Sunday, 21 October 2012

Joy Within A Storm

Clouds become heavier every second
The sky becomes darker and darker
I hear the sound of a strong wind stirring them up
Storm? Yes! Storm! In amazement I jump out of my bed
By every sound of thunder my heart stop for a while, not because I’m fearful
But because it’s the sound I heard inside me when I first saw you, when I heard your voice.
By every strike of lightning my eyes open wide with shock, not because I’m scared
But because it’s the first same kind of glow I saw when I saw you, when I looked into your eyes.

Like the storm fills the earth, your presence in my life does the same
Like the roar of thunder overcomes any sound around, your voice does the same to me
Like the sparkle of lightning as it strikes, your love for me makes my eyes glow, my heart flows.

People see a storm approaching, they become restless and start to panic…oh what a nightmare!
But I see you coming to me; once again I prepare my heart for the joy it’s about to experience
They wait in anxiety for the storm to come; I wait patiently for you to arrive.

Yes! Finally it pours heavily on earth, the streets are full, and the rivers overflow
Yes! Finally my heart is filled, my love for you overflows
Once again I feel the blessings of having you as part of my life
Every time there’s a storm, I’m reminded of you
Oh what great joy I feel, my heart, my spirit, my soul, they all admit.
Heaven and earth submit, this is joy, skies above and seas below all are part of my story, the joy within the storm!


Blind Patrick

We lived in a two bedroom semi detached house in Mayfair and our Landlord (who was also our neighbour) was a blind man whose Christian name was Patrick. I don’t know that I ever knew his surname and I certainly can’t remember it now so I refer to him simply as “Blind Patrick”.
Every day except Sundays, Patrick would walk the three blocks from his home to the tram terminus where he would board a tram to take him into the City. In the City he would walk a block and a half to his spot beside the Northern aspect of the City Hall and there he would stand all day, tin cup in hand, begging for a coin or two from passersby. At about five-o-clock he would leave his spot and retrace his steps home. I knew his routine because I had once travelled into the City with him.

Blind Patrick

Ears straining to detect amidst the familiar comforting sounds
Those that warn of danger
He walks with cautious confidence born of years of practice
White stick, tap tapping

Boarding the tram for the trip into town is a long acquired skill
Performed with exaggerated action
And the sightless journey is punctuated only by the greetings
Of those identified by voice alone

Alight at journey’s end and tap with measured step the distance
To his own appointed place
There to stand protected by unwritten law that forbids intrusion
By another of his kind

A penny in a tin cup rattles to attract those who would make
Some small donation
And for those passing guilty by looking at some distant point
Just a hint of a smile

What visions inhabit his mind? What shape and size and colour
Does he apply to city sounds?
For never having seen these things do they appear to him
As they do to us?

Does he simply accept them for what he has been told they are
Giving them no further form
Content that they exist as described by some sighted soul
Needing nothing more

Is he certain only that today will pass as did yesterday?
And as will tomorrow?
Content to challenge with unseeing eyes that which he knows not
Yet knows so well?

Is each step taken, each day successfully negotiated
A singular achievement?
Or is he so accustomed to his lot that like us his only fear
Is of the unknown?

Seek no answers in his face for his serene countenance
Affords no clues
Nor do his unseeing eyes yield solutions but prompt instead
Further questions

Keep then your secrets Blind Patrick and continue in weather
Fair and foul
To challenge the sighted world with indomitable courage
White stick tap tapping

Friday, 12 October 2012

The Cycle Race

The Police Athletic Stadium in Mayfair was located directly behind the public swimming pool in Ninth Avenue and consisted of an oval, eight lane athletics track surrounding a grassed rugby field. On the Eastern side was a grand stand overlooking the start/finish straight and a six foot high diamond mesh perimeter fence enclosed the whole complex. While the stadium was under construction the entrance gates were not locked and this gave the local children access to the athletics track which was informally used as a bicycle race track.
On the day in question, workmen had dug a trench on the far side straight in order to gain access to some underground piping. The trench cut through lane one and then into the rugby field leaving the other seven lanes intact. I was not present when my “friends” spotted this and decided it would be an excellent opportunity to play a prank on me by challenging me to a cycle race in which they would give me the inside lane. We would start, as usual, from the start/finish straight so I would have no opportunity to see the trench on the far side in advance. During the race the group would box me in so that I was forced to stay in the inside lane and when we got to the trench I would fall in to the hole going at some speed. They imagined that the accident should be quite spectacular and all except me would have a big laugh about it.

The Cycle Race

Bring your bike and we’ll race the track at the police athletic ground
One quarter mile flat and the quickest time is now 65 seconds around
Who did the best? Who got that time? Was what I demanded to know?
Well, Leonard did by a country mile, the others were much too slow

If you think you’ll do better come with us, we’ll settle the matter there
The trap is set, they know me too well and I just can’t resist the dare
Next thing we’re ready, five abreast and I’ve drawn the inside track
Get away fast and stay out in front, that’s my simple plan of attack
I’m much too excited to spot the deceit, winning has addled my brain
Almost too late I look up to see a trench, three feet wide cross my lane
Instinct takes over, I’ve no time to think, fling body and bike in the air
Up over the maw that’s waiting to bite, land safe with inches to spare
Now it’s a joke, let’s all have a laugh but clearly I see through their plan
From quasi “friends” a lesson in life, trust only yourself my young man

Kleilat Gooi

My youth was spent (or perhaps misspent) in the vicinity of a number of goldmine dumps and two small dams. The dams were fed by a combination of water pumped from mine dewatering operations and rainwater runoff, neither of which was very healthy I suspect. We didn’t care whether the water was good for us or not and played and swam many long summers away in the one dam or the other. The upper dam was known by us as the “Blue” dam while the lower dam was the “Brown” dam. The major difference between the two was that the “Blue” dam had sticky yellow clay deposits along its shoreline and we spent many happy hours making war by hurling clay balls at one another using short sticks cut from the blue gum trees. The idea is simplicity itself. First you cut a 600 to 700 millimetre long blue gum stick of about 15 to 20 millimetre diameter. Then you gather a huge lump of the yellow clay and knead it until it’s nice and plastic. Then you mould a lump of clay the size of a golf ball on to one end of the stick and holding the other end firmly in your hand, you swing the stick in a 90 degree arc starting from a horizontal position and stopping abruptly at the vertical position. This action has the effect of releasing the lump of clay from the tip of the stick and turning it into a projectile that, with practice can be accurately aimed at a target and delivered with painful consequences if the target happens to be human.

Many a bloodless battle was thus fought between two opposing armies and the most serious injuries that I can recall were some lumps and a few multi coloured bruises.


Daar onder by die Bloudam
Was die klei so taai en geel
En elke dag was dit onspret
Om kleilat te gaan speel

Gepaste lat van bloekomboom
Brei klont stewig op sy spits
Lanseer die skoot op volle vaart
Die vyande goed te klits
 Dis ek en Bob teen Boet en Jan
Elkeen het hope klei
Staan dan gereed, oorlog begin
Die klonte gons verby
Jan tref vir Bob hier langs sy kop
ʼn prima skoot voorwaar
dis twee teen een tot hy herstel
ek gooi net aanmekaar
Boet tref my skielik teen die bors
Dit pyn maar ek moet veg
Ek korrel goed en brand weer los
Jan snik en vryf dan aan sy nek
Die stryd woed voort met onopthoud
Tot laat sons ondergaan
En more kry ons weer die kans
Ons vyand te verslaan

Friday, 5 October 2012

The Soldier

My father, Gerhardus Hermanus du Toit, was one of life’s great enigmas. He came from an Afrikaans upbringing yet married an English speaking woman, spoke only English himself and considered the “English” orientated United Party his lifelong political home. During World War Two, he was working on the Langlaagte Deep Mine as a shaft timber man and because mining and miners were considered “essential “to the war effort,he was not allowed to “signup” for active duty.

So strongly did he believe that he had an obligation to do his bit that his simple solution was to quit the mine job and signup anyway leaving my mother to do the best she could on the meagre army pay. Joining the army simultaneously gave the finger to his Afrikaans relatives since the majority of Afrikaners openly or secretly supported Germany. Manie, as he was known, spent three years in the Signal Corps seeing action first in Egypt and later in Italy. He returned home physically unscathed but like so many returning soldiers the scars were on his psyche.

The Soldier

Come let me wash your face son
We are going to meet your Dad
He’s coming home from up North son
And he’ll leave us no more, are you glad?

The troop train’s due in at eleven son
Three years last week he’s been gone
But today he’ll be at Park Station son
And he’ll wonder at how big you’ve grown

Just look at the flags on the streets son
We are flying the proud Union Jack
Johannesburg is happy today son
For at last her men have come back

Hold tight to my hand on the platform son
Or you’ll surely get lost in this throng
Hear Johannesburg lifting her voice son
To welcome her men with a song

Don’t fret, I’m not really crying son
For tears can mean both joy and pain
And my heart’s bubbling over today son
For your Dad will be with us again

Some day when you have grown up son
You’ll know why I’m no longer afraid
And why there are faces missing son
And the terrible price that was paid

But for now be happy and smile son
There’s nothing can mar our joy
We’ll pick up the threads of our life son
Your Dad your Mom and their boy

Look! There’s your Dad at a window son
Now wave, wave with both hands
There look, he’s seen us, he’s waving
At last, back from far distant lands

There’s hugging and kissing and crying
No more will Mother be sad
For a man is back with his family
Our Soldier, our Hero, my Dad

Meneer de Kalkoen

I entered high school aged thirteen years and ten months and quickly realised that this was a very different world to that which I had enjoyed in primary school. For starters, there were “boys” in short pants that had heavy facial stubble and looked old enough to be my father. Some of them were already hard cases and when, at lunch break they enquired “What are we eating today?” you handed over your lunch without argument.

The teachers were also a motley assortment with some so old they looked as though they might drop dead in the middle of a lesson and others younger and more intimidating. It was the latter group that was more dangerous because they gave “cuts” for real or imagined transgressions. The “caning” of boys was standard disciplinary procedure in those days and generally consisted of three strokes to the behind with a light, bamboo cane for minor infractions and six stokes for more serious offences.

The headmaster of the school was a stern, red faced individual with thinning hair combed straight back. He was devoid of a sense of humour and I didn’t once see him smile in the five years I was at the school. Understandably, his nickname was “Turkey” because of his ruddy complexion but also because of his drooping jowls which resembled the wattles on a turkey. The Afrikaans word for turkey is kalkoen and this poem is accordingly titled “Meneer de Kalkoen” or Mister Turkey.

Meneer de Kalkoen

Die Hoof van ons skool was besonders gemeen
Met ʼn bloedrooi gesig en ʼn kalkoen kakebeen
Groen oe soos albasters, koud hard en rond
En nimmer ʼn glimlag op sy stywe ou mond

Langer as ses voet en reguit soos ʼn paal
Hare effe bles die blinkkleur van staal
En hande soos skopgrawe soepel en sterk
Heel geskik om oorlelle se sake te werk

Sy bynaam? Wat anders as “Meneer de Kalkoen”
Maar slegs buite gehoor word dit hardop genoem
Want sê jy dit elders en word jy gevang
Gaan jou sitvlak goed brand van rottang se gesang

Sy voorkoms en humeur het gesag afgedwing
Maar seuns bly maar seuns en die duiwel glip in
Onnoselle jeug hoekom waag jy so ʼn streek
In sy kantoor word jou astrantheid gou-gou gebreek

Regter, Jurie en Laksman drie in een is Kalkoen
Jy’s skuldig, buk vooroor, vingerpunte teen skoen
Trek boudspiere styf, beheer skreeuende brein
Hoor rottang se fluit wetend hier kom die pyn

Drie pers strepe sal kort-kort jou boude versier
Net bravade dwing jou daartoe die seer te verduur
En die folteraar kyk snags diep in ʼn bottel brandewyn
Sy gewete te sus vir sy rol as boodskapper van pyn