though humane, postponed the end of the war, at the expense of
many valuable lives and much money.”
This statement is contradicted by various sources. The Cape Argus of 21 June 1900 clearly states that the destitution of these women and children was the result of the English’s plundering of farms: “Within 10 miles we (the English) burned not less than six farm homesteads. Between 30 and 40 homesteads were burned and totally destroyed between Bloemfontein and Boshoff. Many others were also burned down. With their houses destroyed, the women and children were left in the bitter South African winter in the open.” The British history text book says nothing about this.
Awfully generous of the English to care for those whose houses they destroyed!
Breytenbach writes in Danie Theron: “The destruction was undertaken in a diabolic way and even Mrs Prinsloo, a 22 year old lady who gave birth to a baby only 24 hours ago in the house of Van Niekerk, was not spared. A group of rude tommies (British soldiers), amongst whom a so-called English doctor, forced their way into her room, and after making a pretence of examining her, they drove her out of the house. With the aid of her sister, she managed to don a few articles of clothing and left the house. Her mother brought a blanket to protect her against the cold. The soldiers robustly jerked the blanket out of her mother’s hands and after having looted whatever they wanted to, put the house to fire. Afterwards the old man was driven on foot to Kroonstad by mounted kakies (British soldiers), while his wife and daughter (Mrs Prinsloo) were left destitute on the scorched farm.”
England’s claim of caring for the Boer women reminds one of somebody who boasts to have saved the life of someone he himself has pushed into the water. However, there is one vital difference: The holocaust on the Boer women and children began in all earnest once they had been forced into the concentration camps under the “care” of the British!
Family at the beginning – newly arrived with tea and bread (Nasty English Propaganda)
Despite the English claims that the concentration camps were “voluntary refugee camps” the following questions must be asked:
– From whom did the refugees flee? Certainly not from their own husbands and sons!
– How can the fact that the “voluntary” women and children had to be dragged to the concentration camps by force be explained?
– Why should the “voluntary refugee camps” be enclosed by barbed wire fences and the inmates be overseen by armed wardens? Kimberley camp had a five meter high barbed wire fence and some camps even had two or three fences!
– Why would one of the camp commanders make the following statement quoted by Emily Hobhouse: “The wardens were under orders not to interfere with the inmates, unless they should try to escape.”? What kind of “voluntary refugee” would want to escape?
Perhaps the words of the Welsh William Redmond are closer to the truth: “The way in which these wretched, unfortunate and poor women and children are treated in South Africa is barbarous, outrageous, scandalous and disgraceful.”
3.3. Planning for death
The English claim of decent actions towards the Boer women and children are further contradicted by the location of the concentration camps. The military authorities, who often had to plan and erect camps for their soldiers, would certainly have been well aware of the essential requirements for such camps. Yet the concentration camps were established in the most unsuitable locations possible.
Boer-family in the camps
At Standerton the camp was erected on both banks of the Vaal River. It was on the Highveld, which ensured that it was extremely cold in winter and infested with mosquitoes in summer. The fact that Standerton had turf soil and a high rainfall, ensured that the camp was one big mud bath in summer, even inside the tents.
The same circumstances were experienced in camps such as Brandfort, Springfontein and Orange River. At Pretoria, the Irene Camp was located at the chilly southern side of the town, while the northern side had a much more favourable climate. Balmoral, Middelburg and other camps were also located on the south-eastern hangs of the hills to ensure that the inhabitants were exposed to the icy south easterly winds.
Merebank camp was located in a swamp where there was an abundance of various kinds of insects. Water oozed out of the ground, ensuring that everything was constantly wet and slimy.
By October 1900 there were already 58 883 people in concentration camps in Transvaal and 45 306 in the Free State.
The amenities in the camps were clearly planned to kill as many of the women and children as possible. They were accommodated in tattered reject tents which offered no protection against the elements.
Emily Hobhouse, the Cornish lady who campaigned for better conditions for the Boer women, wrote: “Throughout the night there was a downpour. Puddles of water were everywhere. They tried to get themselves and their possessions dry on the soaked ground.”
(Hobhouse: Brunt of the War, page 169.)
Dr Kendal Franks reports on the Irene Camp: “In one of the tents there were three families; parents and children, a total of 14 people and all were suffering from measles.”
In Springfontein camp, 19 to 20 people where crammed into one tent.
There were neither beds nor mattresses and nearly the whole camp population had to sleep on the bare ground, which was damp most of the time.
One person wrote the following plea for aid to the New York Herald: “In the name of small children who have to sleep in open tents without fire, with barely any clothes, I plea for help.”
According to a British journalist, WT Stead, the concentration camps were nothing more than a cruel torture machine. He writes: “Every one of these children who died as a result of the halving of their rations, thereby exerting pressure onto their family still on the battle-field, was purposefully murdered. The system of half rations stands exposed and stark and unshamefully as a cold-blooded deed of state policy employed with the purpose of ensuring the surrender of people whom we were not able to defeat on the battlefield.”
3.4. Let them die of hunger
The detainees received no fruit or vegetables; not even milk for the babies.
The meat and flour issued were crawling with maggots. Emily Hobhouse writes: “I have in my possession coffee and sugar which were described as follows by a London analyst: In the case of the first, 66% imitation, and in the case of the second, sweepings from a warehouse.”
In her book, Met die Boere in die Veld (With the Boers in the field), Sara Raal states that “there were poisonous sulphate of copper, grounded glass, fishhooks, and razor blades in the rations.” The evidence given on this fact is so overwhelming that it must be regarded as a historical fact.
3.5. No hygiene
The outbreak of disease and epidemics in the camps were further promoted by, inter alia, the lack of sanitary conveniences. Bloemfontein camp had only 13 toilets for more than 3 500 people. Aliwal North camp had one toilet for every 170 people.
A British physician, Dr Henry Becker, writes: “First, they chose an ill-suited site for the camp. Then they supplied so little water that the people could neither wash themselves nor their clothes. Furthermore, they made no provision for sufficient waste removal. And lastly, they did not provide enough toilets for the overpopulation they had crammed into the camps.”
A report on a Ladies’ Committee’s visit to Bloemfontein camp stated: “They saw how the women tried to wash clothes in small puddles of water and sometimes had to use the water more than once.”
3.6. Hospitals of homicide
Ill and healthy people were crammed together into unventilated areas conducive to the spreading of disease and epidemics. At first there were no medical amenities whatsoever in the camps.
Foodline
Later doctors were appointed, but too few. In Johannesburg there was one doctor for every 4 000 afflicted patients.
A report on the Irene camp states that, out of a population of 1325 detainees, 154 were ill and 20 had died during the previous week. Still this camp had only one doctor and no hospital.
In some camps matters were even worse. The large Bloemfontein camp did not have a single doctor; only one nurse who could not possibly cope with the conditions. During a visit to Norvalspont camp Emily Hobhouse could not even find a trained nurse.
The later appointment of medical personnel did not improve the conditions. They were appointed for their loyalty towards the British invasion; not for their medical capability. They maltreated the Boere.
Emily Hobhouse tells the story of the young Lizzie van Zyl who died in the Bloemfontein concentration camp: “She was a frail, weak little child in desperate need of good care. Yet, because her mother was one of the ‘undesirables’ due to the fact that her father neither surrendered nor betrayed his people, Lizzie was placed on the lowest rations and so perished with hunger that, after a month in the camp, she was transferred to the new small hospital. Here she was treated harshly. The English disposed doctor and his nurses did not understand her language and, as she could not speak English, labeled her an idiot although she was mentally fit and normal. One day she dejectedly started calling: Mother! Mother! I want to go to my mother! One Mrs Botha walked over to her to console her. She was just telling the child that she would soon see her mother again, when she was brusquely interrupted by one of the nurses who told her not to interfere with the child as she was a nuisance.” Shortly afterwards, Lizzie van Zyl died.
Treu, a medical assistant in the Johannesburg concentration camp, stated that patients were bullied and even lashed with a strap.
Ill people who were taken to the camp hospitals were as good as dead. One woman declared: “We fear the hospitals more than death.”
The following two reports should give an idea of the inefficiency of the camp hospitals: “Often people suffering from a minor ailment were violently removed from the tents of protesting mothers or family members to be taken to hospital. After a few days they were more often than not carried to the grave.”
“Should a child leave the hospital alive, it was simply a miracle.”
(Both quotations from Stemme uit die Verlede – a collection of sworn statements by women who were detained in the concentration camps during the Second War of Independence.)
3.7. The highest sacrifice
In total 27 000 women and children made the highest sacrifice in the British hell camps during the struggle for the freedom of the Boerevolk.
Mrs Helen Harris, who paid a visit to the Potchefstroom concentration camp, stated: “Imagine a one year old baby who receives no milk; who has to drink water or coffee – there is no doubt that this is the cause of the poor health of the children.”
Should one take note of the fact that it were the English who killed the Boers’ cattle with bayonets, thereby depriving the children of their food sources, then the high fatality rate does not seem to be incidental.
Despite shocking fatality figures in the concentration camps, the English did nothing to improve the situation, and the English public remained deaf to the lamentations in the concentration camps as thousands of people, especially children, were carried to their graves.
The Welshman, Lloyd George, stated: “The fatality rate of our soldiers on the battlefields, who were exposed to all the risks of war, was 52 per thousand per year, while the fatalities of women and children in the camps were 450 per thousand per year. We have no right to put women and children into such a position.”
An Irishman, Dillon, said: “I can produce and endless succession of confirmations that the conditions in most of the camps are appalling and brutal. To my opinion the fatality rate is nothing less than cold-blooded murder.”
One European had the following comment on England’s conduct with the concentration camps: “Great Britain cannot win her battles without resorting to the despicable cowardice of the most loathsome cure on earth – the act of striking at a brave man’s heart through his wife’s honor and his child’s life.”
The barbarisms of the English is strongly evidenced by the way in which they unceremoniously threw the corpses of children in heaps on mule carts to be transported to the cemeteries. The mourning mothers had to follow on foot. Due to illness or fatigue many of them could not follow fast enough and had to miss the funerals of their children.
According to PF Bruwer, author of Vir Volk en Vryheid, all the facts point out that the concentration camps, also known as the hell camps, were a calculated and deliberate effort by England to commit a holocaust on the Boerevolk
4. Consequences
4.1. “Peace”
As a direct result of the concentration camps, the “Peace Treaty” of Vereeniging was signed, according to which the Boer Republics came under British rule.
4.2. Called up by the enemy
It is a bitter irony that during World War I England laid claim to the same boys who survived the concentration camps to fight against Germany, which was well-disposed towards the Boerevolk.
Thereby they had to lay their lives upon the line for the second time to the benefit of England.
Kroniek van die Kampkinders (Chronicle of the camp children) by HS van Blerk describes how, after World War I, this generation were, in addition, kept out of the labor force and how they were impoverished – all simply because they were Boers.
4.3. Immortalised in our literature
In this modern world it seems as if few people realize the hardships our forefathers had to endure in order to lose our freedom only without forfeiting the honor of our people.
Therefore, it is proper to look at the reflection of the concentration camps in our literature, where the nobility of our forefathers is immortalized.
4.4. We may not forget
In total there were 31 concentration camps. In most cases, the adjoining cemeteries are in still in existence and are visited as often as possible by Boer people to mentally condition themselves to continue their struggle towards freedom.
There were concentration camps at: Irene, Barberton, Volksrust, Belfast, Klerksdorp, Pietersburg, Potchefstroom, Vereeniging, Turffontein, Balmoral, Nylstroom, Standerton, Heilbron, Kimberley, Bloemfontein, Middelburg, Kroonstad, Heidelberg, Krugersdorp, Vryburg, Vredefort, Brandfort, Springfontein, Bethulie, Norvalspont, Port Elizabeth, Aliwal North, Merebank, Pinetown, Howick and Pietermaritzburg.
4.5. Pillars of support
Amidst all the misery brought upon our people by the English, there were pillars of support: firstly the certainty that our cause was just and fair and based upon faith. However, there also were people who made major sacrifices in an effort to ease the burden of Boer women and children.
No study of the concentration camps could possibly be complete without mention of the name of Emily Hobhouse. This Cornish lady was a symbol of light and decency for Boer women and children.
Emily Hobhouse did everything within her power to assist the women and children. As a result of her efforts to persuade the invaders towards an attitude of humanity and reason, she was banned from South Africa by the British authorities.
However, the Boerevolk remains grateful towards Emily Hobhouse for her efforts and her remains are resting in a place of honor under the Women’s Monument in Bloemfontein.
Other people who spoke out against the barbaric methods of England were: J Ellis (Irish), Lloyd George (Welsh), CP Scott (Scottish), William Redmond (Welsh) and Ramsey McDonald (Scottish).
5. Effects
Today, the numbers of the Boerevolk are at least 3 million less that it would have been, had the English not committed genocide on the Boerevolk. This robs our people of our right to self-determination in the new so-called democratic system. (In truth, democracy means government by the people and not government by the rabble as is presently the case in South Africa.”)
The holocaust, together with treason committed by Afrikaners (take note: not Boere) such as Jan Smuts and Louis Botha, forced the Boerevolk to sign the peace accord of Vereeniging which deprived our volk of its freedom.
The alien and inferior British culture was forced onto our people.
The various indigenous peoples of South Africa were insensitively bundled into one Union without giving a thought to their respective identities and right to self-determination.
As in the case of the Boerevolk, the local black nations were effectively robbed of their freedom, which gave rise to the establishment of the ANC in 1912 (two years after the foundation of the Union) to struggle for black nationalism.
The British system of apartheid, which they applied all over the world (for instance also in India, Australia and New-Zealand), had to be imported to control the mixed population. The first manifestation of this were signs reading “Europeans” and “Non-Europeans”. No Boer ever regarded himself as a “European”. Apartheid invoked racial friction and even racial hatred which has in no means abated to this very day, and the bitter irony is that the Boerevolk, who had not been in power since 1902 and who also suffered severely under apartheid in the sense that apartheid robbed them of their land and their work-ethics, are being blamed for apartheid today.
England’s pretence for the invasion was the rights of the foreign miners. Yet after the war, these very same miners were treated so badly by their English and Jewish bosses that they had to resort to general strikes in 1913 and 1922 (3 and 12 years after the establishment of the British ruled Union), during which many mine-workers were shot dead in the streets of Johannesburg by the British disposed Union government. So much for the rights of the foreign miners under English rule.
The efficient and equitable republican system of government of the Boer Republics was replaced with the unworkable Westminster system of government, which led to endless misery and conflict. 6. Summation
The concentration camps were a calculated and intentional holocaust committed on the Boerevolk by England with the aim of annihilating the Boerevolk and reeling in the Boer Republics.
Comparing the killing of Jews during World War 2, proportionately fewer Jews were killed than Boer women and children during the Second War of Independence.
Yet, after World War 2, England mercilessly insisted on a frantic retribution campaign against the whole German nation for the purported Jewish holocaust. To this day, Germany is being forced to pay annual compensation to the Jews, which means that Germans who were not even born at the time of World War 2, still have to suffer today for alleged atrocities committed by the Germans. Should England subject herself to the same principles applied to Germany, then England must do everything within her power to reinstitute the Boer republics and to pay annual compensation to the Boerevolk for the atrocities committed against the Boerevolk.
“Their only crime was that they stood between England and the gold of Transvaal.”
Sources
http://www.boer.co.za/boerwar/hellkamp.htm
Message of Vryheidsaksie Boererepublieke to the queen of England.
Mediadienste. –1995–P 1 – 7.
Suid-Afrikaanse en Algemene Geskiedenis vir Senior Matriek, (Tweede Uitgawe) by BG Lindeque. Juta —1948– Pp 235, 239, 240, 249 – 258, 268 – 272.
Juta se Nuwe Geskiedenisleesboeke vir primêre Skole, Standerd IV by Alice Jenner. Juta. (Date of publication unknown) Pp 41, 42, 49 – 54.
Russia and the Anglo-Boer War 1899 – 1902 by Elisaveta Kandyba- Foxcroft. CUM Roodepoort. –1981– P 254.
Vir Volk en Vryheid by PF Bruwer. Oranjewerkers Promosies. –1988– Pp 346, 348, 407, 411 – 413, 416 – 455.
Die Laaste Veldslag by Franz Conradie. Daan Retief Publishers. —1981—Pp 62, 77, 78, 83, 123 – 126, 129 – 132.
Historical Geography of South Africa. Special edition for Standard III of South African Schools edited by F Handel Thompson. Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, Hodder & Stoughton, Warwick Square EC. –1914– Pp 160, 165, 167 – 168.
Gewapende Protes by PG Hendriks. Oranjewerkers Promosies. –1988–Pp 8, 11, 12, 21, 24, 27, 29, 30, 46, 53 – 62, 94, 95.
Kroniek van die Kampkinders by HS van Blerk. Oranjewerkers Promosies. –1989– Pp 35 – 38, 49, 65 – 67, 70, 74, 75, 152.
From Van Riebeeck to Vorster 1652 – 1974. An Introduction to the History of the Republic of South Africa by FA van Jaarsveld.Perskor.—1975—Pp 197, 199, 202 – 205, 209, 217 – 220, 253.
Vyftig Gedigte van C Louis Leipoldt, ‘n keur deur WEG Louw. Tafelberg Publishers. (First edition 1946–Pp 19 – 23.
Gedigte by AG Visser (third print). JL van Schaik. –1928– Pp 57 -61.
Family narrations as recounted since the Second War of Independence from generation to generation. (Author’s great-great-grandmother was detained and tortured in the concentration camp at Heilbron.) Source …….. http://appiusforum.net/hellkamp.html[if the link doesn’t open on this link, type “hellkamp.html” in after the main url and you will find the actual link of the Source]
Recently a kind lady from Louisiana mailed me a copy of the “History of the Boers in South Africa,” written in 1887 by a Canadian missionary with no political axe to grind: namely George McCall Theal.
It contains a map showing the territories which were being farmed by the Boers: from the Olifants/Limpopo rivers in the north to below the Orange River in the South (Colesburg).
It shows the names of the towns they had started wihich carried names such as Lydenburg, ( Place of Suffering) Vryheid, ( Place of Freedom) Pietermaritzburg, (named after the famous Voortrekker leader) Pilippolis and Bethulie, (named after their beloved Bible) and Potchefstroom, Rustenburg, Winburg and Bloemfontein… as they Trekked, the Boers named the map of South Africa, and many of its vegetation and wildlife as well.
All these Boer names are now being wiped off the map of South Africa in one fell swoop by the ANC-regime — even though the Boers’ official history had ended in 1902, long before the elitist-Afrikaners who ran the secret Afrikaner Broederbond cabal had started apartheid in 1948.
Yet this is not the first time that the Boers are facing such an ethnic cleansing campaign by a nation which is hell-bent to remove their very rights to exist in South Africa – this is actually already the third time in Boer history.
The first time the British tried to eradicate them from the map of South Africa with their vicious war and their even more vicious concentration camps where many tens of thousands of Boer women, children and elderly starved to death within just a few months.
After this first genocide to target the Boer nation, their descendants still managed to cling to their identity for at least another generation – until …..
Drummer Hodge ~Thomas Hardy
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined – just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the Drummer never knew –
Fresh from his Wessex home –
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellation reign
His stars eternally.
Boer War and the movies…
Sean Mathias is directing Colossus, based on Ann Harries’ Manly Pursuits, a novel about the Boer War. According to The Hollywood Reporter, the film’s scored a pretty impressive cast, considering that its budget is a relatively small $15 million: Colin Firth, Rachel Weisz, Ian McKellen and Susan Sarandon are all on-board. Though it’s not yet been announced which roles the stars will play, the movie “tells of ailing arch-colonist Cecil Rhodes’ [probably McKellen] belief that he can only recover his health if he can hear the sound of English song birds outside his window in Cape Town.” Get this: Someone is sent from England with 500 freaking songbirds. When he gets there, he falls in love and decides he needs to stop the Boer War from happening. Ah, if only all men in love would immediately resolve to end wars — what a lovely world this would be.
Source:
Please click HERE for the Gutenberg-files about the Boer Women during the War and then click on this file-number: files/20194/ Click HERE for a list of Africana books about the war, there’s a list of about 177…English as well as Afrikaans.
Available below is a 1901 recording of the Boer War sentimental favourite Goodbye Dolly Gray. An extract of the song’s lyrics are also provided.
The song was written by Will D. Cobb (lyrics) and Paul Barnes (music). Although it gained widespread fame during the Boer War it had earlier been sung in the U.S. during the U.S.-Spanish War of 1898. The song saw renewed airings with the onset of the First World War in 1914.
Listen to the song here:
Goodbye Dolly Gray
I have come to say goodbye, Dolly Gray,
It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray,
There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,
It’s the time to do and dare, Dolly Gray.
So if you hear the sound of feet, Dolly Gray,
Sounding through the village street, Dolly Gray,
It’s the tramp of soldiers’ true in their uniforms so blue,
I must say goodbye to you, Dolly Gray.
Goodbye Dolly I must leave you, though it breaks my heart to go,
Something tells me I am needed at the front to fight the foe,
See – the boys in blue are marching and I can no longer stay,
Hark – I hear the bugle calling, goodbye Dolly Gray.
Image and caption: nzhistory.net.nz/media/photo/boer-soldiers-posing
General Joubert’s unit of Boer soldiers and their African servant stop for lunch at Newcastle, Natal, less than a week after war was declared in 1899. Several of the soldiers are leaning against Dr Visser’s travelling medical wagon. Photographed by Robert Gell, 17 October 1899.
British tactics during the South African War included the burning of farmhouses and destruction of livestock so that they would not fall into the hands of Boer commandos. Here members of New Zealand’s Seventh Contingent pose with the carcasses of chickens and sheep.
Fashion could be important, even out on the veldt, as the garments of these Boer women suggest. Photographed by Rough Rider John McGrath
Drummer Hodge…poetry of the Anglo-Boer War.
Drummer Hodge: Poetry of the Boer War—van Wyk Smith, M.
Clarendon Press, Oxford 1978
ISBN: 0198120826 Source: elizabethsbookshop.com.au
These people were as near akin to us as any race which is not
our own. They were of the same Frisian stock which peopled our own
shores. In habit of mind, in religion, in respect for law, they
were as ourselves. Brave, too, they were, and hospitable, with
those sporting instincts which are dear to the Anglo-Celtic race.
There was no people in the world who had more qualities which we
might admire, and not the least of them was that love of
independence which it is our proudest boast that we have encouraged
in others as well as exercised ourselves.Source:
The title of a painting,” said Marcel Duchamp, “is another colour on the artist’s palette.” He also talked of treating the title “like an invisible colour”. Duchamp’s remarks were part of his ongoing argument with the art of painting. His point was that painting should not be understood as a purely visual or optical or (to use his favourite jibe), “retinal” art. That was the state to which Impressionism had reduced it. But painting should mobilise all its resources of meaning, among them the title. This verbal component shouldn’t be neutrally descriptive, nor be seen as something extraneous. It could be an integral effect, like another colour.
Comparing titles to colours was, of course, provocative, because colour is often considered the least verbal, the most inarticulate and untranslatable factor in a painting. But Duchamp’s phrase is more than a tease. It suggests that the title should be liberated. It should be used, not as a caption that presides over the whole picture, but as one more ingredient in the mixture, an active element in the picture’s drama.
Titles were to be given free play. Duchamp’s own were often spectacularly lateral, puzzles and mini-poems in their own right. There was Tum’. There was The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even. And other 20thcentury artists, Dadaist, surreal, abstract, conceptual, took up the challenge, putting the oblique title through all its possible paces.
But the device itself was not the invention of modern art. In the 19th century, while Impressionism flourished in France, another kind of painting had sprung up in England, which would later be criticised, not as “retinal”, but on the contrary as “anecdotal”. In the works of the pre-Raphaelites and their contemporaries, the title of the picture was often made to do crucial extra business.
The Last of England, The First Cloud, The Awakening Conscience, Our English Coasts – these titles are vital ingredients. They introduce story, symbolism, state of mind and always something more or something other than what the picture shows. They make the viewer’s mind jump from the image to an idea behind or beyond the image. And sometimes the jump itself, the sense of distance between the title and the rest of the picture, is where the work’s real power lies.
John Byam Shaw’s The Boer War is far from being a great work. But it’s a work that understands the rich possibilities of the oblique title. The ways that its title performs in the viewer’s mind, both connecting and disconnecting to the image, makes it a kind of masterpiece.
The painting shows – well, what it obviously doesn’t show is the Boer War, or any individual episode from Britain’s Imperial war in South Africa, which had ended the year before this picture was painted. But the likely link between words and image isn’t hard to find. A lone woman stands by a stream at the bottom of a field or garden. She was the fiancée or wife or sister of a man killed in the war. She’s lately heard the news, and gone off on her own. Or she’s been in mourning some time, but the place – this is where they used to walk, and never will again – calls out a sudden pang of memory and grief.
The Boer War is her back story, then, her motivation, the reason for her state of mind. It is the content of her invisible thought bubble. It is, in a sense, a perfectly straight descriptive title for this picture. For how do you show the Boer War except by depicting scenes from the war? And why shouldn’t those scenes include, not only battlefields and sieges, but also the scenes of bereavement and desolation that were the immediate consequence back home?
So the title fits. But at the same time, clearly, we’re to feel a great rupture and estrangement between those words, The Boer War, and the scene before us. And this distance can stand for and stress the various other distances – geographic, experiential – that the work evokes.
There is the distance between peace and war. There is the distance between the green English countryside and the dusty South African veldt. There is the distance between the woman and the man who was absent far away and is now absolutely dead and gone. There is the distance between the woman, with her mind fixed on loss and death, and the burgeoning natural world around her – further emphasised by the way her figure slightly sticks out against the landscape like a piece of collage.
The classic pre-Raphaelite manner of Byam Shaw’s painting, with its manic eye for the proliferating detail of nature, contributes to this effect. You can see it as how the woman herself sees her surroundings. Shock and grief can cause the mind to become blankly transfixed by the minutiae of the physical world, seeking something clear and particular to hold on to – as the narrator in Tennyson’s poem “Maud” focuses on a tiny sea shell after his world has fallen in.
Or again: the way the title, The Boer War, fails to “mean” the picture is like the way those words might become a malignantly empty phrase in the woman’s mind, words she must continually reiterate to herself and to others – the Boer War, the Boer War, he was killed in the Boer War – but which call up nothing and have no purchase on her loss.
Reading things into it? Yes, exactly. That’s what this kind of picture, this word image-juxtaposition, invites you to do. Reading things in, letting scene and title interact in the mind, is the way it works. In more than one way, Byam Shaw’s painting about a remote Imperial war has a rather contemporary feeling.
THE ARTIST
John Byam Shaw (1872-1919) was the second wind and last gasp of true pre- Raphaelitism. By the end of the 19th century, the movement had moved away from the Ruskin-Millais ideals of intense observational realism and moral commitment. It had drifted towards an airy-fairy religiose symbolism. Byam Shaw recovered some of the old ground – just at the point when this kind of art was about to go completely out of fashion, even in Britain. His name is now too small to get into all but the very biggest artdictionaries. But it is preserved in the north London art school that he founded, The Byam Shaw, which exists to this day.
Source:
(Interviews with Errol Lincoln Uys,1970)Johanna, or Joey as she was later called, was born in July 1892. Her mother was killed in a train crash in 1896, and Joey and her sister went to live with an uncle and aunt in Bethulie, Orange Free State, Magiel and Lettie Roux. When the Second Anglo-Boer War broke out in October 1899, Magiel joined the Bethulie Commando.
In September 1900, as British troops rolled over the veld, Magiel and thirty commandos attempted to flee the Orange Free State for the Transvaal. Joey and her cousins, the child Magiel and Johann, were in the convoy when it was attacked and captured by the British “Tommies” near Springfontein in the Free State.
We trekked with fourteen wagons, seventy women and children, escorted by thirty Boer commandos. Three days after leaving Bethulie, the Tommies found us.
“O, God, ons is nou gevang!” – (“O, God, now we’re caught!”)
It was daylight. I hid under a wagon. Magiel and Johann lay on the wagon floor. They couldn’t understand what was happening. There was confusion. People screaming. Shouts. “Rooinek vark!” – (“Redneck pig!”)
Women were shooting and killing Tommies. Tant (aunt) Lettie was a crack-shot. She kept firing till she’d no more bullets.
Several Boers were killed. Then we ran out of ammunition. We surrendered with a white flag on a stick.
I still see the red faces of the Tommies. They wore khaki, brass buttons, and leggings. Their heavy boots thudded as they walked.
They gathered our men together and took their guns and horses.
Before they were led away, our commandant warned us to obey the Tommies or be shot.
My uncle said goodbye. We were all crying.
Magiel looked at me. “Never desert her,” he said to my aunt. “If you’ve one crust of bread, break it in half and give it to her.”
As Joey recounted the attack on the wagons to me, she sang a line of an old Boer War song: “Zij geniet die blouwe bergen op die skepe na Ceylon.” — “They enjoy the blue mountains on the ships to Ceylon.”
Magiel went as POW to Sri Lanka where five thousand Boer guerillas were interned during the war. The British shipped four times that number to other camps in India, St. Helena and Bermuda.
At the wagons, the Tommies searched the women and went through their belongings.
The soldiers weren’t cruel. They hadn’t tasted real war yet.
While they searched our stuff, my aunt sat on a trommeltjie filled with bottles of Lennon’s home remedies. The Tommy’s never looked inside the medicine chest.
Tant Lettie had hidden gold sovereigns under the bottles.
After they took our men away, they made us get back into the wagons. We trekked across the veld to a station. We stayed there all night, some lying down, others sitting up in the wagons. In the morning, they pushed us into boxcars.
I couldn’t see anything. There were vents on top and one of these slammed onto my aunt’s head. When the train moved off, the boxcar shook so much we fell against each other.
My mother’s reference to a boxcar is unusual. Most women and children were herded into fetid cattle trucks to be shunted across the Free State under a boiling sun or through frigid nights.
We realized we were going to Bloemfontein.
“You’ll get food, everything you need in the camp,” the Tommies said.
At Bloemfontein, we were placed in carts. We were taken three miles outside town and dumped down on the veld.
They put up bell-tents for us, one next to the other. Hundreds of round tents, far as the eye could see. We met one of Tant (aunt) Lettie’s sisters and stayed together for a while.
A woman in the tent next to us went into labor. Her baby was born that night. The child contracted some disease and died soon after.
We slept on the bare ground. No bedding, no pillows, only some blankets from the wagon. It rained heavily. In the beginning, we didn’t know we had to loosen the tent ropes and let the water run off. We got sopping wet. Tant Lettie and I went outside in the rain. We released the ropes and knocked in the pegs again. It was a quagmire. Exhausted, we lay down in the mud to sleep.
We lit a paraffin lamp in the tent at night. At nine o’clock, all lights had to be out. Women were kicked and beaten if they disobeyed the orders of the Tommies. We obeyed.
We were issued ration cards and stood in line for food. We got meat, sugar, mealie meal, condensed milk. The meat was chilled. Even after cooking, it had chunks of ice in it. We used a paraffin tin outside the tent for a stove, same as a ‘kaffir-koggel ,’ with holes in the sides and irons to hold pots. We collected firewood on a kopje next to the camp. Water was brought from a river by cart. Every morning we stood in line to fill our buckets. We were always short of water.
Tant Lettie, the two boys and Johanna were designated “Undesirables,” a term applied to Boers who don’t go voluntarily into captivity or had family members on commando. “Refugees” described displaced Boers who surrender, the “hands-uppers” and their dependants. The latter are rewarded with a few extra spoonfuls of sugar, condensed milk and the luxury of the occasional potato. In either case, rations are insufficient to stave off starvation and disease.
If we had grievances, we were taken in front of the camp commandant. Usually, we kept quiet. We didn’t want trouble with the Tommies.
During the day, the women visited each other. We walked around the camp. The sun burnt us black. Our shoes wore out. Our clothes were unironed and filthy. Afterwards we got blue soap to wash our things. The toilet was horrible. A big hole with plank seats and sacking around it, you climbed up on top of the planks. No newspaper, no rags.
The camp was lice-infested. I watched Tommies take their leggings off, unwinding them like strips of bandages. They used broken glass to scrape the lice from their legs. My aunt had to cut all my hair off.
There was a church but I don’t remember going to it or to a school begun in the camp. Tant Lettie read to us from the Bible.
Theft was rife. There were fights between women.
Prostitutes carried on with Tommies and Boers in the camp. Most of the men were elderly. One old man called De Wet was a bastard. He wanted to interfere with my aunt. She chased him out of the tent. Tommies also interfered with the women.
I remember a short man with a gray beard. I hated him.
My aunt became friendly with one of the Tommies. She stole someone else’s skirt and walked with him.
Thousands of newcomers arrived at Bloemfontein camp. Thousands became sick. The marquee hospital tents were always full. The doctors worked day and night.
We found pieces of blue stone vitriol in the sugar. Lots of people were poisoned.
People died like rats. Carts came down the rows of tents to pick up the dead. There were funerals every day.
In the eighteen months Johanna and her family were in Bloemfontein concentration camp, the population soared to six thousand three hundred and twenty two. Of this number, one thousand six hundred and ninety-five perished from want and sickness.
British propagandists alleged that Boer mothers were killing their children through their own stupidity and carelessness. When seven-year-old Lizzie van Zyl died of hunger at Bloemfontein, a report said her mother starved her.
Emily Hobhouse, an English activist, spent six months in South Africa from January to June 1901 visiting Bloemfontein and six other camps. She saw Lizzie van Zyl die on an airless April day.
“I used to see her in her bare tent lying on a tiny mattress which had been given her, trying to get air from the raised flap, gasping her life out in the heated tent. Her mother tended her. I got some friends in town to make a little muslin cap to keep the flies from her bare head. I was arranging to get a cart made to draw her into the air in the cooler hours but before wood could be procured, the cold nights came on and she died. I found nothing to show neglect on the mother’s part.”
Emily returned to England to campaign against “a gigantic and grievous blunder caused not by uncaring women but crass male ignorance, helplessness and muddling.” Her militancy brought the scorn of the British people who called her a rebel, a liar, an enemy of the nation, hysterical and worse.
No one hated Emily more than Lord Kitchener, whose troops burnt down 30,000 farm houses, torched a score of towns and interned 116,572 Boers, a quarter of the population.
“It is for their protection against the Kaffirs,” said the British War Secretary, oblivious to the fact thatAfricans were being armed and encouraged by the English to attack a mutual enemy. Also ignoring the fact that 115,000 “black Boers” were sent to their own concentration camps, loyal servants who saw twelve thousand of their number die.
Miss Hobhouse was banned from visiting the most terrible of all camps that had been established just outside Bethulie, a place name meaning “Chosen by God.” My mother considered it a blessing of the Almighty that they weren’t interned at Bethulie where twelve hundred died in one six-month period from pneumonia and measles and from hunger.
The concentration camps claimed the lives of 27,972 Boers. Of these, 22,074 were children like Lizzie van Zyl.
We guarded the gold sovereigns day and night. After lights out, we slept next to the box where Tant Lettie had hidden the coins.
Women could apply to the camp commandant for a pass to go into Bloemfontein. Tant Lettie went to buy extra food. This was all that kept us alive.
I think of the thousands who died in the camps. I thank God that we survived.
In summer 1902, as Kitchener’s cordon strangled Boer resistance, Tant Lettie got notice that she and the children were going to another camp.
My mother was too young at the time to know why they were moved, whether Tant Lettie’s Tommy friend pulled strings or what other reason was behind the transfer. They went from Bloemfontein to a camp at Kubusie River near Stutterheim in the Eastern Cape, nestled in the green hills of the Amatola Range, a world away from the horrors of the dumping ground at Bloemfontein.
This time, Johanna recalled making the two-hundred-and-fifty mile journey in a cattle truck. According to one report, some of the refugees were supplied with tents, which they ingeniously erected on the beds of railroad cars. Others were covered with tarpaulins like so much baggage.
“The former arrived more contented and less sullen. All were provided with hot water and cocoa en route.”
We were vaccinated on arrival at Kubusie. Our arms swelled up. Magiel and Johann became sick but after a while we were all OK.
We lived in a one-roomed house. A big room with a plank table, plank chairs and three plank beds with straw mattresses.
Our days at Kubusie were happier. Farmers in the district helped the Boers. The camp was small, nothing like Bloemfontein. I don’t recall anyone dying at Kubusie.
A Miss O’Brien taught school in the camp. I learnt English from her. After school, she invited me to her room. My dress was in rags. Miss O’Brien cut up her own clothes to make dresses for me. She taught me how to knit and gave me a ball of wool for a pair of socks.
Who was Miss O’Brien? Was she English or Irish as her name might suggest? Was she one of Emily Hobhouse’s angels of mercy? It matters not, just that she was there, sitting with a child pretty as a flower, teaching her to knit a pair of socks.
Today, the site of Kubusie Concentration Camp has been turned into a car park and the surface area graveled and curbed.
“The socks were yellow,” Johanna said a lifetime later. She never forgot Miss O’Brien’s kindness.
Update: October 2008…this poem is an Afrikaans poem about the concentration camps…very sad poem, maybe I should try and translate it sometime for English readers…
C. Louis Leipoldt (1880-1947)
In die konsentrasiekamp
Aliwal-Noord, 1901
O, pazienza, pazienza che tanto sostieni! – Dante
Jou oë is nat met die trane van gister;
Jou siel is gemartel, deur smarte gepla;
Van vrede en pret was jy vroeër ’n verkwister;
En nou, wat bly oor van jou rykdomme? Ja,
’n Spreekwoord tot steun – daar’s geen trooswoord beslister:
“Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan dra!”
Hier sit jy en koes teen die wind wat daar suie
Yskoud deur die tentseil, geskeur deur die hael –
Jou enigste skuil in die nag teen die buie;
Die Junie-lug stort oor die stroom van die Vaal –
Jy hoor net die hoes van jou kind, en die luie
Gedrup van die reëndruppeltjies oor die paal.
’n Kers, nog maar anderhalf duim voor hy sterwe,
Brand dof in ’n bottel hier vlak naas jou bed.
(’n Kafhuis gee makliker rus: op die gerwe
Daar lê ’n mens sag, en sy slaap is gered!) –
En hier in die nag laat jou drome jou swerwe
’n Aaklige rondte met trane besmet.
Hier struikel die kind wat te vroeg was gebore;
Hier sterwe die oumens te swak vir die stryd;
Hier kom ’n gekerm en gekreun in jou ore;
Hier tel jy met angs elke tik van die tyd;
Want elke sekond’ van die smart laat sy spore
Gedruk op jou hart, deur ’n offer gewyd.
En deur elke skeur in die seil kan jy duister
Die wolke bespeur oor die hemel verbrei;
Geen ster skyn as gids; na geen stem kan jy luister
(Eentonig die hoes van jou kind aan jou sy!)
Wat sag deur die wind in jou ore kom fluister:
“Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan ly!”
Vergewe? Vergeet? Is dit maklik vergewe?
Die smarte, die angs het so baie gepla!
Die yster het gloeiend ’n merk vir die eeue
Gebrand op ons volk; en dié wond is te ná –
Te ná aan ons hart, en te diep in ons lewe –
“Geduld, o geduld, wat so baie kan dra!”
–uit: Groot Verseboek, 2000
Die Oorwinnaars By die kindergrafte uit die Konsentrasiekamp van Nylstroom
Oorwinnaars vir ons volk,
bly u vir al wat beste in ons is ‘n ewig’ tolk;
nooit weer sal vyandsvoet u stof so diep vertrap en smoor
dat ons u langer nie kan sien – en hoor.
Nie onse Helde, wat die magtig’ leër
op glansryk’ velde kon weerstaan en keer;
nie onse Seuns, wat aan die galg en teen die muur
die diepe liefde vir hul eie moes verduur;
nie onse Moeders, wat met bloeiend hart en seer,
in swart Getsemane die ware smart moes leer;
nie onse Generaals, vereer met krans en riddersnoer;
– was waardig vir ons volk die hoë stryd te voer
en te oorwin.
Nie ons, met vuile hand en hart ontrou was waardig
om die vaandel hoog te hou.
Maar u, o bleke spokies, in U kermend’, klagend’ wee,
staan voor ons ewiglik beskermend – uit die lang verlee.
Eugene Marais
Boer internees were separately held from black Africans. There were a total of 45 tented camps built for Boer internees and 64 for black Africans. Of the 28,000 Boer men captured as prisoners of war, 25,630 were sent overseas. The vast majority of Boers remaining in the local camps were women and children, but the camps established for black Africans held large numbers of men as well. A number of the black African internees were used as a paid labour force as they were not considered by the British to be hostile, although they had been forcibly removed from Boer areas. The majority of the black African internees however languished in the camps and suffered a high mortality rate.—so, “apartheid” by the British during the Boer/British war!
Danie Theron: The man picked for the job was Danie Theron, who was a lawyer from Krugersdorp. Even before the outbreak of the war he had formed a bicycle corps of Scouts believing that the effectiveness of horse mounted men was being undermined because modern bicycle technology was not being utilized properly.
He made a submission to Transvaal President Paul Kruger and General Joubert requesting the formation of a bicycle corps by pointing out that a horse needs rest and food, whereas a bicycle needs only a pump and oil.
To support his belief in the superiority of the bicycle he had planned a race between a bicycle and a horse from Pretoria to the Crocodile River a distance of 75 km.
The man he picked to ride the bicycle against the horse was cycling champion JP Koos Jooste.
The Cape Argus of 21 June 1900 clearly states that the destitution of these women and children was the result of the English’s plundering of farms: “Within 10 miles we (the English) burned not less than six farm homesteads. Between 30 and 40 homesteads were burned and totally destroyed between Bloemfontein and Boshoff. Many others were also burned down. With their houses destroyed, the women and children were left in the bitter South African winter in the open.” The British history text book says nothing about this.
An old man sits in front of his house with a few saved belongings. On this next link you can order some books and I’ve found these three images on this link too. The link will open in a new window. The books are in English, but the site in Afrikaans, you can give me a big shout if you need any help with the site! If you click on the link “kontak ons”, on this site where you can order the books, – it means “contact us” – you will find an email address and contact details.
Lord Alfred Milner – Rothschild front man, executor of the “Scorched Earth Policy” and concentration camps for Boer women and children in 1899-1902; and spokesman for the Royal Institute of International Affairs, which branched into such organizations as the CFR and the Trilateral. His spirit and his legacy lives on in the present genocide of the Boers.
Apartheid is properly the legacy of Britain –- which has been under the control of the Rothschilds and his London Elite for centuries, and which refused to give independence to the Black nations currently within present-day SA, as it did to the cannibal Basuto tribe (Lesotho), and to the Swazis (Swaziland), before forming the Union of South Africa in 1910 out of the two former Boer republics of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State; and her two SA colonies viz: …read more on this link, but be warned, a very upsetting image…on this link. On the following link: Deirdre Fields – reports on the heroic Boer struggle for survival and self determination.
The Boer Republics had no organised force. In the event of war against natives or against some foreign Power, the burghers were called up from their farms, the husbands, fathers, sons of the nation, to fight for home and fatherland. This left the women and children unprotected on the farms, but not unprovided for, for it is an historical fact that the Boer women in time of war carried on their farming operations with greater vigour than during times of peace. Fruit trees were tended, fields were ploughed, and harvests brought in with redoubled energy, with the result that crops increased and live-stock multiplied.
Read on the Gutenberg-link more from the book written by Johanna Brandt.
The following update: 26/9/09 – from an Afrikaans blogger and her grandma who survived the Irene Concentration camp and she blogged today about things her grandma told her when she was little. I will translate for you in short.
Trisia says the following: Her grandad was put in jail and they were given food with worms in it. After the war he worked for a sjieling per day to reconstruct/rebuild the burnt-down farms. Her grandma told her some gruesome stories and one is where the English took her little cat, swung it on its tail and smashed it against the wall. [POOR KITTY!] Also, they took her grandma’s dolls and burnt it with all their other stuff. [I can imagine their grusame smiles on their faces while doing it] Please find “Maankind”-s link (Trisia) if you want to read the entry on her blog – of course it is in Afrikaans only.
Oupa het graag vertel hoe hy as seun saam geveg het, en van sy hoed met die koeëlgaatjie in waar hy rakelings aan die dood ontkom het. Sy baadjie se moue het te kort geword gedurende die oorlog, en ek sien steeds die prentjie van die rankerige boerseun met die baadjie met driekwart moue in my kop. Hy het ook grusame verhale vertel van sy verblyf in die tronk as rebel, en van die wurms in die sop. Dan ook hoe hulle later na die oorlog op die paaie gewerk het teen ‘n “sieling” ‘n dag om hulle plase weer te kon opbou.
Ouma se stories was meer hartseer. Sy het die oorlog as dogtertjie beleef, wat gehuil het oor haar poppie, wat die Engelsman gegryp het en in die vuur geslinger het, en hoe hulle moes staan en kyk hoe hulle huis met alles daarin, in vlamme opgaan.
Wanneer ouma se oë sonder uitsondering vol trane geraak het, en haar stem gebewe het, is elke keer as sy vertel hoe die “Ingelsman haar katjie gegryp het en aan sy agterpootjies geswaai het, en sy koppie teen die muur papgeslaan het.
South of the Line, inland from far Durban,
A mouldering soldier lies—your countryman.
Awry and doubled up are his gray bones,
And on the breeze his puzzled phantom moans
Nightly to clear Canopus: “I would know
By whom and when the All-Earth-gladdening Law
Of Peace, brought in by that Man Crucified,
Was ruled to be inept, and set aside?
And what of logic or of truth appears
In tacking ‘Anno Domini’ to the years?
Near twenty-hundred liveried thus have hied,
But tarries yet the Cause for which He died.”
Christmas-eve 1899. – Source:
Follow this link to read about the “stalemated” Boer/British War and you will find a link to the Canadian War museum. The link will open in a new window.
On my blog HEREyou can read about the Boer/British-War and Melrose House . The link will open in a new window. On this link you can also read about the role my great grandad played during the war.
A very good site about the Boer-war HERE …the link will open in a new window.
Please click HEREto read the complete online book of Arthur Conan Doyle about the Boer War…the link will open in a new window.
Ek slaap in die rus van die eeue gesus,
ongesien, ongehoord,
en dof en loom in my sonnedroom,
ongewek, ongestoord.
Tot die yl-bloue bande van die ver-verre rande
skuif my breedte uit,
wyd-kringend aan die puur al-omwelwend asuur,
wat my swyend omsluit.
Jong aarde se stoot het my boesem ontbloot
bo die diep van die meer;
en volswanger van lewe ’t oor waat’re geswewe
die gees van die Heer.
Uit die woelende nag van haar jeugdige krag
brag die aarde voort
Lewiátansgeslagte, geweldig van kragte –
storm-ontruk aan haar skoot.
Diep in my gesteente berg ek hul gebeente –
die geheim van hul lewe en lot;
maar gewek uit die sode herleef uit die dode,
na die ewig hernuwingsgebod,
die stof van die verlede in vorme van die hede,
in eindeloos kome en gaan;
wat die dood my vertrou ’t, ek bewaar dit as goud,
en geen grein sal ’k verlore laat gaan.
As die son oor my vloer in die môre kom loer
en die dou van my lippe kus,
dan kyk ek net stom met ’n glimlag om
en lê maar weer stil in my rus.
Hoog bowe die kim op sy troon geklim,
is hy heer van lewe en dood;
na wil en luim geef hy, skraal of ruim,
verderf of lewensbrood.
Uit gloeiende sfeer brand hy wreed op my neer
tot my naaktheid kraak en skroei,
en my koorsige asem in bewende wasem
al hygend my bors ontvloei.
In sy skadetjie rondom sy stam op die grond
staat ’n eensame doringboom,
soos die Stilte op haar troon, met dorings gekroon,
wat roerloos die eeue verdroom.
Geen drop vir die dors aan my stofdroë bors:
my kinders versmag en beswyk,
en die stowwe staan soos hul trek en gaan
om my skrale dis te ontwyk.
Soos ’n vlokkie skuim uit die sfere se ruim
kom ’n wolkie aangesweef,
maar hy groei in die blou tot ’n stapelbou
van marmer wat krul en leef –
kolossaal monument op sy swart fondament,
waar die bliksem in brul en leef.
En o, met my is die windjies bly:
hul spring uit die stof orent
en wals en draai in dwarrelswaai
oor my vloer, van ent tot ent;
die gras skud hul wakker om same te jakker,
tot hy opspring uit sy kooi
en soos mane en sterde van jaende perde
sy stingels golf en gooi.
Met dof-sware plof, soos koeëls in die stof,
kom die eerste druppels neer,
tot dit ruis alom so deur die gebrom
en gekraak van die donderweer.
Met kloue vooruit om te gryp en te buit
jaag ’n haelwolk langs verby,
soos ’n perde-kommande wat dreun oor die lande
vertrap en gésel hy –
en sy lyke-kleed sien ek ver en breed
in die awendson gesprei.
Stil in die duister lê ’k so en luister
hoe die spruite gesels en lag;
maar bowe die pak van my wolkedak
het die maan al lank gewag:
nou breek en skeur hy ’n baan daardeur
om te deel in my vreug benede;
hy sprei die waas van sy romig-blou gaas –
en ek lag so stil-tevrede.
Plek op plek, soos die wolke trek,
sweef die skaduwees onder mee,
soos eilande wyd oor die waat’re verspreid
op die boesem van die grote see.
Met ’n afskeidskus gaat die maan ook ter rus,
en ek wag op die daeraad –
so skoon en so mooi soos ’n fris jong nooi
wat lag in haar bruidsgewaad.
Oor die bulte se rug slaat die gloed in die lug
van brande wat ver-weg kwyn,
en doringbome fluister in rooi skemerduister
van gevare wat kom of verdwyn.
Uit slote en plas, uit die geurende gras,
styg ’n danklied op ten hemel;
en dis net of ek hoor hoe die kriekies se koor
weergalm uit die sterre-gewemel,
waar wêrelde gaan op hul stille baan
tot die ende van ruimte en tyd.
So, groots en klaar, staat Gods tempel daar,
wyd – in sy majesteit.
Jan FE Cilliers
Dis al
Dis die blond,
dis die blou:
dis die veld,
dis die lug;
en ‘n voël draai bowe in eensame vlug –
dis al
Dis n balling gekom
oor die oseaan,
dis n graf in die gras,
dis n vallende traan –
dis al
My own translation: see more of his poems translated on the “my gedigte/my poems”-page That’s All
It’s the blond
It’s the blue
It’s the veld
It’s the air
and a bird circles above in a
solitude flight
That’s it
It’s an exile that came
across the ocean
A grave in the grass
A shed teardrop
That’s all.
–Nikita–2008
Trou
Ek hou van ‘n man wat sy man kan staan,
ek hou van ‘n arm wat ‘n slag kan slaan,
‘n oog wat nie wyk, wat ‘n bars kan kyk
en ‘n wil wat so vas soos ‘n klipsteen staan!
Ek hou van ‘n man wat sy moeder eer,
in die taal uit haar vrome mond geleer,
die verraaiersgeslag in sy siel verag
wat, haar verstotend, homself kleineer.
Die oog wil ek sien wat ‘n traan nog ween
vir ‘n heldegeslag, in hul rus daarheen,
maar ‘n blits van trou in die traan van rou,
wat aan liefde weer gee wat haar bron is ontleen.
Vir my d’Afrikaner van durf en daad,
wat mammon’s eer en loon versmaad,
sy hoof en sy hand vir sy volk en sy land
en ‘n trap van sy voet vir laag verraad!
O, ‘k hou van ‘n man wat sy man kan staan;
ek hou van ‘n daad wat soos donder slaan,
‘n oog wat nie wyk, wat ‘n bars kan kyk
en ‘n wil wat so vas soos ‘n klipsteen staan!
Some of you know already how much I love the Poetry of William C Williams! And this poem…. –my year 5/6 (mixed class) children, wrote their own poems based on this one…– it’s such a cute little poem!
This is just to say…
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
— William Carlos Williams
Then, a “reply” was found to this poem….
Reply
(crumped on her desk)
Dear Bill: I’ve made a
couple of sandwiches for you.
In the ice-box you’ll find
blue-berries–a cup of grapefruit
a glass of cold coffee.
On the stove is the tea-pot
with enough tea leaves
for you to make tea if you
prefer–Just light the gas–
boil the water and put it in the tea
Plenty of bread in the bread-box
and butter and eggs–
I didn’t know just what to
make for you. Several people
called up about office hours–
See you later. Love. Floss.
Please switch off the telephone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Click HEREto read more about the reply.
Landcape with the Fall of Icarus
Willimas Carlos Williams
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year
was awake tingling
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted the wings’ wax
unsignificantly
off the coast there was
a splash
quite unnoticed
this was Icarus drowning
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheelbarrow
glazedwith rainwater
beside the whitechickens. Poems inspired by William Carlos Williams. You can read his bibliography on this link too.
Some poems have only 16 words! Emily Dickinson
We introduce ourselves
To Planets and to Flowers
But with ourselves
Have etiquettes
Embarrassments
And awes
One chess player sent me this poem, he wasnt’ sure if his friend copied it from somewhere and if his friend wrote it himself…
This is what Nicky looked like. I’ve found this photo on the internet as our photos of Nicky and Lompie are packed away.
She was a cat found at a nursery. It was a rainy day in Centurion. I wanted to get some plants for a big clay pot in my class. I walked into the nursery. While looking around in the section where they kept all sorts of pots and stands with seeds, I heard a cat mewing. It was a soft, fainted mew and I couldn’t make out where it was coming from. I kept on looking around, but saw nothing. There were tons of shelves, covered in hessian with stuff on display. I starting lifting up the hessian, near where I heard the cat. There she was! A very young kitty with a plate of milk. I couldn’t resist stroking her and picked her up immediately. There was a man serving customers – with a wheelbarrow busy doing all sorts of odd things. Stroking this beautiful little kitty, I walked to him and asked him whose cat it was.”Nobody’s, I only feed her while she’s around.” I pleaded to have her and he agreed as it was nobody’s cat anyway.
That day was my lucky day! I locked her in my car and ran back to get the plants. I couldn’t get my plants fast enough and to get back to the car. I got back to the car and there, very pleased with herself, she was waiting on the back seat, looking me very thankfully in the eyes through the window. I still remember those large green eyes, head a bit tilted sideways. When I got into the car, it was only a loud purrrr-purrrr I could hear and I knew she was happy. She looked at me as if she has been mine for years.
Nicky loved water! It was funny. I found her on a rainy day and she loved water so much, she liked it if you poured it all over her. She would then look over her shoulder and just say…”purr-mew”…as if she was asking for more! I used to have a small red watering can and when I had it with me, she came to me as if she was asking to have water running down her spine. When I poured the water down her spine, she would then wriggle her body and, “purr-mew”, to show how she enjoyed it.
She was friends, big friends, with Lompie. Lompie was the Blue Lilac-point Siamese! They were like kids – crazy kids, chasing one another up and down the flat – and later in the house [when we moved into a house] and around the garden, looking a bit silly most of the times, making us laugh when they were doing it. Lompie would start to chase and then suddenly turned around and then Nicky would chase Lompie. Completely two ‘silly’ children. We had great fun with them and could sit in the garden looking at them playing ‘hide-and-seek’ with one another, hiding behind plants, or going up a tree. It was as if they enjoyed entertaining us and knew how we enjoyed them. Their tails were swishing from side to side when they were taking position, when playing. It was funny.
The following pictures were found on the internet. I was looking for pictures that portray her personality the best.
Nicky used to get into the basin quite often and loved it when you open the tap slightly to drink some water from the tap. I think she enjoyed the coolness of it too.
She loved to wriggle on the carpet, also when they played, she was always the one on her back, defending herself from Lompie.
Nicky was curious, very curious and I know we have a similar photo of her which we took in our garden, almost this very same position, looking at ‘something’.
In our flat, we also had a beam like this! [behind the front door]. She loved to walk on it, sometimes she was ‘hiding’ there when she heard us coming up the stairs [from outside] and when we opened the door, she would “purr-mew”, as if she couldn’t help herself saying, “hello, here I am!” or maybe it was her way of saying, “wha! got you!”
Very strange but this photo IS Nicky!! 100% Nicky! Found on dreamstime.com, but this is SO, SO Nicky! 500%!
This is typical what Nicky was like, at times. Lazy-looking, self-content expression on her face.
Enjoy this cat-poem.
Cat in the window
What do you see? Cloud, wind, birds,a bird in a tree. The daffodils shivering the February breeze, A puddle in the road beginning to freeze.
Snow on the wind Dusk in a cloud. Leaves in a frenzy, The bird’s head cowed. Winter – though the sun shines. Blizzard, and the north wind’s whine.
I want to continue my Friday’s mood….so here goes…
William Morris was an artist too…on the pic here you can see some of his art…
There is so much going on in this world of us…do we ever stop! and think….think about an ant crossing a road…a caterpillar on a leave…honeybee buzzing on a flower……a bird seeking for crumbs….a newborn calf trying to get up…..newborn kittens struggling their way to their mummy’s milk……children with Aids! sleeping hungry, crying for their mums….orphans….are we thinking what difference we can make to other people’s lives? Let’s start thinking how we can alter our lives to make a change to other people’s lives, to bring love, joy and happiness to everybody in the world!
William Morris
Love Is Enough
Love is enough:
though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows,
and the sea a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble,
their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary,
the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
Morris, William1834—96, English poet, artist, craftsman, designer, social reformer, and printer. He has long been considered one of the great Victorians and has been called the greatest English designer of the 19th cent. Read more about William Morrishere.
Something else that’s great about South Africa!
South Africa is the only country in the world to have acquired, and subsequently fully dismantled, its nuclear-weapons capability.
Spoken by great men:"Give me 20 divisions of American soldiers and I will breach Europe. Give me 15 consisting of Englishmen and I will advance to the borders of Berlin. Give me two divisions of those marvellous fighting Boers and I will remove Germany from the face of the earth." - Field Marshal Bernard L. Montgomery, Commander of the Allied Forces during WW2.
"The Americans fight for a free world, the English mostly for honour, glory and medals, the French and Canadians decide too late that they have to participate. The Italians are too scared to fight, the Russians have no choice. The Germans for their Fatherland. The Boers? Those sons of Bitches fight for the hell of it." American General, George 'Guts and Glory' Patton.
.jpg)
Chessalee 
