For you, a poem by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

The Man With The Blue Guitar

When I close my eyes, I can see the wise old man living in this house . . .sitting on the veranda . .on a green day . .. with his blue guitar

Photo by Roland Pozo

The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”

The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

And they said then, “But play, you cant,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are.”

Wallace Stevens

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps on the back of the win and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and is tune is heard on the distant hillfor the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. Maya Angelou

Lives - Pablo Neruda

Lives

Ah how ill at ease sometimes

I feel you are

with me, victor among men!

Because you do not know

that with me were victorious

thousand of faces that you can not see,

thousands of feet and hearts that marched with me,

that I am not,

that I do not exist,

that I am only the front of those who go with me,

that I am stronger

because I bear in me

not my little life

but all the lives,

and I walk steadily forward

because I have a thousand eyes,

I strike with the weight of a rock

because I have a thousand hands

and my voice is heard on the shores

of all the lands

because it is the voice of all

those who did not speak,

of those who did not sing

and who sing today with this mouth

that kisses you.

© Pablo Neruda (uit: The Captain’s Verses, vertaal deur Dondald D. Walsh)

One safe place

The beautiful song by Marc Cohn

From the movie "Brokeback mountain"

How many roads you’ve traveled
How many dreams you’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place


Will you make a smoother landing
When you break your fall from grace
Into the arms of understanding
Looking for one safe place

Oh, life is trial by fire
And love’s the sweetest taste
And I pray it lifts us higher
To one safe place

How many roads we’ve traveled
How many dreams we’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place

Streets of London

Have you seen the old man In the closed-down market Kicking up the paper, with his worn out shoes? In his eyes you see no pride Hands held loosely at his side Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news




So how can you tell me that you're lonely,
say for you that the sun don't shine and
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind






Have you seen the old girl
Who walks the streets of London
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags?
She's no time for talking,
She just keeps right on walking
Carrying her home in two carrier bags.






So how can you tell me that you're lonely,
say for you that the sun don't shine and
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind

In the all night cafe
At a quarter past eleven,
Same old man is sitting there on his own
Looking at the world
Over the rim of his tea-cup,
Each tea last an hour
Then he wanders home alone

So how can you tell me that you're lonely,
say for you that the sun don't shine and
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind



And have you seen the old man
Outside the seaman's mission
Memory fading with
The medal ribbons that he wears.
In our winter city,
The rain cries a little pity
For one more forgotten hero
And a world that doesn't care

So how can you tell me that you're lonely,
say for you that the sun don't shine and
Let me take you by the hand lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind

The beautiful, but sad song . . . "Streets of London"

in the house

in the house
(hein willemse:die stormtroepe is in die strate)

the americans are in the streets
the poets are addicted rappers
the pastors are panic-stricken prophets
the young boys wear earrings
the young girls carry the pregnant burden of life

the hard livings are in the streets
the women earn extra-marital dollars in sea point & at the waterfront
the old women anxiously await their pensions
the men queue jobless against padlocked gates
the old men are unclaimed baggage on stations with rusted
rails

the clever kids govern the streets
they bmw boys Xstatic from rave to rave
the streets are deserted
the west coast boys govern the streets

the writers are famous in foreign countries
the preachers are ghetto-blastered into silent submission
by tupac shakur & puff daddy
the virgins carry mandrax in their barren barrels
the corpses mushroom red like roses under white sheets
on the pavements

the 28's are in the streets
the boys wear caterpillars

the clever kids bump & grind more clever kids out onto the
streets
the girls wear designer jeans

the gangs are liberated
there are no children in the streets

clinton v du plessis:evangelis van die nihilisme

Hijacked

 

 

Table Mountain glows on the edge of sight
As turquoise sea reflects cool afternoon light.
Dogs fetch balls for kids who play
And a windsurfer drifts in at dying day.
Picnic baskets open, drinks spill down
Peace and contentment in this seaside town.

A drive back home for supper that waits
Wife and kids hop out to open the gate.

Whites of eyes and spittle flies
Waved knife and pointed gun
Pistol-whipped, beaten for the fun
A shot rings out, a life is snuffed
In a beautiful country that fuels my disgust

 

Peter Hollard

“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,"

Photo by Malubs

The Weary Blues

by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

He did a lazy sway. . . .

He did a lazy sway. . . .

To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man’s soul.

O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—

“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,

Ain’t got nobody but ma self.

I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’

And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.

He played a few chords then he sang some more—

“I got the Weary Blues

And I can’t be satisfied.

Got the Weary Blues

And can’t be satisfied—

I ain’t happy no mo’

And I wish that I had died.”

And far into the night he crooned that tune.

The stars went out and so did the moon.

The singer stopped playing and went to bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

The swing swings high

The swing, swings high
And now its low
Weightless once
Then pinned below
Round and round
And round we go
Giddy now
The status quo
While puppets play
Its all a show
Come join me then
What's more to know?

Peter Hollard