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"
My poem about this forest. My annual contribution to the Afrikaans language. I have translated it for you too.
Die voetpad na die boom
Die voetpad na die boom is nog steeds bedek – half versteek.
Gure weer en aanhoudende reen oor die jare het die toegang onomkeerbaar versper.
Daar was eens ‘n voetpad wat deur die woud na die boom gelei het.
Voorheen was die area boomryk, lowerryk.
Koeltesoekers het passievol al die bome vereer –
snoesig soos ‘n lappieskombers het hul ingekruip
onder die wydverspreide skadu-kolle.
Selfs laventel-pers heide is met deernis aangeplant
wat net deur enkeling opgemerk word.
Baie molle het op hul reis onlangs kom vlerksleep –
waarvan al die molshope getuig.
Daar was eens ‘n voetpad deur die woud.
As jy die soomlose woud binnestap,
veral laat, in die laat somer –
wanneer die skarlaken-son laag sit
en die laat-middag woud-wind om jou fluit
en die eekhorinkie speels sy den binnegaan,
dan hoor jy die dowwe getrippel van perdehoewe in die verte
terwyl die mis ‘n dun wolk-laag begin vorm al om die
karbonkelrige boomstamme en welig-groeiende gras
en bedek stadig die eens voetpad wat deur die woud gekronkel het.
~~Nikita – 26-8-2020
English translation
The footpath to the tree
The footpath to the tree is still covered – half hidden.
Severe weather and persistent rain over the years have irreversibly blocked access.
There was once a footpath that led through the forest to the tree.
Previously, the area was tree-rich, leafy.
Cooling seekers passionately honored all the trees –
cuddly as a rag blanket crept in
among the widespread shadow spots.
Even lavender-purple heather was planted with compassion
which is noticed only by the individual.
Many moles have recently come to wing on their journey –
of which all the molehills testify.
There was once a footpath through the forest.
As you walk into the seamless forest,
especially late, in late summer –
when the scarlet sun sets low
and the late-afternoon forest wind around you whistle
and the squirrel playfully enters his den,
then you hear the faint tripping of horseshoes in the distance
while the mist begins to form a thin layer of clouds all around the
carbonaceous tree trunks and lush-growing grass
and slowly cover the once footpath that wound through the forest.
Nikita – 26-8-2020
Hierdie gedig het ek geskryf as my bydrae tot Afrikaans en om 14 Augustus, Afrikaans-dag te ‘vier’. Elke jaar probeer ek om my bydrae te maak rondom hierdie datum. Ons het so bietjie in Sherwood Forest gaan rondstap om veral die baie bekende boom waar Robin Hood en sy ‘manne’ vergader het. Die Major Oak – het ongelukkig gedurende die ‘lockdown’ bietjie deurgeloop deurdat vandaliste dele van die boom probeer vernietig het. Die boom is nou afgesper en word dit al vir baie jare gestut om die boom te beskerm – soos jy in die foto kan sien.Dit was eers in die jare ’50 toe mense besef het dat die boom bewaar moet word en is enige persoon verbied om in die boom te klim en klouter – soos dit gereeld die gewoonte was. As jy die kans kry en jy is in die omgewing van Nottingham, maak gerus ‘n draai by die woud. Dan is daar ook die Robin Hood Kasteel in Nottingham wat jy kan besoek en dit is baie beslis die moeite werd – maak net seker jy besoek die grotte ook. Sien die foto.
You can go on a cave tour when visiting the Robin Hood Castle in Nottingham.
English Readers: This is a poem I’ve written after my visit to Sherwood Forest. 14th August is also Afrikaans Language Day. This is my contribution to the Afrikaans Language, the most beautiful language in the world.
From The Tempest: Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess
Image: Wikipedia The Chess Players attributed to Karel van Mander. This was identified in 1916 as an image of Ben Jonson and Shakespeare playing chess. Most scholars consider this to be pure speculation, but the claim was revived in 2004 by Jeffrey Netto, who argued that the chess game symbolises “the well known professional rivalry between these figures in terms of a battle of wits”.
Update: 2016 – Shakespeare died 400 years ago and today is Shakespeare day! I’ve decided to repost an entry of 4 years ago. Please enjoy my ‘contribution’ to Shakespeare day. The following is my entry of 2012.
I’ve written another cento – I had to, because it’s a chess one! I’ve taken again Shakespeare lines – like my Moonrider-cento , where I also used Shakespeare. A cento is a form of poetry, where you use lines of different poems. In this case [like Moonrider], I’ve used lines of Shakespeare’s works – and not different poems. This cento was much easier to put together than Moonrider, as they are shorter lines and I didn’t really spent that much time thinking how to merge it into a poem that makes sense. I couldn’t give it a title other than ‘A Game of Chess’. I have made minor changes here and there – to the word order or adding of an exclamation mark – just for effect. This ‘poem‘ is almost like a dialogue – as it’s various characters speaking in role from Shakespeare’s plays.
A Game of Chess Sweet lord, you play me false For a score of kingdoms you should wrangle and I would call it fair play How fares the king? His hour is almost past
A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! And I have horse – will follow where the game makes way. I have his horse! Give me another horse! So, the good horse is mine. My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone. The rascal hath removed my horse.
Are the knights ready to begin their triumph? A wandering knight? I am undone! The knight is here! Great shouts within all cry ‘the mean knight!’ Great is the humour of this dreadful knight.
I dare thereupon pawn My life I never held but as a pawn I have not pawn’d to you my majesty? I pawn’d thee none! I’ll send some bishop to entreat The bishop will be overborne by thee Wat says my bully rook?
There stands my castle! His queen, it was his queen! Queen of queens, how far dost thou excel? Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen Sir your queen must overboard! Will take your queen Farewell sweet queen!
I’ll move the king. The skipping king, he ambles up and down This may gall him for some check No mates for you! We’ll draw! My lord, your son drew my master Where’s the master? Play the men! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown
[Shakespeare-lines -] Click on this link to read more about the Cento and to read what Folger Education think about my cento. I feel humble – you can view their comments in their comments box. Thank you!
–Click on this link to see the complete list of chess quotes with the references to the works of Shakespeare.
This is one of my own poems. It is a cento. A cento is a poem written using other author’s lines or passages. This ‘cento’ though has been written using my own poems. The poems I used are all from my Afrikaans poems. I do write English too, but as I said before, it’s just playing with words. I don’t try to be professional. I decided a few years ago to do my ‘bit’ for Afrikaans on the 14th August every year. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen last year and I couldn’t let another year go by without having one on this day! This is the history behind the 14th August.
The Genootskap van Regte Afrikaners (Afrikaans for “Society of Real Afrikaners”) was formed on 14 August 1875 in the town of Paarl by a group of Afrikaans speakers from the current Western Cape region. From 15 January 1876 the society published a journal in Afrikaans called Die Afrikaanse Patriot (“The Afrikaans Patriot”) as well as a number of books, including grammars, dictionaries, religious material and histories. Die Afrikaanse Patriot was succeeded in 1905 by today’s Paarl newspaper. You can read more about this Society on this link on the site of Wikipedia.
If you are Afrikaans, I hope you enjoy these couple of lines.
My siel op haelwit wolke
In gietende reën sypel my gedagtes: eindloos! Ek stuur vir jou die goud van sondeurdrenkte landskappe in die galery van my stille gemoed. My opgevoude gedagtes steek vas en onderhou my geheue wat onvermydelik verstrengel is en soos gister vind jy my siel op haelwit wolke; my gedagtes wentel om die aura van my taal en rol ragfyn ligstraaltjies voor my uit: wat die tuimelende bergstilte laat rol oor die dansende blou waters na die holtes van my gedagtes.
==Nikita 14/08/2015
Mantovani is one of my real big favourites. On this video you’ll find a whole library of his music to keep you company. I hope you enjoy!
If you are a regular reader of my blog, you would know that I do play chess myself too. I’ve blogged quite a few chess games in the past. This is one of my most recent chess games on chess.com Time is little to play rated chess games and I was tricked into this game, but managed to escape the worst. Rated games involve more concentration and I tend to play friendlies just for fun and I feel I can ‘escape’ or shut down from normal work and enjoy the game.
I like how I managed to checkmate my opponent, though he was very close to checkmate me! I played white in this game – not my favourite colour, as I discovered I play better games when I play black. If you are interested, please click here to play through the game. If you are a chess player yourself, please feel free to leave a comment and Dan, if you read here, you might want to analyse my game…hehe.
Picture from FB: Mother with her dead child – Boer War: Concentration camps. I was so shocked when I saw this picture. How this mother must have felt and the poor little kids. This is what went through my mind:
The camp White tents like white ant hills. Strange, awkward stenches fill the war-torn air Weak, though proud, with no disinfectant Sitting around in poverty: deprived! Waiting for food. Waiting for water. Humiliation. Disgrace. Filth. Dead bodies carried along white rows They don’t care, they don’t think! They can’t think. They just kill! The pain inside: it cuts deep, very deep. No sound. No breath. No life. No words. No food. Only thoughts. Only thoughts. Only Blue vitriol. Children crying, children dying
Hunger screams, hunger wails Endless waiting. Timeless prayers. Shock. Horror. Pain. Forgotten lives. Panic. Fright. Terror. God! My child is dead! Footsteps. No words. Empty arms. Eyes watching. Not my child! Patience because: ‘Another seepkissie will arrive soon.’ Silence.
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
Adam Ladds spotted this poem chalked on the pavement at the western end of Fordhook Avenue W5 in Ealing – West London. It’s written ‘upwards’ so you can read it as you walk along.
Love on the Streets
Sometimes it’s faded and harder to see, Sometimes not looking, it jumps out at me, But it always is there, right under your feet, As you walk through the world, there is love on these streets.
By Ella Grace, 2012
I quite like this ceativity of a person taking an idea and see what the ‘world’ makes of it. This is great/romantic. This was written on the day of Valentine’s Day. We lived near Ealing till about 3 years ago.
It was National Poetry Day today in the ukay and I want to share this song by Steve Hofmeyr to celebrate poetry, not just in the ukay, but everywhere. Do listen to the words of this song – beautiful! Poetry, love and music…touching the strings of my heart.[and of course…chess!]
If you like this song, click here to listen to more songs from a variety of artists and to read a few love poems in English as well as in Afrikaans.
[Sorry, I’ve removed the song due to another site getting people to download it from my site..that is illegal]
‘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.
Moon
mysterious secretive
sliding rotating floating
Lonely in the night-sky
Satellite! [c]N 15/6/2009
Maan
misterieus geheimsinnig
glimmend sluipend kruipend
Alleen, verdwaald in die Sterre-hemel
Satelliet! [c]N15/6/2009
My eerste cinquain en dis baie maklik as jy die reëls volg om jou eie te skryf. Eerste reël: ‘n naamwoord/onderwerp, reël 2: twee byvoeglike naamwoorde wat die naamwoord beskryf, reël 3: drie werkwoorde relatief tot die naamwoord in reël 1, reël 4: vier woorde (gevoelens) of ‘n kort sinnetjie oor jou naamwoord/onderwerp, reël 5: een woord of ‘n sinoniem wat die naamwoord opsom. Skryf en geniet jou eie!
(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.”
I was tagged by Skoor to post an entry about my favourite music. Well, I’ve done so many entries about music before, especially classical music that I’ve decided to blog a few tracks from my other favourites. I think all the music files in this entry refer to love which is quite important in our lives! Many of my chess-player-friends on Chessworld know that I have a passion for my country/language and therefore the first song is an Afrikaans song. Steve sings it and he’s one of my favourite singers. In this entry you can also listen to a few love songs which I blogged with a couple of love-poems and you can listen to Steve singing in English! As a poetry-lover, I have also a poem for you to enjoy; music, poetry and love…hmm…you can’t separate it…and I have a movie for you, about SA of course, with some beautiful music…this time, classical music!
This first Afrikaans song is a love song and the title says in English ..”Far away from here”…and that’s what I am…far from South Africa…my beloved country!
Steve Hofmeyr – Ver hier vandaan
I was introduced to this song by one of my friends when I was a student and I still like this song.
Dan Fogelberg – Leader of the band
I was asked by a blogreader to translate the following poem – which is originally an Afrikaans poem – into English. It’s a poem that will “touch” you. On the link you can read the Afrikaans poem, actually, I don’t think Afrikaans speaking readers will read it as we all know this poem very well! I had to know it by heart when I was at primary. It’s part of our history and I even believe that many other culture groups in South Africa also know the poem. This is a poem written by one of our National Poets, A G Visser and it’s based on the truth. I have a link for you in this post where you can read the history behind the poem.
Amakeia
A G VISSER- poem translated
In the shadow of the mountains
bush-sheltered on all sides
stands alone the wattle-and-daub hut
on the boarder of Kaffircountry.
Softly Amakeia hums
on the banks of the River Kei
till he sleeps, the tender baby
of the white pioneer:
“Hush now, hush now, hush Little One
see how the evening star twinkles
No one will hurt you, Little One
hush now, even if Mummy isn’t near.”
Amakeia had promised
when her madam was dying
to look after her vulnerable baby
till he’s a grown-up boy.
Lovingly she cares
for the white child
till the light of day beams
from Amakeia’s friendly-loyal black face.
She sees the ominous
signs of war:
Quick the invasion, home and haven
Slaughtered and burnt down
Selflessly, death defying
with the white child on her back
to the Amakeia mountains
she’d hastily fled
“Hush now, hush now, Pikanini
over the mountains the moon rises
No one will see us here
Tomorrow we’ll go home.”
Oh, that the eyes of the scouts
had to discover their hiding place!
“Save him, he’s so little!” she begs
with hands stretched out.
Ragingly snarled the wild gang:
“Die or give the white child here!”
“Over my lifeless body,”
replied Amakeia vivaciously.
“My promise to my madam,
the best I could asked for:
Where he goes, Amakeia goes,
to care for him.”
“Unite in death
If in life you can’t be parted.
Quick death with her, Maxosas,
Let the glinting spears rain down!”
In the Amatola valleys
Howls only the winter wind
through the reeds in the moonlight: “Tula-tula – sleep my child.”
Translated:
(c) Nikita 9:30 14/2/2009
Please click here to read about the history behind the poem. The link will open in a new window.
A few years ago, when I taught 11 year old kiddies in SA, I used this next song in a listening skills exercise. About 2 years ago, when I walked the streets of London, this song came to my mind – of course also the lesson I taught! – and I thought by myself…what Roger sings is so true. I’ve never thought that I would one day walk the streets of London and experience what he sings in this song! Image: geographyofgrace.com Roger Whittaker – Streets of London Image: flickr.com: 2350/2261847707_ce11506ce7
I do like Katie’s music…she’s a lovely artist….do enjoy this song!
Katie Melua – The closest thing to crazy
Image: designbydani.com
Dennis East is a South African artist. Enjoy his song…I think this is a ’80’s song. Listen closely to the words! and Queen will always be on my music menu! The last song…For a kiss…is a cute song! Listen and enjoy!
Dennis East – A Rose has to die Image: farm3.static.flickr.com/2117/2268046339_6ec9b65f42
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.
She was created in a poem called Caïssa written in 1763 by English poet and philologist Sir William Jones.
Scacchia ludus was the basis for the poem written by William Jones in 1763. While Scacchis may have been the first Goddess of Chess, Caïssa is certainly the most famous and sustaining. In the poem Caïssa, Mars becomes infatuated with a nymph named Caïssa but she does not return the favor and is in fact a bit repulsed by the God of War. Not one to give up the fight, Mars enlists the aid of an ally, Euphron, the God of Sports and Games. Euphon creates the game of chess and designs a beautiful and elaborate board and chess set for Mars to give to Caïssa. In the poem, Mars gains Caïssa’s attention this way and teaches her how to play. As the game progresses, Caïssa’s resistance wears down and in the end, Mars wins more than just the game. But Caïssa wins eternal fame.
…fram’d a tablet of celestial mold,
Inlay’d with squares of silver and of gold;
Then of two metals form’d the warlike band,
That here compact in show of battle stand;
He taught the rules that guide the pensive game,
And call’d it Caissa from the dryad’s name:
(Whence Albion’s sons, who most its praise confess,
Approv’d the play, and nam’d it thoughtful Chess.)
Mars then presents the game of chess to Caissa in an attempt to win her affection.
For chess players, Caissa is often invoked as a source of inspiration or luck, e.g. “Caissa was with me in that game.”
Image: sbchess.sinfree.net
Caissa is also spelled Caïssa.
Caïssa is quite frequently referred to in chess commentary. Garry Kasparov uses this reference now and again, especially in his epic volume My Great Predecessors. It is used as a substitute for being lucky – “Caïssa was with me” – especially in unclear situations, for example in sacrifices. Caïssa as a concept has also been explored by some who seek the evidence of the sacred feminine in chess. The first (Russian) computer program that won the World Computer Chess Championship (in 1974) was also named Caïssa.
On this next link – which will open in a new window – you will also find a bit of info about Caïssa and a link to mythology-images.
The poem is based on Scacchia ludus (‘The Game of Chess’) written in 1510 by Marco Girolamo Vida– an Italian poet and later Bishop of Alba – where the nymph is called Scacchis. Jones also published an English language version of the poem.
CAISSA or
The Game at Chess- a Poem.
(written in the year 1763, by Sir William Jones)
(pronounced ky-eé-sah)
Of armies on the chequer’d field array’d,
And guiltless war in pleasing form display’d;
When two bold kings contend with vain alarms,
In ivory this, and that in ebon arms;
Sing, sportive maids, that haunt the sacred hill
Of Pindus, and the fam’d Pierian rill.
Thou, joy of all below, and all above,
Mild Venus, queen of laughter, queen of love;
Leave thy bright island, where on many a rose
And many a pink thy blooming train repose:
Assist me, goddess! since a lovely pair
Command my song, like thee devinely fair.
Near yon cool stream, whose living waters play,
And rise translucent in the solar ray;
Beneath the covert of a fragrant bower,
Where spring’s nymphs reclin’d in calm retreat,
And envying blossoms crouded round their seat;
Here Delia was enthron’d, and by her side
The sweet Sirena, both in beauty’s pride:
Thus shine two roses, fresh with early bloom,
That from their native stalk dispense perfume;
Their leaves unfolding to the dawning day
Gems of the glowing mead, and eyes of May.
A band of youths and damsels sat around,
Their flowing locks with braided myrtle bound;
Agatis, in the graceful dance admir’d,
And gentle Thyrsis, by the muse inspir’d;
With Sylvia, fairest of the mirthful train;
And Daphnis, doom’d to love, yet love in vain.
Now, whilst a purer blush o’erspreads her cheeks,
With soothing accents thus Sirena speaks:
“The meads and lawns are ting’d with beamy light,
And wakeful larks begin their vocal flight;
Whilst on each bank the dewdrops sweetly smile;
What sport, my Delia, shall the hours beguile?
Whall heavenly notes, prolong’d with various art,
Charm the fond ear, and warm the rapturous heart?
At distance shall we view the sylvan chace?
Or catch with silken lines the finny race?”
Then Delia thus: “Or rather, since we meet
By chance assembled in this cool retreat,
In artful contest let our warlike train
Move well-directed o’er the field preside:
No prize we need, our ardour to inflame;
We fight with pleasure, if we fight for fame.”
The nymph consents: the maids and youths prepare
To view the combat, and the sport to share:
But Daphnis most approv’d the bold design,
Whom Love instructed, and the tuneful Nine.
He rose, and on the cedar table plac’d
A polish’d board, with differing colours grac’d;
Squares eight times eight in equal order lie;
These bright as snow, those dark with sable dye;
Like the broad target by the tortoise born,
Or like the hide by spotted panthers worn.
Then from a chest, with harmless heroes stor’d,
O’er the smooth plain two well-wrought hosts he pour’d;
The champions burn’d their rivals to assail,
Twice eight in black, twice eight in milkwhite mail;
In shape and station different, as in name,
Their motions various, not their power the same.
Say, muse! (for Jove has nought from thee conceal’d)
Who form’d the legions on the level field?
High in the midst the reverend kings appear,
And o’er the rest their pearly scepters rear:
One solemn step, majestically slow,
They gravely move, and shun the dangerous foe;
If e’er they call, the watchful subjects spring,
And die with rapture if they save their king;
On him the glory of the day depends,
He once imprison’d, all the conflict ends.
The queens exulting near their consorts stand;
Each bears a deadly falchion in her hand;
Now here, now there, they bound with furious pride,
And thin the trmbling ranks from side to side;
Swift as Camilla flying o’er the main,
Or lightly skimming o’er the dewy plain:
Fierce as they seem, some bold Plebeian spear
May pierce their shield, or stop their full career.
The valiant guards, their minds on havock bent,
Fill the next squares, and watch the royal tent;
Tho’ weak their spears, tho’ dwarfish be their height,
Compact they move, the bulwark of the fight,
To right and left the martial wings display
Their shining arms, and stand in close array.
Behold, four archers, eager to advance,
Send the light reed, and rush with sidelong glance;
Through angles ever they assault the foes,
True to the colour, which at first they chose.
Then four bold knights for courage-fam’d and speed,
Each knight exalted on a prancing steed:
Their arching course no vulgar limit knows,
Tranverse they leap, and aim insidious blows:
Nor friends, nor foes, their rapid force restrain,
By on quick bound two changing squares they gain;
From varing hues renew the fierce attack,
And rush from black to white, from white to black.
Four solemn elephants the sides defend;
Benearth the load of ponderous towers they bend:
In on unalter’d line they tempt the fight;
Now crush the left, and now o’erwhelm the right.
Bright in the front the dauntless soldiers raise
Their polish’d spears; their steely helmets blaze:
Prepar’d they stand the daring foe to strike,
Direct their progress, but their wounds oblique.
Now swell th’ embattled troups with hostile rage,
And clang their shields, impatient to engage;
When Daphnis thus: A varied plain behold,
Where fairy kings their mimick tents unfold,
As Oberon, and Mab, his wayward queen,
Lead forth their armies on the daisied green.
No mortal hand the wond’rous sport contriv’d,
By gods invents, and from gods deriv’d;
From them the British nymphs receiv’d the game,
And play ech morn beneath the crystal Thame;
Hear then the tale, which they to Colin sung,
As idling o’er the lucid wave he hung.
A lovely dryad rang’d the Thracian wild,
Her air enchanting, and her aspect mild:
To chase the bounding hart was all her joy,
Averse from Hymen, and the Cyprian boy;
O’er hills an valleys was her beauty fam’d,
And fair Caissa was the damsel nam’d.
Mars saw the maid; with deep surprize he gaz’d,
Admir’d her shape, and every gesture prais’d:
His golden bow the child of Venus bent,
And through his breast a piecing arrow sent.
The reed was hope; the feathers, keen desire;
The point, her eyes; the barbs, ethereal fire.
Soon to the nymph he pour’d his tender strain;
The haughtly dryad scorn’d his amorous pain:
He told his woes, where’er the maid he found,
And still he press’d, yet still Caissa frown’d;
But ev’n her frowns (ah, what might smiles have done!)
Fir’d all his soul, and all his senses won.
He left his car, by raging tigers drawn,
And lonely wander’d o’er the dusky lawn;
Then lay desponding near a murmuring stream,
And fair Caissa was his plaintive theme.
A naiad heard him from her mossy bed,
And through the crystal rais’d her placid head;
Then mildly spake: “O thou, whom love inspires,
Thy tears will nourish, not allay thy fires.
The smiling blossoms drink the pearly dew;
And ripening fruit the feather’d race pursue;
The scaly shoals devour the silken weeds;
Love on our sighs, and on our sorrow feeds.
Then weep no more; but, ere thou canst obtain
Balm to thy wounds, and solace to thy pain,
With gentle art thy martial look beguile;
Be mild, and teach thy rugged brow to smile.
Canst thou no play, no soothing game devise;
To make thee lovely in the damsel’s eyes?
So may thy prayers assuage the scornful dame,
And ev’n Caissa own a mutual frame.”
Kind nymph, said Mars, thy counsel I approve;
Art, only art, her ruthless breast can move.
but when? or how? They dark discourse explain:
So may thy stream ne’er swell with gushing rain;
So may thy waves in one pure current flow,
And flowers eternal on thy border blow!”
To whom the maid replied with smiling mien:
“Above the palace of the Paphian queen
Love’s brother dwells, a boy of graceful port,
By gods nam’d Euphron, and by mortals Sport:
Seek him; to faithful ears unfold thy grief,
And hope, ere morn return, a sweet relief.
His temple hangs below the azure skies;
Seest thou yon argent cloud? ‘Tis there it lies.”
This said, she sunk beneath the liquid plain,
And sought the mansion of her blue-hair’d train.
Meantime the god, elate with heart-felt joy,
Had reach’d the temple of the sportful boy;
He told Caissa’s charms, his kindled fire,
The naiad’s counsel, and his warm desire.
“Be swift, he added, give my passion aid;
A god requests.” – He spake, and Sport obey’d.
He fram’d a tablet of celestial mold,
Inlay’d with squares of silver and ofgold;
Then of two metals form’d the warlike band,
That here compact in show of battle stand;
He taught the rules that guide the pensive game,
And call’d it Cassa from the dryad’s name:
(Whence Albion’s sons, who most its praise confess,
Approv’d the play, and nam’d it thoughtful Chess.)
The god delighted thank’d indulgent Sport;
Then grasp’d the board, and left his airy court.
With radiant feet he pierc’d the clouds; nor stay’d,
Till in the woods he saw the beauteous maid:
Tir’d with the chase the damsel set reclin’d,
Her girdle loose, her bosom unconfin’d.
He took the figure of a wanton faun,
And stood before her on the flowery lawn;
Then show’d his tablet: pleas’d the nymph survey’d
The lifeless troops in glittering ranks display’d;
She ask’d the wily sylvan to explain
The various motions of the splendid train;
With eager heart she caught the winning lore,
And thought ev’n Mars less hateful than before;
“What spell,” said she, “deceiv’d my careless mind?
The god was fair, and I was most unkind.”
She spoke, and saw the changing faun assume
A milder aspect, and a fairer bloom;
His wreathing horns, that from his temples grew,
Flow’d down in curls of bright celestial hue;
The dappled hairs, that veil’d his loveless face,
Blaz’d into beams, and show’d a heavenly grace;
The shaggy hide, that mantled o’er his breast,
Was soften’d to a smooth transparent vest,
That through its folds his vigorous bosom show’d,
And nervous limbs, where youthful ardour glow’d:
(Had Venus view’d him in those blooming charms,
Not Vulcan’s net had forc’d her from his arms.)
With goatlike feet no more he mark’d the ground,
But braided flowers his silken sandals bound.
The dryad blush’d; and, as he press’d her, smil’d,
Whilst all his cares one tender glance beguil’d.
He ends: To arms, the maids and striplings cry;
To arms, the groves and sounding vales reply.
Sirena led to war the swarthy crew,
And Delia those that bore the lily’s hue.
Who first, O muse, began the bold attack;
The white refulgent, or the mournful black?
Fair Delia first, as favoring lots ordain,
Moves her pale legions tow’rd the sable train:
From thought to thought her lively fancy flies,
Whilst o’er the board she darts her sparkling eyes.
At length the warrior moves with haughty strides;
Who from the plain the snowy king divides:
With equal haste his swarthy rival bounds;
His quiver rattles, and his buckler sounds:
Ah! hapless youths, with fatal warmth you burn;
Laws, ever fix’d, forbid you to return.
then from the wing a short-liv’d spearman flies,
Unsafely bold, and see! he dies, he dies:
The dark-brow’d hero, with one vengeful blow
Of life and place deprives his ivory foe.
Now rush both armies o’er the burnish’d field,
Hurl the swift dart, and rend the bursting shield.
Here furious knights on fiery coursers prance,
but see! the white-rob’d Amazon beholds
Where the dark host its opening van unfolds:
Soon as her eye discerns the hostile maid,
By ebon shield, and ebon helm betray’d;
Seven squares she passed with majestic mien,
And stands triumphant o’er the falling queen.
Perplex’d, and sorrowing at his consort’s fate,
The monarch burn’d with rage, despair, and hate:
Swift from his zone th’ avenging blade he drew,
And, mad with ire, the proud virago slew.
Meanwhile sweet smiling Delia’s wary king
Retir’d from fight behind the circling wing.
Long time the war in equal balance hung;
Till, unforseen, an ivory courser sprung,
And, wildly prancing in an evil hour,
Attack’d at once the monarch and the tower:
Sirena blush’d; for, as the rules requir’d,
Her injur’d sovereign to his tent retir’d;
Whilst her lost castle leaves his threatening height,
And adds new glory to th’ exulting knight.
At this, pale fear oppress’d the drooping maid,
And on her cheek the rose began to fade:
A crystal tear, that stood prepar’d to fall,
She wip’d in silence, and conceal’d from all;
From all but Daphnis; He remark’d her pain,
And saw the weakness of her ebon train;
Then gently spoke: “Let me your loss supply,
And either nobly win, or nobly dir;
Me oft has fortune crown’d with fair success,
And led to triumph in the fields ofChess.”
He said: the willing nymph her place resign’d,
And sat at distance on the bank reclin’d.
Thus when Minerva call’d her chief to arms,
And Troy’s high turret shook with dire alarms,
The Cyprian goddess wounded left the plain,
And Mars engag’d a mightier force in vain.
Strait Daphnis leads his squadron to the field;
(To Delia’s arms ’tis ev’n a joy to yield.)
Each guileful snare, and subtle art he tries,
But finds his heart less powerful than her eyes:
Wisdom and strength superior charms obey;
And beauty, beauty, wins the long-fought day.
By this a hoary chief, on slaughter bent,
Approach’d the gloomy king’s unguarded tent;
Where, late, his consort spread dismay around,
Now her dark corse lies bleeding on the ground.
Hail, happy youth! they glories not unsung
Shall live eternal on the poet’s tongue;
For thou shalt soon receive a splendid change,
And o’er the plain with nobler fury range.
The swarthy leaders saw the storm impend,
And strove in vain their sovereign to defend:
Th’ invader wav’d his silver lance in air,
And flew like lightning to the fatal square;
His limbs dilated in a moment grew
To stately height, and widen’d to the view;
More fierce his look, more lion-like his mien,
Sublime he mov’d, and seem’d a warrior queen.
As when the sage on some unfolding plant
Has caught a wandering fly, or frugal ant,
His hand the microscopic frame applies,
And lo! a bright hair’d monster meets his eyes;
He sees new plumes in slender cases roll’d;
Here stain’d with azure, there bedropp’d with gold;
Thus, on the alter’d chief both armies gaze,
And both the kings are fix’d with deep amaze.
The sword, which arm’d the snow-white maid before,
He noew assumes, and hurls the spear no more;
The springs indignant on the dark-rob’d band,
And knights and archers feel his deadly hand.
Now flies the monarch of the sable shield,
His legions vanquish’d, o’er the lonely field:
So when the morn, by rosy coursers drawn,
With pearls and rubies sows the verdant lawn,
Whilst each pale star from heaven’s blue vault retires,
Still Venus gleams, and last of all expires.
He hears, where’er he moves, the dreadful sound;
Check the deep vales, and Check the woods rebound.
No place remains: he sees the certain fate,
And yields his throne to ruin, and Checkmate.
A brighter blush o’erspreads the damsel’s cheeks,
And mildly thus the conquer’d stripling speaks:
“A double triumph, Delia, hast thou won,
By Mars protected, and by Venus’ son;
The first with conquest crowns thy matchless art,
The second points those eyes at Daphnis’ heart.”
She smil’d; the nymphs and amorous youths arise,
And own that beauty gain’d the nobler prize.
Low in their chest the mimic troops were lay’d,
And peaceful slept the sable hero’s shade
I think Caïssa was with me in this game…haha.. I played against one of my all time favourite players. We always have five games going at any one time and I always try to save my Knights. In this end position, you can see why I do save them whenever I can. I know most players prefer Bishops, but I always prefer my Knights! See the pgn-file which I’ve copied here to look at.
Now, for another all-time-favourite…the music of Ravel…the ostinato from Bolero, though I do apologise for the funny sound you will hear.
Boléro became Ravel’s most famous composition, much to the surprise of the composer, who had predicted that most orchestras would refuse to play it. It is usually played as a purely orchestral work, only rarely being staged as a ballet.
This entry is like scrambled eggs! ..some English..some Afrikaans… some reading…some listening…some chess, some poetry, make your pick and choose what you want to do…and I hope you find something good here….I’m going to explain in short what the magazine is about. This is a South African family magazine, since the 1900’s and I’ve blogged about it before, but want to blog more and focus more on poetry that was published in these issues and about the fashion of the time and whatever you’ll find here…it’s really a mix! The three issues are in this post as PDF files if you want to download it and my other entry is only in English, if you want to click on the link to read the English-entry posted in 2007.
You will find a poem by Goethe.. The Fisherman…translated in Afrikaans in 1915/6 – by someone. The poet’s name was unfortunately not published, only initials, at least it said that the poem was translated from the German-poem. The poems in this entry are written in Afrikaans, but Afrikaans was still busy developing and you will spot the similarities to the Dutch Language in the words/phrases. By looking at these images you can get a pretty good idea of what the fashion of the time was like, the captions with the images will also guide you and you’ve thought that my blog is a chess blog only…hehe..actually, my blog says…anything/everything and chess! But as always, I will try and link something in my entry to chess, if possible! So…here it goes…some extracts of sites – links which you can follow too – that tells us that chess was a game that was enjoyed by South Africans too…from early years on….and for those of you who want to listen so some beautiful Afrikaans music…there’s a song for you to listen to…called..”Korreltjie Sand” – (grain of sand), the poem of Ingrid Jonker…as sung by Chris Chameleon. The following three links are pdf’s which you can download and it’s old Huisgenoot-mags. All the links will open in a new window. These files are quite large, they do take a few seconds to download. Wees geduldig! huisgenoot-julie-1916
This link is from my blogwhere I’ve previously posted in English about Ingrid Jonker with external links you can enjoy. She comitted suicide by walking into the sea.
By downloading the pdf-format of the old Huisgenoot issues, you can compare the covers which is interesting to see how much it’s changed. Even the format has changed over the years from a quite larger format to what it is now.
At the bottom of this link, – for people who want to do some “listening” only…there are some music files…some music from the good old “past”…I know the South Africans reading here – especially if you’re not “at home” – will appreciate these songs… and if you want to download the songs in a zip folder, go to this blog and voila! music-a-la-in-a-jiffy…or is it in a “zip”-py! For English “foreigners” reading here…”Rabbit” was one of South Africa’s rock band of the mid 70’s and they had a big hit…”Charlie”…read about Trevor Rabin…one member of the band…and why he’s now in Hollywood! You can listen to Charlie too…and a few other brilliant songs…all by Saffa-artists. Do enjoy! The first song at the bottom of this post, is an Afrikaans love song though..so go on, play it for your girl friend/boy friend…the title of the song…something like..”Are you still thinking of me”?
If you can’t read the following paragraph…it is Afrikaans! Ek het in Sept 2007 ‘n blog-inskrywing gemaak oor die 1916-Huisgenoot en hier sal jy ook die skakel kry na Tukkies waar ek die Huisgenoot-publikasies gekry het. Dit is in PDF-formaat en die skakels sal in ‘n nuwe bladsy oopmaak. Elkeen van die publikasies is sowat 8 MB en neem ‘n paar sekondes om af te laai en oop te maak. Wees maar bietjie geduldig. Daar is nog ‘n paar gediggies vanuit hierdie toeka-se-dae-uitgawes wat ek sal byvoeg met die tyd. Ek hoop julle geniet die musiek hier ook!
Chess played in South Africa in the early years: Organised club league chess is over 100 years old in Cape Town. Cape Town chess club, the oldest in South Africa (founded in 1885) together with Woodstock, Tokai and the YMCA club formed a union of clubs in 1907. Each club entered one team in the league at a fee of 1 pound-1-0 per team in the same year.
Teams of five competed in the inaugural competition. Cape Town was expected to win and did so but only by one point. In the double round robin they scored 10 match points, Woodstock 9, YMCA 6 and Tokai 0. Cape Town sensationally lost in the opening round to Woodstock, a club barely a year old, and had to field to their strongest possible team for the replay which they won by a single point. Source: Chess for all. The link will open in a new window. Some Chess records …about South Africa… Longest running correspondence chess rivalry. Reinhart Straszacker and Hendrick van Huyssteen, both of South Africa, played their first game of correspondence chess in 1946. They played for over 53 years, until Straszacker died in 1999. They played 112 games, with both men winning 56 games each. Source… https://www.chess.com/article/view/records-in-chess The Chessmaster Borislav Kosti toured South Africa in the 1920’s. I’ve lost my original link about him, but found another link…just after his image…and here’s a wiki-link too..http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borislav_Kosti%C4%87
Bora (Borislav) Kosti – a Chess Grandmaster of the 1920’s
Bora Kostic was born on 24 February 1887 in Vrsac. His first chess steps he started when he was ten, and as early as he was in grammar school he was one of the best chess-players in Vrsac. His biggest competitor from the grammar school days was five years older, Sava Gerdec, who taught him the chess theory. Their fight for the chess reputation was finished when Kostic went to study to Budapest. He finished Oriental trade academy there, but without neglecting chess.
His first great chess result was achieved in Budapest 1909, when he won at the tournament of the greatest Hungarian chess amateurs. This victory opened the door of the Vienna chess society to young Kostic, and that was the chess metropolis of that time.
In 1911 he achieved sensational victory in the match with the American champion, Frank Marshall. His first real “baptism of fire” Bora Kostic had that same year at the International grand master tournament Karsbad (Karlove Vari). In extraordinarily strong competition he won the title of the international master. Then followed the visit to Nordic countries where he won over the champions of Danmark and Sweden, as well as the very powerful Rudolf Spielmann.
In 1913 he moved to the capital of Argentina, Buenos Aires where he worked as the chess lecturer at the Military academy. He had been cruising on one Argetine warship across many seas. In Argentina he won in the matches with all their best players, and also the champion of this country, Roland Ilja, 6:0.
In 1915 he went to New York and started the chess tour from the east to the west coast. On that famous six-month-long tour, Bora Kostic achieved the world record in the number of played games on simultaneous exhibitions. Out of 3281played games he lost only 112, and made draw in 237. During his stay in America he visited Nikola Tesla, while he was the chess teacher to the famous tenor singer Enrico Caruso.Playing numerous games and tournaments, master tournament of the “Manhattan chess” club being the most famous in 1918, Bora Kostic was ranked immediately after Capablanca on the whole American continent. Especially because their four games played at two tournaments ended draw. That was why their match in 1919 happened, when the genius Capablanca won with the great result.
In the same year he returned to Europe and in Hastings took the second place after Capablanca. The next year in Hastings he took the first place with 100% gained points, which nobody repeated during the long tradition of this tournament. Then came important tournament results: Gothenburg 1920 – IV place, Budapest 1921 – III-IV place, Hague 1921 IV-V place. In England he played simultaneous games and blind productions, animating the chess world with enthusiasm.
In Yugoslavia of that time the rivalry between dr Milan Vidmar and Bora Kostic was evident. Unfortunately, the match, the result of which should have shown who should have been given the title of the Yugoslav champion, was never organized.
Bora Kostic especially liked to travel and see new countries and customs, but also to play at the chess tournaments during those travels. So he organized world chess tour which lasted from 11 November 1923 to 28 May 1926. As he himself said to his friend Kosta Jovanovic immediately before the trip: “I want to see the world, those parts of the world that were only the objects of my imagination. I believe that on that trip there will be a lot of interest for chess. ” That was the mission which brought commercial success of great scale to the world chess. Certain Yugoslav master, demonstrating chess on, so to speak every step, in different countries, talks about his homeland about which many people have never even heard before. First he set off to Australia and New Zealand. Then over South Africa overland to Kenia, where the famous match on the equator was played. Bora Kostic was on the northern hemisphere, and his opponent on the south. His next stop was India, where he was at the end met by maharaja from Patiale (Schandagar), who organized tournaments on the hights of the Himalayas. From there he went to Nepal and on Tibet, and then to the island of Java in Indonesia. From Java he crossed to Sumatra where he played with the chief of the Bataki tribe. From there he moved to the Philipines, and then to Hong Kong and China. From China he moved to the Soviet Union from where his return to Vrsac began. Through Siberia, over Irkutsk, Novosibirsk, Omsk, Sverdlovsk, Moskow, Odessa, Leningrad to Riga. Everywhere he played simultaneous matches, blind games, matches, and as he himself confessed the greatest number of lost games he had, were played just in the Soviet Union. Finally, at the end of May 1926, he arrived to Vrsac and ended the first part of his trip around the world at the chess-board. Tireless chess traveller, he put foundations for the future chess links among the peoples of the whole world. …
First chess Olympics were played in 1927. godine. Bora Kostic played at the first board of the Yugoslav representation and won 8,5 points out of 15 games. The following year he won in Trencanske Toplice, and in 1930 he was IV in Nice. In the same year he continued his trip around the world. He went to Mexico where he stayed eight months. From there he went to Cuba, then to America, and came back from there in the middle of 1931 to arrive to the Olympics which took place in Prague. On that Olympics Yugosalvia was IV, the contribution of Bora Kostic on the third board was very important.Then came extraordinarily strong tournament in Bled , which was marked by the world champion Alekhin.
The first Yugoslav championships took place in 1935 in Belgrade. Bora Kostic shared the first place with Vasja Pirc. Bora Kostic achieved the greatest tournament result in 1938 in Ljubljana at the Yugoslav championships. With 10,5 points out of 15 games he won over the best Yugoslav players, as well as over Szabo, Tartakower and Steiner.
At the beginning of World War II the chess activity stopped for all those who did not want to play in Nazi Germany. Among them was also Bora Kostic who spent some time in the concentration camp in Veliki Beckerek (Zrenjanin) because of his patriotism. After the war he took part at several championships and smaller tournaments, and the last competition at which he won was the tournament of veterans – Zurich 1962.
Bora Kostic died in Belgrade, 3 November 1963. Perhaps, when we take into consideration only the objective power of some players, Uncle Bora would not be ranked in the world top. It may happen that his rich talent has worn out on his road filled with all kinds of events. The circumstances he lived under later did not allow him to fullfill his creative potentials to their full extent. However, as the chess-player he was a unique, extraordinary person. He devoted his life to chess and he was thrilled with it to the end of his life.The magic of the chess game took him to the great life adventure – to the long journey through the exotic, in that time unknown world. Source: See the link by his photo- it will open in a new window. You can play through his games on the link too.
Mode : Neklyne en haarstyle / Fashion: Necklines and hairstyles
Girl's dress
Marriage-couple
Mode/Fashion
Modes van 1916/Fashion 1916
Akteurs/Actors
Chris Chameleon singing “Korreltjie Sand” – (Grain of Sand)
Korreltjie Sand – lyrics
korreltjie korreltjie sand
klippie gerol in my hand
klippie gesteek in my sak
word korreltjie klein en plat
sonnetjie groot in die blou
ek maak net ‘n ogie van jou
blink in my korreltjie klippie
dit is genoeg vir die rukkie pyltjie geveer en verskiet
liefde verklein in die niet
timmerman bou aan ‘n kis
ek maak my gereed vir die niks
korreltjie klein is my woord
korreltjie niks is my dood
korreltjie klein
korreltjie sand kindjie wat skreeu uit die skoot
niks in die wêreld is groot
stilletjies lag nou en praat
stilte in doodloopstraat
wêreldjie rond en aardblou
korreltjie maak ek van jou
huisie met deur en twee skrefies
tuintjie met blou madeliefies pyltjie geveer en verskiet
liefde verklein in die niet
timmerman bou aan ‘n kis
ek maak my gereed vir die niks
korreltjie klein is my woord
korreltjie niks is my dood
korreltjie klein
korreltjie sand (5x)
You can read about Chris Chameleon on this link which will open in a new link.
The Original poem
Korreltjie niks is my dood Ingrid Jonker (1933-1965)
Korreltjie korreltjie sand
klippie gerol in my hand
klippie gesteek in my sak
word korreltjie klein en plat
Sonnetjie groot in die blou
korreltjie maak ek van jou
blink in my korreltjie klippie
dit is genoeg vir die rukkie
Kindjie wat skreeu uit die skoot
niks in die wêreld is groot
stilletjies lag nou en praat
stilte in doodloopstraat
Wêreldjie rond en aardblou
ek maak net ‘n ogie van jou
huisie met deur en twee skrefies
tuintjie met blou madeliefies
Pyltjie geveer in verskiet
liefde verklein in die niet
Timmerman bou aan ‘n kis
Ek maak my gereed vir die niks
Korreltjie klein is my woord
Korreltjie niks is my dood
Kontras Wit is die wêreld,
wit van die sneeuw.
Bokant die water
sweef daar ‘n meeuw;
blouw is die hemel,
nergens ‘n wolk:
oral is daar vrede
rondom die kolk.
Spierwitte wêreld,
diep in jouw siel
sug jij en smag jij
om te verniel;
skijn is jouw vrede,
donker jouw hart:
jij is maar blij oor
ander se smart
A D Keet: Amsterdam, Kersmis 1914
Digter Is Hij
Digter is hij, die digters-taal
Diep uit die grond van sijn hart kan haal;
En hij voel in sijn hart ‘n heerlike drang
Om ‘n vlugtige stemming in woorde te vang.
Digter is hij, die verse maak–
Verse, wat duisende harte kan raak.
Maar hij weet nie, waar hij die mag van haal:
Dis ‘n gawe, wat bo uit die hemel daal.
Digter is hij, die oog en oor
Tref met ‘n pragtige woordekoor;
En hij skep sijn lied soos ‘n vooltjie vrij,
Die sijn hele siel aan die wêreld belij.
Digter is hij, die sing en sing,
Fraai als ‘n vooltjie, wat vreugde bring:
Want hij hef sijn stem op ‘n lieflike maat
Van die môre vroeg tot die awend laat.
Digter is hij, die deur en deur
Voel, wat rondom en in hom gebeur;
Die sijn siel se gevoelens uit kan giet
In ‘n lewende, sprekende, roerende lied.
A D Keet
Wagter op die Toring
I (Januarie 1913)
Wagter op die toring,
sê, wat sien jij daar?
Ek sien duisend-duisendtalle
voor die gragte, voor die walle,
om die vesting aan te val.
Maar geen grag sal hul oor steek nie,
en geen poort sal hul deur breek nie,
want die burgers op die mure
staan getrouw en pal.
Wagter op die toring,
sê, is daar gevaar?
Is eie strijd dan uitgestrede,
dat die vijandsvlag in vrede
oor ons eie vesting waai?
Ag! die wagter lê in bande,
neergevel in bitt’re skande,
want die burgers op die mure
het die burg verraai.
II
(Junie 1915)
Wagter, die nag is donker,
donker en o, so bang:
vijande buite, wat raas en woed,
vriende gekeerd teen hul eie bloed,
en oor die burgers ‘n doodse slaap–
wagter, die nag was bang.
Trouw was jouw wag op die voorste wal,
helder en luid jouw basuingeskal,
maar oor die burgers ‘n doodse slaap–
wagter, hoe lang, hoe lang?
Wagter, siedaar, die skadewee
versmelt als, ‘n ligte skim
Hoor ‘n geruis in die beendre! die dood
voel nuwe lewe ontkiem in haar skoot.
Strijders, ontwaakte, die swaard ontbloot!
Wagter, ‘n goue môreson
verrijs aan die oosterkim.
—H A FAGAN
Die Visser
(Uit die Duits van Goethe)
Die water ruis, die water rol:
‘n visser sonder smart
sit daar te hengel vredevol,
ja koel tot in sijn hart.
En wijl hij loer en wijl hij sit,
deel sig die vloed in twee:
‘n vogtig meerwijf, haelwit,
stijg uit die siedende see.
Sij sing tot hom, sij spreek tot hom;
“Wat lok jij uit mijn skoot
“met mensekuns en menselis
“mijn kinders tot die dood?
“Wis jij hoe rijk die vissies is
“hier onder in die see,
“dan sou jij afdaal en gewis
“ook vind die ware vree.
“Moet nie die son en maan hul rig
“vir laafnis tot die vloed?
“Toon golwe-aad’mend hul gesig
“nie tweemaal skoner gloed?
“Ag jij die diepe hemel lig,
“die vog-beglansde blouw?
“Lok nie jouw eie aangesig
“jou in die eeuw’ge douw?”
Die water ruis, die water rol;
benat sijn naakte voet;
sijn hart word van verlange vol
als hij ‘n minnegroet.
Sij spreek tot hom, sij sing tot hom:
weerstaan kon hij nie meer;
half trek sij hom, half sink hij in,
en niemand sien hom weer.
J J S
Aan Mijn Vaderland
Trouwe liefde al mijn dae,
sweer ek jou met hand en hart!
Al jouw vreug is mijn behae,
en jouw leed mijn diepste smart!
Want mijn alles, selfs mijn lewe,
dank ek jou, mijn vaderland:
dis van jou mij vrij gegewe,
uitgereik met milde hand.
Daarom sing ek jou mijn sange
en mijn lied’re vir altijd;
daarom is ook mijn verlange
en mijn strewe jou gewijd.
Maar ons is nie net verenig
als jij in die sonskijn baai:
ek wil ook jouw smarte lenig,
als die stormwind anstig waai.
En nie net met woordeklanke
is ek tot jouw diens bereid:
met mijn daad is jij te danke
in jouw nood en angs en strijd.
Ek sal pal staan, tot ek sterwe
teen tiranne, wat jou druk:
tronk, verbanning wil ek erwe,
eer ek voor hul gruwels buk.
Is die nagte soms ook duister,
eind’lik daag dit in die oos,
en die dag vol glans en luister
bring die matte strijder troos.
Trouwe liefde al mijn dae.
sweer ek jou met hand en hart!
Al jouw vreug is mijn behae,
en jouw leed mijn diepste smart!
W.K. van Elssen
WINTER
Die eikebome
staan bleek en kaal,
en die popliere
als as so vaal,
Oor tuin en velde
kom elke nag
‘n kille laken
van spierwit prag.
Die newels drijwe
die vleie oor
en keer die sonskijn
aan al kant voor.
Die awendwindjie
speel langs die hang,
druk ijsig soene
op elke wang.
Dis oral aaklige!
Natuur is dood;
en ook mijn harte
word swaar als lood.
Maar nee, mijn liefste!
ek kan nie treur:
jouw liefde lewe
om op te beur.
Jouw oë melde
in minnegloed
waar wintersweeë
vergeefs teen woed.
Dit wil mijn siele
verwarm, verblij,
en vir die lente
reeds voorberei.
W K van Elssen
THE FISHERMAN.
THE waters rush’d, the waters rose,
A fisherman sat by,
While on his line in calm repose
He cast his patient eye.
And as he sat, and hearken’d there,
The flood was cleft in twain,
And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair
Sprang from the troubled main.
She sang to him, and spake the while:
“Why lurest thou my brood,
With human wit and human guile
From out their native flood?
Oh, couldst thou know how gladly dart
The fish across the sea,
Thou wouldst descend, e’en as thou art,
And truly happy be!
“Do not the sun and moon with grace
Their forms in ocean lave?
Shines not with twofold charms their face,
When rising from the wave?
The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,–
The moist yet radiant blue,–
Not thine own form,–to tempt thy lot
‘Midst this eternal dew?”
The waters rush’d, the waters rose,
Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love’s words were those,
His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
His doom was fix’d, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
And ne’er again was seen.
Goethe: 1779
An Afrikaans love song…
Luister na “Dink jy darem nog aan my”
Sias Reyneke was member of “Groep Twee” – (Group Two)
Joy: Paradise Road
Joy
Master Jack
It’s a strange, strange world we live in, Master Jack.
You taught me all I know and I never look back.
It’s a very strange world and I thank you, Master Jack.
You took a coloured ribbon from out of the sky,
and taught me how to use it as the years went by.
To tie up all your problems and make them believe.
And then to sell them to the people in the street.
It’s a strange, strange world we live in, Master Jack.
You taught me all I know and I never look back.
It’s a very strange world and I thank you, Master Jack.
I saw right thru the way you started teaching me now.
So someday soon you could get to use me somehow.
I thank you very much you know you’ve been very kind.
But, I’d better move along before you change my mind
It’s a strange, strange world we live in, Master Jack
No hard feelings if I never come back
It’s a very strange world and I thank you, Master Jack
You taught me all the things the way you’d like ’em to be.
But I’d like to see if other people agree.
It’s all very interesting the way you describe
But I’d like to see the world thru my own eyes.
It’s a strange, strange world we live in, Master Jack.
No hard feelings if I never come back
You’re a very strange man and I thank you, Master Jack.
You’re a very strange man and I thank you, Master Jack.
You’re a very strange man, aren’t you, Master Jack?
Four Jacks and a Jill with “Master Jack”
http://www.mnet.co.za/Mnet/Shows/carteblanche/story.asp?Id=2876 Rabbit…South Africa’s rock group from the 70’s with Duncan Faure, Trevor Rabin, Dave Matthews…read the next article about Trevor! Read this article about Trevor Rabin… now in Hollywood…writing the score for Hollywood movies…-follow the link to Mnet.
He wrote the score for Hollywood movies like Enemy of the State, Armageddon and National Treasure and won more awards than he can count, including several Grammies.
It started off with classical piano lessons as a boy. ? He then embarked on a lifelong love affair with the guitar. The name is Trevor Rabin, South Africa’s celebrated guitarist, singer, songwriter and composer.
You might remember him from Rabbit or Yes, but Trevor Rabin has left the rock stage for the lights of Hollywood. He has written the score for 25 movies.
Here at his Los Angeles home studio, he creates the stuff Hollywood dreams are made of.
A stone’s throw from the houses of the producers and actors he composes for, Trevor is crafting away at the music of yet another feature film – Glory Road, to be released soon
If you would watch or listen to a movie without the music, you would be amazed as to what a difference the score makes. And that is where Trevor has found a new profession – playing with our emotions. Continue reading on the link in the start of this article…and now you can listen to..Charlie!
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.
The Dancer: Image: noise.net/featured-work.asp?artist_id=8618&category_id=4
This entry is quite an odd entry. I have a few snippets of music files which I truly enjoy and they are some of the about 2GB music files on my MP3-player. The first file is the Elizabeth Serenade, then you can listen to “The mouth organ boy” – by Vicky Leandros. The 3rd song is by Laurika Rauch..”The song of the trains” and then you can enjoy Jackson Browne’s “For a dancer”- a bit down in this entry!
I also have a poem! “The Night Mail”. I had to teach this poem to Y4’s a few years ago and when I searched for the poem, I found it on a website which was about the Night Mail…Royal Mail! It was such interesting reading – the history of the night mail, but what was sad, was the fact that the services of the Night Mail train were terminated. The same time it was about to be terminated, I came across the site and the poem. There was an abundance of info on that site, but it seems to me that the site, where I found the poem, doesn’t exist anymore! What a shame! I could find you a newspaper article about this train- at least! The poem by Auden is about this train! The Royal Night Mail was about the train from London to Scotland/Wales…see the youtube movie-links at the bottom of this post… and there are even more movies on youtube to be seen! Do enjoy it! Enjoy the music here too! Wherever you go this week, make sure you “make a joyful sound”! – see the lyrics of “For a Dancer”.
Night Train (Commentary for a G.P.O. Film, July 1935)
by W.H. Auden (1907 – 1973)
This is the Night Mail crossing the border,Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens. Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers’ declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart’s outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston’s or Crawford’s:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
It was one of the world’s great railway journeys, but you could not book a seat on it. It inspired two of Britain’s greatest 20th-century poets, and Britain’s most infamous bunch of 20th-century villains. It rushed through the darkness, utterly reliable, while the rest of us slept. But last night it ran for the last time.
Please clickHERE to read more about the last Night Mail train from London. The link will open in a new window.
Keep a fire burning in your eye
Pay attention to the open sky
You never know what will be coming down
I dont remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you’d always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you’re nowhere to be found
I dont know what happens when people die
Can’t seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It’s like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can’t sing
I can’t help listening
And I can’t help feeling stupid standing round
Crying as they ease you down
cause I know that youd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
(right on dancing)
No matter what fate chooses to play
(theres nothing you can do about it anyway)
Just do the steps that youve been shown
By everyone you’ve ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Anothers steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you’ll do alone
Keep a fire for the human race
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don’t let the uncertainty turn you around
(the world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound
Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie a reason you were alive
But you’ll never know.
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.
Image: dreams.co.uk How do you feel about sleep? Sometimes I can go a whole night without sleep, but I will surely feel knackered two days later! I love being in bed at night when the rain is tapping on the roof. Weekends I like to lie in…and then get a nice breakfast in bed! …now to the music! I’ve these wonderful music, two tracks from a chess friend and he also sent me the third track by Hennie Bekker and suddenly! I found myself busy with an entry on sleep!! I even found you an interesting link about the stages of sleep and one about sleep deprivation…that’s for me, actually…lol! It was truly not my intention to blog about sleep when I uploaded these snippets of music, but at the end, after searching for some images, I came across these interesting info and sites and thought to share it with you as it was interesting to me. I blog about stuff which I enjoy/find interesting…apart from chess…my blog is sort of a “gathering space” for info I want to refer back to, but also in the hope that other people will find it useful too or will enjoy it at least. In the same process, I also found music for children with Aspergers! I’ve worked with children with Aspergers syndrome, Down Syndrome and also Autistic children and they are all a pleasure to work with!
I’ve come across music for ASD– the link will open in a new window – which you will find in this post. You can read more about ASD on the link and there’s another link in this post for you to follow up too, if you are more interested in Autistic children. Seven hours sleep a night helps reduce heart problems. Read the article…the link will open in a new window.
Firstly, enjoy “Sea of Dreams”…this track is about 5 min, but you get to listen to only a taster of it, as well as the other tracks. Tranquil Realms is about 11 min but the taster only about 2 min. For Afrikaans speaking people, I wonder if you can remember the Afrikaans poem about sleep! Please find it at the bottom of my post, a wonderful poem by DF Malherbe! In this poem he asks God to shut his eyes one day like the little girl’s when she falls asleep… On my blog on this link you can read about dreams…the link will open in a new window.
Sea of Dreams..by Angelle
Sleepy Time…by Angelle
Hennie Bekker…Tranquil Realms
Read on this link about sleep cycles. The link will open in a new window. Read on this pdf-link on wiki about dreaming.
The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Brain and Behavior
Sarah Ledoux
Sleep deprivation is a commonplace occurrence in modern culture. Every day there seems to be twice as much work and half as much time to complete it in. This results in either extended periods of wakefulness or a decrease in sleep over an extended period of time. While some people may like to believe that they can train their bodies to not require as much sleep as they once did this belief is false . Sleep is needed to regenerate certain parts of the body, especially the brain, so that it may continue to function optimally. After periods of extended wakefulness or reduced sleep neurons may begin to malfunction, visibly effecting a person’s behavior. Some organs, such as muscles, are able to regenerate even when a person is not sleeping so long as they are resting. This could involve lying awake but relaxed within a quite environment. Even though cognitive functions might not seem necessary in this scenario the brain, especially the cerebral cortex, is not able to rest but rather remains semi-alert in a state of “quiet readiness” . Certain stages of sleep are needed for the regeneration of neurons within the cerebral cortex while other stages of sleep seem to be used for forming new memories and generating new synaptic connections. The effects of sleep deprivation on behavior have been tested with relation to the presence of activity in different sections of the cerebral cortex.
The temporal lobe of the cerebral cortex is associated with the processing of language. During verbal learning tests on subjects who are fully rested functional magnetic resonance imaging scans show that this area of the brain is very active. However, in sleep deprived subjects there is no activity within this region. The effects of this inactivity can be observed by the slurred speech in subjects who have gone for prolonged periods with no sleep .
Please click HERE more about sleep deprivation and brain behaviour…the link will open in a new window.
The music in ‘Sleep’ has been designed to be physically relaxing – the program features no distracting surprises and feels like slow, steady breathing, to help transport the listener away from the stresses of the day towards restful sleep.
This CD, with music composed by Hennie Bekker, incorporates scientific principles of sonic response, and is designed to nudge your mind toward deep and refreshing sleep.
On this link you can listen to more snippets of his music. The link will open in a new window.
Hennie Bekker
African Roots Bekker was raised in Mufulira, a Zambian copper mining town 10 miles south of the Congo border. In those early years, he was captivated by the symphonic sounds of the African wilderness, the haunting harmonies of tribal chanting and the rhythmic dialogue of drummers communicating between camps at sundown. He is a self-taught pianist who had his professional debut at age 15, spending the next decade performing with various bands throughout Zambia, Zaire, Zimbabwe and Kenya. His success as a fusion-jazz musician and band leader elevated him to become the musical director for one of South Africa’s largest record companies. Here, he added scores of film, television, radio and commercial music to his list of career accomplishments.
Read more about Hennie Bekker here, the link will open in a new window. If you click on “home”, you will find youtube-videos of him to watch.
On the “music” link you will find more albums, even some Africa-music and snippets to listen to.
Asperger’s Syndrome is a condition that was initially described by Dr. Hans Asperger’s 1944 doctoral thesis. It was not until 37 years later, in 1981, however, that Dr. Lorna Wing used the term “Asperger’s Syndrome” in a paper that helped to introduce this condition to the English-speaking world.
As described by Dr. Wing, the primary clinical features of Asperger’s Syndrome include:
naïve, inappropriate, one-sided social interactions
limited ability to establish relationships
poor non-verbal communication
a lack of emotional empathy
pedantic, repetitive speech
intense absorption in certain subjects
clumsy, un-coordinated movements
odd postures
Currently, the prevailing view is that Asperger’s Syndrome is a Pervasive Developmental Disorder which falls at the high end of the Autism Spectrum continuum.
BEHAVIORAL DEFINITION
The autism spectrum extends from “classic autism” — which lies at the lower end of the spectrum– through ASPERGER’S SYNDROME, which is characterized as being at the mildest and highest functioning end of the spectrum –or Pervasive Developmental Disorder–Continuum
The major source of stress in life for the person with Asperger’s Syndrome is social contact, and increased stress generally leads to anxiety disorders and depression Attwood, T. Asperger’s Syndrome: A Guide for Parents and Professionals, 1998, p. 148.
AS represents a neurologically-based disorder of development
AS reflects deviations or abnormalities in four aspects of development:
(1) Social relatedness and social skills
(2) The use of language for purposes of communication
(3) Certain behavioral and stylistic characteristics such as repetitive or persevering features
(4) Limited, but intense, range of interests
These dysfunctional features can range from mild to severe
“The Epidemiology of Asperger Syndrome: A Total Population Study” by Ehlers and Gillberg (retrieve citation) 2001), it is estimated that the prevalence of Asperger is 2.6 per 1,000 individuals. With the population of the U.S. currently estimated at 275 million (July 2000), this would mean an estimated 715,000 people are affected by Asperger’s syndrome in the U.S. alone”
Stewart, K. (2002). Helping a Child with Nonverbal Learning Disorder or Asperger’s Syndrome, p. 148
AS is characterized by:
high cognitive abilities — or, at least, “normal” IQ level
extending into the very superior range of cognitive ability
normal language function when compared to other autistic disorders
difficulties with pragmatic, or social language
a better prognosis than other Autism spectrum disorders Please read on THIS LINK more…the link will open in a new window. Click on “products” and it will take you to the music page.
Image: babyzone.com
DF Malherbe (1881-1969)
Slaap
Wat is die slaap ‘n wondersoete ding!
Sag op haar bloue oë daal die vaak
soos maneskyn diep waterkuile raak
om daar te droom in silwer skemering.
Vir laas beef oor haar lippe ‘n fluistering:
“Nag, Pappie.” Ek merk hoe langsaam hy genaak,
wat drome soet tot werklikhede maak:
in vaderarms rus my lieweling.
Sluit so my oë, God, wanneer vir my
u Engel wenk ter laaste, lange rus
en ek van wilde woeling hier moet skei;
dat my dan stille drome huis toe sus
en sterke Hand deur duisternisse lei.
Sluit so my oë, God, as ek gaan rus.
To Sleep by John Keats.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes.
Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.
Sea of Dreams…Kelly King …I’ve found this book on google-books whilst searching for images and thought it might be on my list to read when I have more time…I’ve read a couple of books about wars…and for some reason I like to read about it…all part of history.
Sea of dreams by Martin Sramek
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
winds come winding, breathing bliss
of summer’s heat and springtime mists
ring out the bells
ring out the bells
ring out the bells and sing for joy
—shadowscapes See more Angels on this link which will open in a new window.
MY SONG You are every moment of the day
The land and the shore
A celestial reflection
Of my island-universe
That weaves these lines
The round caress
Between the sky and sea
A quick kiss you seem
A buried memory
Of my lost dream . . .
See Patrizia in video here.The link will open in a new window. This post is nr 999! One more to go! Patrizia Gattaceca is a Corsican poet and a singer. She began singing in public when she was a 13-year-old secondary school pupil and set her first poem to music. She is co-founder of the Nouvelles Polyphonies Corses, a female trio singing traditional Corsican songs.
Read more about Patrizia here on the link which will open in a new link.
DUKE ORSINO:
If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe’er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.
Swallows in Durban – see the news article in this entry from ENS news
Enjoy “Village Swallows” by Mantovaniand his orchestra. It is a composition by Josef Strauss, one of the Strauss-brothers.
hmmm…just what I need…flowers and chocolates!! and on this video…the music of Strauss…”Roses from the South”
Swallow Flocks and World Cup Airport Try Coexistence
DURBAN, South Africa, November 12, 2007 (ENS) – This year, as five million barn swallows migrate from across Europe to roost in South Africa’s Mt. Moreland Reedbed, they will be greeted by air traffic controllers. The controllers will be waiting to warn pilots of the swallow flocks coming in to land so that bird-plane collisions can be avoided.
The plan to protect the birds was announced Monday at a ceremony at the reedbed, attended by the nonprofit conservation group BirdLife South Africa.
The decision to protect the swallows was made in response to global outcry last November, when BirdLife outlined its concern about the expansion of La Mercy Airport at Durban, in preparation for South Africa’s hosting of World Cup 2010.
The airport is being expanded to handle traffic expected for the soccer event and the KwaZulu Natal government wants to see the project completed by 2009.
The Airports Company of South Africa, which administers the existing Durban International Airport, owns the La Mercy land where the $8 billion King Shaka International Airport is under construction, 30 kilometers (20 miles) north of Durban.
The new airport is expected to replace Durban International, which will be decommissioned. But for the swallows at the Mt. Moreland Reedbed, without special planning and accomodation, the airport would have been deadly.
Both the reed bed and Mount Moreland are situated South West of the proposed development are aligned exactly with the proposed runway and so are in the flight patch of aircraft leaving or arriving the airport.
The controllers at La Mercy Airport have been among those watching the millions of birds come in this year from all over eastern and western Europe. They will leave again at the onset of winter. The threat that planes at an expanded La Mercy Airport would pose to the swallows roosting at the reedbed, among Africa’s largest roosts, was put across by conservationists and BirdLife partner organizations throughout Europe.The barn swallow, Hirundo rustica, undertakes one of the world’s most remarkable migrations. The birds fly thousands of miles from southern Africa in spring to breed in Europe and then repeat the feat in reverse in the autumn, to winter back in Africa.
“This has been a fantastic result, and we’re delighted to report on this outcome after a year of negotiations and meetings. The support of so many people via letters and petitions has played an important part.” said Neil Smith, conservation manager at BirdLife South Africa, which led the campaign.
The Airports Company of South Africa has been supportive of making accommodations for the birds.
“Since our campaign started, the Airports Company of South Africa has really come on board, quickly realizing the importance of this site as a reedbed of international significance,” said Smith.
Following BirdLife’s complaint, consultants were brought in to examine the roosting and flocking behavior of the swallows, using advanced radar imagery. They confirmed that constant monitoring of the swallow movements during take-off and landing of aircraft would be required.
The Airports Company of South Africa now says it will install in the airport control tower the same advanced radar technology that the consultants used to study the movement of the swallows.
This will mean that planes can take the option of circling or approaching from another angle when large flocks of swallows form over the reedbed site in the late evening.
Environmental management staff will be employed to make sure that suitable management of the reedbed continues, the airports company said.
Bird conservationists feel somewhat reassured about the swallows’ future. “Losing such a valuable site could have affected breeding swallow populations across Europe,” said Dr. Ian Burfield, Birdlife’s European research and database manager.
“Conserving migratory birds is about more than ensuring one site is protected or well managed,” said Burfield. “It takes global effort: at breeding sites, at stopover sites during migration, and at important non-breeding sites like this, where large numbers of birds roost.
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…
Alida Bothma’s biographical detail Born and bred in Pretoria, and now a Greyton resident, Alida obtained a diploma in Graphic Design, with distinction, at the Cape Town Technikon in 1973 and then worked as an illustrator with an advertising agency.
At the age of 26 she had her first international recognition when her work was included in a watercolour exhibition in Western Germany. The early 1980’s saw the beginning of her involvement in the illustration of children’s books and to date they number over 150.
Her paintings are often inspired by the written word or thoughts, prose, poetry and Scripture. Alida works in a variety of techniques and usually uses a mixture of different media.
She is the recipient of many national awards, among others, the Katrine Harries Medal in 1985; the MER Medal in 1988 and the ATKV Awards in 1993, 1997 and 2000. Her work has extensively been seen abroad in Japan, Belgium, Canada, Italy, the Slovak Republic, Iran and India.
In 1994 she received a merit award and in 2005 a bronze medal from the NOMA Concours (Unesco), Tokyo, Japan. Her work is represented in South Africa and internationally and she has held numerous solo exhibitions. She and her husband relocated from Port Elizabeth to Greyton in 2014, where she now has her studio.
I came across Alida Bothma’s art when searching for a topic and then remembered how beautifully she used to illustrate South African children’s books. In 2004 she was a runner-up in the Noma Concours Picture Book illustrations-award.
The Noma Concours for Picture Book Illustrations has been organised biennially by Asia/Pacific Cultural Centre for UNESCO (ACCU) supported by Noma International Book Development Fund. This Concours is to discover up-and-coming illustrators, graphic designers and artists in Asia (except Japan), the Pacific, Africa, Arab States, and Latin America & the Caribbean, to provide an opportunity at which they can present their works to offer incentives for their creative activities.
Goue Lint My Storie Begint..(A book of verse for little children also Illustrated by Alida)
The Katrine Harries Award, originally the only and most prestigious award in South Africa for children’s book illustrations, but which had been dormant for the past nine years, will soon be awarded again.
Protea Boekhuis has kindly agreed to sponsor the Award on a continuous basis. The award that was made for the first time in the early 1960’s by the SA Library Association and later the South African Institute for Library and Information Science (SAILIS) has been awarded to South Africa’ s most well-known illustrators: Katrine Harries personally received the award twice before it was named after her. Thereafter illustrators such as Niki Daly, Joan Rankin, Alida Bothma, Cora Coetzee, Jeremy Grimsdell, amongst others, have received it, with Jude Daly finally receiving it in 1997 for Gift of the Sun. Resource: http://scbwigauteng.blogspot.com/2007/09/katrine-harries-award-for-childrens.html
These two images immediately captured my attention! Deeply Morbid by Stevie Smith
Deeply morbid deeply morbid was the girl who typed the letters Always out of office hours running with her social betters But when daylight and the darkness of the office closed about her Not for this ah not for this her office colleagues came to doubt her It was that look within her eye Why did it always seem to say goodbye?
Joan her name was and at lunchtime Solitary solitary She would go and watch the pictures In the National Gallery All alone all alone This time with no friend beside her She would go and watch the pictures All alone.
INTERNATIONAL: 1. Merit award: NOMA Concours (UNESCO), Tokyo, Japan 1994 – illustration in “Die Wit Vlinder by Corlia Fourie. 2. Bronze Medal and Runner-up award: NOMA Concours (UNESCO), Tokyo, Japan 2005 for a volume of poetry, Woordreise. NATIONAL: 1. Katrine Harries Medal for illustration in 1985 for two books: All Everest’s Birds (Rona Rupert) and The Earth must be free (Pieter W. Grobbelaar). 2. M.E.R. Medal in 1988 for illustrations in the book Goue Fluit my storie is uit (compiled by Linda Roode). 3. ATKV Award for illustrators in 1993, 1997 and 2000 for the books Caty Collie Wobbles (Elsabe Steenberg), Stippe Stappe Stories, and Steweltjies na Wonderland (Hester Heese).
All art below: see her Facebook page: Alida Bothma Art.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup, but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread, but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone.
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together.
For the pillars of the temple stand apart.
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
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.
English readers…scroll down to the green writing…Omtrent twee maande gelede, mag korter wees, het ‘n besoeker op my blog my ‘n booskap gelos op een van die inskrywings wat ek gemaak het oor die area waar ek groot geword het. Sy kantoor kyk uit op die “Kloof” waarvan ek geskryf het. Ek het nie op my laat wag nie en hom dadelik gekontak via email. Na die oor-en-weer nuus uitruil, besef ek dat sy ma my gr1-st1-Onderwyseres was destyds toe die plaasskooltjie nog bestaan het, voordat ons na die dorpskool moes oorskuif na die sluit van die plaasskool. Ons was natuurlik hartseer, want die plaasskooltjie was natuurlik ‘n groot bederf! Sement-swembad reg langs die skool, sop op koue dae…en ek kan nog onthou hoe ek as 5 jarige op Vrydae skooltoe gegaan het, r-gebrei het en al die groter kinders my op hul skoot geneem het en r-woorde laat sê het sodat hulle kon “oe!” en “a!” oor die “oulikgeit” daarvan! Ook het ek mooi foto’s gekry van die waterval waarheen ek (ons) so baie gestap het…die waterval was sowat 1.5-2km se stap vanaf die plaashuis op in die kloof verby ‘n paar ander plase, maar steeds deel van ons plaas. Die plaas waar ek groot geword het – ek was 5 toe ons vanaf Pretoria na die familie-plaas verhuis het – was jare terug…in my voorgeslagte…een groot plaas en toe later opverdeel. Op hierdie oomblik behoort slegs die kerkhof aan ons – en ek wil my verstout om te sê dat minerale regte ook uitgehou is. In elk geval, ek wil vir julle hierdie foto’s wys wat Christo vir my gestuur het…en dit was wonderlik om te hoor dat sy ma nog leef ook en goeie gesondheid het! Sy was ‘n dierbare onderwyseres en nog al die jare sing ek lofliedere oor haar. Al die jare het ek my tafels 100% geken…te danke aan haar in st 2! toe sy saam met ons dorpskool toe gegaan het. Ek kan ook nog onthou ons het ‘n “leeskompetisie” gehad in die dorpskool – toe ek nog omtrent st 1 was – en ons was na ‘n vertrek met omies geneem en ons moes daar stukkies voorlees…destyds het dit vir my soos die ouetehuis gevoel! lol! almal omies met brille en het so belangrik en vol wysheid gelyk! Ons het natuurlik die dorpskool uitgestof met die “kompetisie” en roomys daarna gekry…maar vandag dink ek terug en dink dit was maar seker ‘n span inspekteure wat hulle daardie tyd vermom het as die “ouetehuis-omies”..of is dit vir ons vertel om ons dalk nie op ons senuwees te maak nie…hehehe…sal graag wil weet! Hierdie foto’s het my hierdie volgende “gediggie” laat aanmekaarslaan!
English readers: These pictures are from the farm where I grew up as a child. I used to go for long walks in the mountains and you can see the waterfall too. One visitor to my blog had me very excited awhile ago when he said that his office overlooks the place where I grew up and he sent me these images! I used to spend many a day walking to the waterfall and enjoying nature! When I uploaded these images it inspired me to write a little poem and it’s here in Afrikaans…it’s all about the fantastic memories of those days in the field/mountains/nature etc. December is summer hols in South Africa and then it was the time when the extended family visited us and us kids sometimes camped at the waterfall just for fun! The bottom picture reminded me a lot about the farm when I found it last night…
Die holtes van my gedagtes As kind het ek
die punte van my siel
laat ploeg in die akkers
waar mensestemme
voorheen opgeklink het
Skrams het ek gevoel
hoe die tuimelende bergstilte
‘n deursigtige telegram
van vrede laat deursypel
na die binnekamers van my hart
Die diggeweefde bergstilte het
spatsels waterdruppels moeiteloos
in my gemoed afgeprent
en ek smag na die
holtes van my gedagtes
Vroeër vanjaar het ek die gedig geplaas met ‘n waterval-foto wat my laat dink het aan die een op hierdie foto…in hierdie gediggie het ek verwys na die waterval…en die rante…nou sien julle presies waarna ek verwys het!
Suid-Afrika – my skaduwee
In die skadu’s
van die groot ou Eik
stoot ek weer in die sand
Boeta se karretjies een-vir-een
‘is verstommend hoe die mierleeus uit hul tonnels
krioel met kierang-hier en kierang-daar
Langs die waterval
sit ek, halfbewus
my gedagtes vind perspektiwiteit
en rol ragfyn ligstraaltjies voor my uit
op die kabbellende water
Op die meulwiel van vervloë
versamel ek babakatjies
pas gebo’, versteek
teen elemente daar buit’
en ek streel die sagtheid
wat ek koester
verder op my reis
Ek verdwaal tussen rante
soekend na onweerstaanbare
toktokkies en miskruiers
‘k neem ‘n honger teug
uit die kom van fluisteringe
“ons-vir-jou-ons-vir-jou”
Hoe sal ek jou kan vergeet
jou alledaagse ontwykende
en eindlose horison
onwetend
bly jy daar vir my
en ek vir jou
Hoe kán ek dan
Vergeet van: “ons-vir-jou”…?
En hier is die eintlike waterval [vol-foto] deur Francois vdM aangestuur na my in Junie 2011. [Dankie Francois] – hy is ‘n groot pêl van Christo – hierbo genoem.
Hierdie volgende liedjie het in my gedagtes opgekom en ek weet nie eens of ek hom korrek het nie, dus, enige hulp sal waardeer word indien ek moet korrigeer!
Die berge, bome, blomme
Die berge, blomme, bome
Die helder water strome
Hul wink ons van daar ver (2x)
Ons sing en klap die hande
Ons klim en stap die rante
Uit pure lewenslus! (2x)
tra-lie-trala, tra-lie-trala… uit pure lewenslus, uit pure lewenslus!(2x)
Ek het geen idee of dit die hele liedjie is, ek het net dink hy pas so goed hierby toe hy in my gedagtes opskiet! dus…help asseblief…of sê my as dit reg is!
A couple of days ago, he asked me to translate this poem: “I am an African” into Afrikaans and I felt it was an honour to be asked by him to do it. I’ve tried my best, as all my Afrikaans-bloggers know I’m no expert in translations, but I do try to convey the “message” of the poem, but sometimes, specially when not asked to do a translation, I might want to change the poem slightly to what I like, although I will keep the overall “message”, like the poem written by Wordsworth…”I wandered lonely like a cloud.” Wayne also understands Afrikaans. He liked my interpretation of Wordsworth’s poem and I felt happy that a professional poet could also view his opinion, as you would agree that you sometimes don’t know really if you do any poem justice by translating it. I’ve done some translations from Afrikaans to English too and if you want to read some poems of some of South Africa’s best poets…you can click on the page that says…”my poems-gedigte” and read a few there. You will find Eugene Marais’s poem…”The dance of the rain” and Totius’s poem…”oh the painful thought..” and some others too. I do like to write my own too, which you will find on that page too. I want to stress it out …that I’m no professional, so enjoy whatever you find here and there’s always poetry sites where you can find poems written by professionals! Today, Sunday 7th Sept 2008, I had two people putting in “Is Wayne Visser an Afrikaans writer” in a search and were directed to my blog…as far as I could see, he doesn’t write in Afrikaans, I couldn’t find any of his poems or works in Afrikaans, but he does understand the Language…he speaks Afrikaans too. I do hope this helps, you can contact him via his website address…link at the bottom of this post – and email him!
Image: DK-images…Langebaan, Cape Town
Ek is van Afrika
Ek is van Afrika
Nie omdat ek daar gebore is
Maar omdat my hart met Afrika klop
Ek is van Afrika
Nie omdat my gelaat donker is
Maar omdat Afrika my gedagtes omgrens
Ek is van Afrika
Nie omdat ek van haar leef
Maar omdat my siel tuis is – in Afrika
Wanneer Afrika oor haar kinders ween
Is my wange deur traandruppels deurweek
Wanneer Afrika haar voorvaders eer
Buig my hoof in respek daarheen
Wanneer Afrika oor haar slagoffers rou
Is my hande in gebed gevou
Wanneer Afrika haar oorwinnings vier
Dans ek op die maat van die oorwinningslied
Ek is van Afrika
Met haar asemrowende ylblou lugruimtes
Laat sy die toekoms skitterend skyn
Ek is van Afrika
Waar ek gegroet word asof familie
En ek ervaar die gevoel van meervoudig
Ek is van Afrika
Want haar wildheid bring vertroosting vir my siel
En bring my nader na die bron van Lewe
Wanneer Afrika-musiek in die wind weerklink
Volg my polsslag die ritmiese klop
En word ek een met die klank
Wanneer die Afrika-kleure in die son glinster
Verdrink my sintuie in haar reënboog
En is ek die natuur se pallet
Wanneer die Afrika-verhale om die vure op-klink
Volg my voete hul tydlose ‘wink
En is ek die spore van die verle’
Ek is van Afrika
Want sy’s die krip van geboorte
En troetel die oer-oue wysheid
Ek is van Afrika
Want sy leef in die skadu van die wêreld
En brand met ‘n gloeiende inspirasie
Ek is van Afrika
Want sy is die land van môre
En ek eer haar tydlose geskenke
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 sound
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
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!!
English readers: you can find my translation of this first poem on “My Poems-gedigte” page on top of my blog. I hope you will enjoy it.
EENSAAMHEID – JAN F.E. CELLIERS
My vuurtjie en ek is op wag –
my vuurtjie en ek alleen;
die awend-ster
wink al van ver,
en die velde slaap omheen.
En stadigies sterwe die dag,
soos een in sy armoed verlaat,
ongesien, ongeag,
sonder suggie of lag,
waar niemand van weet of van praat.
Nou bly die lug alom
in stil aanbidding staan –
geen tampende bel
wat die ure tel:
net die sterre wat kom en gaan.
Die osse, met koppe gebuie,
herkoue nog stil in die nag,
tot één vir één buk
en gaan lê by sy juk,
met `n sug, ná die trek van die dag.
My vuurtjie is al wat nog leef
in die eindeloos ruim met my,
en sy stemmetjie dwaal
soos `n deuntjie wat draal
om dae lank verby,
om jonkheids blye môre
en laggies lank verlewe.
Dan voel ek `n traan
in my oë staan
en ek fluister: “Heer, vergewe!”
Die slapende velde lê wyd,
en wyer die donker see,
wat my vuurtjie en my
vanawend skei
van die wêreld se vreug en wee;
ek weet daar`s fees vanaand
in menig verligte saal,
maar geeneen wat my mis
by die dans en die dis –
`n balling vergeet en verdwaal.
Maar al is ek, ver van die skaar,
in eensaamheids wonings getrede,
ek voel my soos een
met die Heer alleen –
`n kind aan Sy boesem tevrede.
image: digitalcameraclub.co.za
I’ve read something this morning on Zee’s blog that reminded me about this poem : “Eensaamheid” by Jan F E Celliers I also came accross this poem on a website and it also reminded me about this very same poem! “Eensaamheid” means…”loneliness…or…solitude…”
Ver op hoë berge
Pagina: 431/431
Ver op hoë berge, o-o-o…
Sit ek eensaam in die nag,
by my vuurtjie stil op wag,
ver op hoë berge.
‘k Denk nou kom my liefste, o-o-o…
k’ Sie van verre kom die wa,
die my liefste skat daar dra,
ver op hoë berge.
Read on WIKIPEDIAmore about him.
Kliek HIER vir meer gedigte deur Celliers… Enjoy the music of Sweet People …terwyl jy “Eensaamheid” lees
On THIS LINK –on my blog- you can read two poems of Jan FE Celliers.
Afrikaanse kindergedig!
Digter? Wie kan help? Titel? Daar stap ‘n klein mannetjie
In die rigting van die klotsende waterstroompie
Hy het ‘n emmer in sy handjie
En jy hoor net:die suisende windjie!
Hy stap, voete slepend
Hy stap, tande knersend
Hy draf, voete knarsend
Hy draf, hande swaaiend
Oppad hoor hy ‘n kwetterende voëltjie
Hy val skielik: kaplaks!
Daar lê hy onderstebo op die bruggie
“Ai”, sê hy, “dis seer”, vervlaks!
Nou loop ons klein ou mannetjie
Baie stadig, hy sien hy ‘n bobbejaan
Wat al blaffend en al strompelend
KADOEF! en PARDOEF!
Teen ‘n boomstomp kom gejaa’n
Die kabbellende rivierstroompie
Stroom al jubelend oor die klippies
Daarnaas is ‘n verdwaalde lam
Hy blêr! Ai tog! Dis ‘n ram!
Oppad terug stap die mannetjie
Met sy kleine, swaaiende kannetjie
Geluidloos deur die woud heen en weer
Wat het geword van die brullende
En krakende donderweer?
Ek weet! Die sissende slange
En kwakende padda
Het almal op skrik gejaag
KABOEM! Daar blits hy
SJADOEF! Daar flits hy
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.
Die verlange na Suid-Afrika bly daar vir enige persoon in die buiteland. Iemand moet nie vir my vertel dat hy die stof van sy voete afgeskud het en nou “klaar” is met SA nie, daardie persoon bluf homself, beslis nie vir my nie. Vanaand was ek – soos baie ander tye – weer hart en siel in Suid-Afrika…geniet hierdie stukkie “gedagtes” of herinneringe wat ek hier saamgeflans het…en geniet dit met die musiek van Hilary Stagg…
My blog is this month…ONE year old!! The actual “birthday” is the 9th….I’ve decided to link this “celebration” to some “memories”…after a year, you always think back/reflect on things that happened throughout the year..and you try to improve the next year…so: I’ve decided to “reflect” a bit…not really…hehehe…it’s just a blog! but to “refresh” some minds…I’ve decided to blog about the things I like/love…well, by just looking at that Springbok rugby player…I don’t have to say more!! Go to Sept/Oct 2007 and you’ll find about 10 entries on the World Cup Rugby…mostly about the Springboks ( of course!!) and their games..but there is at least the one of England against France too! I love rugby…and that’s due to my very first boyfriend…he played rugby for about 3 clubs…the same time!.. and I used to spend my days at Loftus!! ….all those days chewing biltong (jerky for the Americans!) and droëwors! with the other girls…the links to entries on my blog is self explainable…according to the stats since Nov 2007. Most popular Chess link …Bobby Fischer.. was and is…the most popular POETRYlink….and the most popular ARTlink…all of these links have had 1000+ hits till now…and this link is the MOST popular link on my site…with 1500+ hits since I’ve moved my blog to WordPress in November.
Image: bestbiltong.com
I’m sure thatTESSA wouldn’t mind me blogging one of her fantastic pictures again..this is South Africa! and follow the link to see some more beautiful images!
I couldn’t help myself blogging this video! It has taken me back a couple of years…I took piano lessons from age 11…and when I was in secondary…. I was desperate to play this piece of music!! I practised it myself…it’s from a book which I didn’t use with my teacher….I could play it about half way at the end…but hey!! this piece of music is so tricky!! I really admire anybody that plays it like this lady does in the video! I still wish I could play it like that…<sigh>…sweet memories…ENJOY! Here is an audio file to listen to… from THIS SITE …
If the above link doesn’t work, try this NEW link here.
Percy Montgomery!…my favourite Springbok rugby player.
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
For English readers… this is a short Afrikaans song about Spring and the second song/poem is about the little mini-beasts, birds, children and even the small plants are happy…they all want to dance and sing and play…
DIS HEERLIKE LENTE
Woorde: THEO W. JANDRELL en G.G. CILLIÉ
Musiek: Wysie uit die Alpe; verwerk: G.G. CILLIÉ
Dis heerlike lente, die winter’s verby;
weer nooi berg’ en klowe vir jou en vir my.
Hol-la-dri-o-ha, hol-la-dri-o. Hol-la-dri-o-ha, hol-la-dri-o!
Die bergklim is heerlik, dit hou mens gesond.
Woorde: C. LOUIS LEIPOLDT
Musiek: J. WEBER; verwerk: PIETER DE VILLIERS
Al die veld is vrolik; al die voëltjies sing;
al die kriekies kriek daarbuit’; elke sprinkaan spring.
Al die koggelmannetjies kom om fees te vier;
hier galop ‘n goggatjie, daarso dans ‘n mier.
[KOOR]
Nou gaan die kinders draai, nou gaan hul speel!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Selfs die vissies spartel teen die kafferskuil;
in die groot ou eikeboom droom ‘n oupa-uil.
Oral in Karooland is ‘n ruik versprei:
boegoeblom en appelkoos–kan jy beter kry?
[KOOR]
Nou gaan die kinders draai, nou gaan hul speel!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Bind vir my tesame katjiepiering wit,
bobbejaantjies blou en bont, rose in gelid,
varings van die klippe, oral, ai só mooi,
rooi kalkoentjies uit die vlei–blomme uitgestrooi.
[KOOR]
Nou gaan die kinders draai, nou gaan hul speel!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Vrolik is die wêreld, vrolik rant en vlei!
Elke koggelmannetjie het sy maat gekry.
Elke gons’rig’ goggatjie is getroud of vry:
vrolik is die wêreld hier, vrolik veld en vlei!
[KOOR]
Nou gaan die kinders draai, nou gaan hul speel!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Kom Sus, gee handjie! Almal moet draai!
Boet gee ook handjie! Nou gaan ons swaai–
dis tog so prettig! Wie dans met my?
Al in die rondte, vrolik en bly!
Kry AL daardie liedjies wat jy nooit kan onthou nie, se woorde op hierdie link!
Die foto’s is geneem so 3min se stap van ons huis af. Moenie dat die weer jou flous nie, dit het gesous gedurende die oggend. Die foto’s is om en by 5:15 nm geneem.
Update 1/9/2013 : Ek was net bly om te sien dat die link met die musiek [blerkas] net geskuif het en nie verdwyn het – soos die oorspronklike link.
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
Image…Wikipedia Click HEREon this post to read my translation of his poem “Dans van die reën” in English…The link will open in a new window. “The Dance of the rain”…and you can read about this book on the link too.
“EUGÈNE Marais was a South African poet, a story-teller, a journalist, a lawyer, a psychologist, a natural scientist, a drug-addict, and a great genius — an abused and forgotten genius, and the world is the worse off for that.” Read “Soul of the Ant”HERE online.
Eugene Marais was one of South Africa’s more talented writers/poets. I love his poems although I haven’t read his books. I borrowed “The Soul of the Ant” one day – when I was at Primary – but I guess I was too young to read such a book, so I didn’t finish it and read only the first few pages. Some of his poems is about nature like the ‘Winter’s Night’ (translated in English here) and the “Dans van die reën” which is -translated: ‘Dance of the rain.‘ In this poem, he describes the animals’ reaction when the rain is on its way and he describes the rain and her ‘dance.‘ Marais is just brilliant in the way he played with words/metaphors etc. Sadly, he committed suicide in 1936. ReadHEREon Wiki more about him. The link will open in a new window. On the bottom of this post you will find a link to a post on my blog – in English – about Eugene Marais…he was a naturalist, scientist, writer and poet. He made a study of ants and you can see the book he wrote “The soul of the Ant” on that link…and his other book…”The soul of the Ape”… Author: Julee Dickerson Thompson
ISBN: 865432597
Binding: Paperback
Publisher: Africa World Press (March 1997)
The following translation of Marais’ “Winternag” is by J. W. Marchant:
“Winter’s Night”
O the small wind is frigid and spare
and bright in the dim light and bare
as wide as God’s merciful boon
the veld lies in starlight and gloom
and on the high lands
spread through burnt bands
the grass-seed, astir, is like beckoning hands.
O East-wind gives mournful measure to song
Like the lilt of a lovelorn lass who’s been wronged
In every grass fold
bright dewdrop takes hold
and promptly pales to frost in the cold!
Eguene N Marais WINTERNAG
by Eugene Marais
O koud is die windjie
en skraal.
En blink in die dof-lig
en kaal,
so wyd as die Heer se genade,
le die velde in sterlig en skade
En hoog in die rande,
versprei in die brande,
is die grassaad aan roere
soos winkende hande.
O treurig die wysie
op die ooswind se maat,
soos die lied van ‘n meisie
in haar liefde verlaat.
In elk’ grashalm se vou
blink ‘n druppel van dou,
en vinnig verbleek dit
tot ryp in die kou!
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] Read on THIS LINK on my blog more about Eugene Marais…Article in English…The link will open in a new window.
I don’t know Laurinda Hofmeyr’s music, but she’s got an album with the song…”Dans van die reen”. I hope one of my blogger-visitors from SA would be able to tell me more…
Snitte:
1. Lied van die bruidegom – Johan Myburg
2. 26 November 1975 – Breyten Breytenbach
3. Op reis na die Suide – Breyten breytenbach
4. Inbrand – Breyten Breytenbach
5. Die dans van die reën – Eugène N. Marais
6. Kind – Rabindranath Tagore
7. Ek sal sterf en na my vader gaan – Breyten Breytenbach
8. ‘n Halwe engel – Breyten Breytenbach
9. Last grave at Dimbaza – Fanie Olivier
10. Die reis – Breyten Breytenbach
11. Lied van die bruidegom (improvisasie)
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.
“To be in love is to love an ideal within yourself. To love is to love no ideal but love within itself.” James Stephen Cathcart “Real love is a pilgrimage. It happens when there is no strategy, but it is very rare because most people are strategists”. Anita Brookner All goodness in the world comes from love. Simon Soloveychik “A happy man marries the girl he loves; a happier man loves the girl he marries.” Anonymous
“Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it”. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don’t, they never were.” Kahlil Gibran “When we are motivated by goals that have deep meaning, by dreams that need completion, by pure love that needs expressing, then we truly live life.” Greg Anderson “Long after moments of closeness have passed, a part of you remains with me and warms the places your hands have touched and hastens my heart for your return.” Robert Sexton
“It is the passion that is in a kiss that gives to it its sweetness; it is the affection in a kiss that sanctifies it.” Christian Nestell Bovee
History of Valentine’s Day …. Click HEREto read more about Valentine’s Day! Enjoy this song, the link was sent to me – to enjoy the day! – by one of my chess friends on the chess site…..hgrattan… so, hi Harvey! Thank you!! That’s so sweet of you!!
Please click on images for a larger view
Image: rosesbydesign.co.uk
A beautiful dress for a beautiful day!
And…enjoy my favourite poem since Secondary 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.
Looking for more poems about love…in English/Afrikaans…see this link..on my blog – it will open in a new window. You will also be able to listen to a couple of love songs…on MP3-files and..read about Chess and romance! Do enjoy!
What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
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
The horned branches that 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 colours
Of the whole world.
I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.
See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.
How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?
— William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
Bear Hugs! This card was sent to me by a friend…nice card from 123Greetings
I was tagged by MEGHNA to do a meme. This meme is about 5 links on your blog that you like most and then I have to tag 5 other bloggers to do the same!
It was really difficult for me to decide which 5 links are my favourite, as I have more favourites than just 5 for the following reasons: I love History…and I have quite a few posts relating to History. I do love poetry! and I really have so many poets that I favour, it was really difficult to decide which link! I love chess! and I think at this stage…with the covering of Corus and the African Juniors… I think about 1/4 of my links are chess-related posts, as I have about 20 of my own games posted too! Then…books! Drop me at any bookshop and I’m happy as a pig in Palestine!! So…I tried to focus on what I like/love and tried to find posts that I think might interest you as the reader! Enjoy!
1. Read onStill Tuesday about The Butterfly Lion..and Meghna…I do hope you get hold of this book to read it…the setting starts in South Africa and then moves to England…one of the best books I’ve read…although it’s a book for children age 9-11… due to my work…in South Africa as a library teacher too…I read zillions of books to be able to support children in knowing what’s good to read! and I love children’s books…they are the best!
2. Chess!! African Junior Chess Championships that took place early in January 2008 in Malawi. I covered the tournament with interactive games …so…enjoy yourself with the best from the rest!
3. Suncatcher! SonvangerOn this link you can listen to the song in Afrikaans whilst following the words in English… really a nice song, beautifully sang by two artists and one of them, Laurika Rauch, is really gold dust in South Africa!
4. On Seven II you will find a poem which I translated. Read what it is about, a very sad incident in one of our country’s best poet’s life.
Tag time! I’m tagging the following bloggers…they are all in my blogroll…MyKop’nBlog…Boer-in-Ballingskap…Krokodil-kou-aan….and Willie-werkie…unfortunately, only Krokodil-kou-aan’s blog is an English blog…but beautiful photos to see on the other blogs!
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.
Rest in Peace Bobby Fischer —b. 1943 – d. 2008
You can read my Bobby Fischer-poem HERE… On THIS LINK you can read an article about him that was published in the UK Times.
I was age 11, when I got my first chess set and chess book. It was a book written by Cor Nortje in Afrikaans…”Skaak!” In the back of the book, there are the games of Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky. I used to play through those games to “teach” myself a bit more of the game. Nobody else in the family played chess! I got to like Bobby F and he was always – and will always be! – my favourite chess player! It’s very sad to know that he’s passed away, and as somebody said on the chess site… at the age of 64! A “good” number, as there are 64 squares on the board!! Bobby had an IQ of 187! A very gifted and talented player, for sure… What happened to him was really sad and even more sad that the American government “chased” him because of violating sanctions… that means that you don’t have the freedom to do what you love and what you are brilliant at! Sad….that is what politicians are good at…ruining other people’s lives! ..and sometimes with their “fantastic” ideas… even divide nations all over the world!
Fisher died in a Reykjavik, Iceland, hospital on Thursday of kidney failure after a long illness.
Born in Chicago and raised in Brooklyn, N.Y., Fischer faced criminal charges in the United States for playing a 1992 rematch against Boris Spassky in Yugoslavia in defiance of international sanctions.
This chess book is written in Afrikaans and was my first chess book at the age of 11. It has all the games of Spasski and Fischer.
Robert James “Bobby” Fischer (born March 9, 1943), won the World Chess Championship on September 1, 1972 and lost the title when he failed to defend it on April 3, 1975. He is considered to be one of the most gifted chess players of all time and, despite his prolonged absence from competitive play, is still among the best known of all chess players.
“Chess is war over the board.
The object is to crush the opponent’s mind.” – Bobby Fischer
“I am the best player in the world and I am here to prove it.” – Bobby Fischer.
He dropped out of competitive chess and largely out of view, emerging occasionally to make erratic and often anti-Semitic comments.Fischer, whose mother was Jewish, once accused “the Jew-controlled U.S. government” of ruining his life.
He fell into obscurity before resurfacing to win a 1992 exhibition rematch against Spassky on the Yugoslav resort island of Sveti Stefan in violation of sanctions imposed to punish then-President Slobodan Milosevic.
A fierce critic of his homeland, Fischer became wanted in the United States for violating the sanctions.
“The United States is evil. There’s this axis of evil. What about the allies of evil — the United States, England, Japan, Australia? These are the evildoers,” Fischer said.
Source: Click here for the news. Fischer told reporters that year that he was finished with a chess world he regarded as corrupt, and sparred with U.S. journalists who asked about his anti-American tirades.
He renounced his American citizenship and moved to Iceland in 2005.
Japanese Release Bobby Fischer
Ex-Chess Champ Heads to Iceland
By Anthony Faiola
Washington Post Foreign Service
Thursday, March 24, 2005; Page A14
NAGOYA, Japan, March 24 — Bobby Fischer, the chess legend who feared deportation to face charges in the United States, was freed Thursday by Japanese authorities after eight months in prison, the Justice Ministry said. He left immediately for the airport to fly to Iceland.
The deal to free Fischer came after Iceland — a chess-loving nation that hosted his historic Cold War-era victory over the Soviet Union’s Boris Spassky in 1972 — granted Fischer citizenship this week in a move to help him avoid trial in the United States. Fischer, 62, who grew up in New York, has dodged a U.S. arrest warrant since playing a chess match in Yugoslavia in 1992 in violation of U.S. sanctions.
Read the rest of the article HERE …
Bobby as a 15 year old teenager….and America’s champ!
Born in Chicago and raised in Brooklyn, Fischer was a U.S. chess champion at 14 and a grand master at 15. He beat Spassky in a series of games in Reykjavik to claim America’s first world chess championship in more than a century.But his reputation as a genius of chess soon was eclipsed by his idiosyncrasies.A few years after the Spassky match, he forfeited the title to another Soviet, Anatoly Karpov, when he refused to defend it.
Bobby Fischer, the reclusive American chess master who became a Cold War icon when he dethroned the Soviet Union’s Boris Spassky as world champion in 1972, has died. He was 64.
Fischer died Thursday in a Reykjavik hospital, his spokesman, Gardar Sverrisson, said. There was no immediate word on the cause of death.
Fischer’s first Filipino friend: He was very special
By Artemio T. Engracia Jr.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 00:10:00 01/20/2008
MANILA, Philippines–FLORENCIO CAMPOMANES, the country’s chess pioneer and former president of the International Chess Federation (Fide), was Bobby Fischer’s original Filipino friend.
They met in New York in the mid-1950s when Fischer was emerging as a chess phenom barely into his teens and Campomanes was shuttling between New York and Washington DC while working for the State Department Read the complete article here.
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
7 December-poem
This poem comes from a “poetic calendar”. There’s a poem for every day and it’s actually a book used by Teachers and I want to share a poem for today from this book! Fridays always feel to me like a special day for poetry! A day to relax! So…relax and enjoy! As student, Ingrid Jonker’s poems really appealed to me…and “Bitterbessie Dagbreek” was always somewhere on a door/wall in my room. At the bottom of this post, you will find a link to read more about her….her poems were translated in many languages! Follow this linkHERE to listen to her poem in Afrikaans, and at the same time, you can read it in English! Please Click on the play button! Love-light
A taper lit in sunlight,
Pale yellow leaf of flame,
An upturned heart that trembled
As soft winds breathed your name,
Its brightness was diluted;
But, when the darkness came,
It shone with such pure brilliance
As put the stars to shame. Vernon Scannell
From:Read Me2: A Poem For Every Day of The Year
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
On THIS LINK you will find interesting reading about her life!ReadHERE more about INGRID JONKER. SONG
Another Afrikaans poem of Ingrid… Madeliefies in Namakwaland
~~~Ingrid Jonker
Waarom luister ons nog
na die antwoorde van die madeliefies
op die wind op die son
wat het geword van die kokkewietjies
Agter die geslote voorkop
waar miskien nog ’n takkie tuimel
van ’n verdrinkte lente
~~~
Agter my gesneuwelde woord
Agter ons verdeelde huis
Agter die hart gesluit teen homself
Agter draadheinings, kampe, lokasies
Agter die stilte waar onbekende tale
val soos klokke by ’n begrafenis
Agter ons verskleurde land
~~~
sit die groen hotnotsgot van die veld
en ons hoor nog verdwaasd
klein blou Namakwaland-madeliefie
iets antwoord, iets glo, iets weet.
I had to blog this Afrikaans song of Laurika Rauch as I think the mood suits today’s poems!
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.
Die ‘Mayor Oak’ boom in Sherwood Forest
Hierdie gedig het ek geskryf as my bydrae tot Afrikaans en om 14 Augustus, Afrikaans-dag te ‘vier’. Elke jaar probeer ek om my bydrae te maak rondom hierdie datum. Ons het so bietjie in Sherwood Forest gaan rondstap om veral die baie bekende boom waar Robin Hood en sy ‘manne’ vergader het. Die Major Oak – het ongelukkig gedurende die ‘lockdown’ bietjie deurgeloop deurdat vandaliste dele van die boom probeer vernietig het. Die boom is nou afgesper en word dit al vir baie jare gestut om die boom te beskerm – soos jy in die foto kan sien.Dit was eers in die jare ’50 toe mense besef het dat die boom bewaar moet word en is enige persoon verbied om in die boom te klim en klouter – soos dit gereeld die gewoonte was. As jy die kans kry en jy is in die omgewing van Nottingham, maak gerus ‘n draai by die woud. Dan is daar ook die Robin Hood Kasteel in Nottingham wat jy kan besoek en dit is baie beslis die moeite werd – maak net seker jy besoek die grotte ook. Sien die foto.
You can go on a cave tour when visiting the Robin Hood Castle in Nottingham.
English Readers: This is a poem I’ve written after my visit to Sherwood Forest. 14th August is also Afrikaans Language Day. This is my contribution to the Afrikaans Language, the most beautiful language in the world.
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