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The Yearning of a Yearling

Keith Roy Ketterer

© Keith Roy Ketterer 2017


Published by Keith Roy KettererCape Town

[email protected]

ISBN 978-0-620-77904-3

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any

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Cover photograph by Pontus EdenburgLayout and cover design by Boutique BooksPrinted in South Africa by Digital Action

ContentsPART 1: The Early Years .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 9

Responsibility .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 11In Thought .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 12The Last Resort .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 13Take Note .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 15I Believe .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 16Do You Know Him? .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 18Nonsense to Some… Sense to Others .. .. .. .. .. 19Searching for an answer .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 20Phases .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 22For the Uninitiated .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 23Shangri-la: Reality or Myth? .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 25Sarcasm .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 26Guilt .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 27Restless. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 28Escape .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 29Strife .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 30The Three Wise Men of Suez .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 31Relief .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 33Sunset .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 34With Mixed Feelings.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 36Once Bitten, Twice Shy .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 37Nostalgia .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 38Disappointment.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 39Conscience .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 40Longing .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 41Nobody’s Perfect. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 42Recall .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 43The Tempest .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 44The Price to Pay.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 45

Have You Ever Wondered? .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 46Pity .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 48

PART 2: The Rhodesian Years .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 49Fear .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 51Still Observant .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 52Observant .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 53Time Gazing .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 55Temptation.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 56A Fire Conjures Memories .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 58Scandal. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 59Window Shopping .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 60Loyalty . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 61He Who Cries Wolf .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 62Heartbreak .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 63Complacency .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 64Dedication .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 66Prognostication .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 67A Winter’s Day .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 68A Poet’s Dilemma .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 69Man Has Itchy Feet .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 70All Work, No Play .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 71Awareness .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 72Spring: In awe of the Masasa trees .. .. .. .. .. .. 74In From the Cold .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 75Reasons .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 76In Ponder .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 77Love! .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 78Soliloquize .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 79The Rains are Late .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 81Guidance .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 82Geniality .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 83Follow your Impulses: Revelry . .. .. .. .. .. .. 84Come Down to Earth .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 85

In Reply to Annette’s ‘Bloodiness ‘ .. .. .. .. .. .. 87Sailing .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 89When in Love, Communicate! . .. .. .. .. .. .. 90A Vain Attempt to Communicate .. .. .. .. .. .. 91Decline. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 92Flower Arranging .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 94Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. .. .. .. .. 95To Communicate (the wrong way and the right way) .. .. 97Gratification .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 98A Drought Can Break Your Spirit .. .. .. .. .. .. 99Tarnished Verse .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 100Toeing the Line .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 101Passage. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 102Separation .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 103

PART 3: 1966 Onwards .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 105Change of Fortune .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 107Change of Fortune .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 109Home Thoughts From Home .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 112Searching .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 119Butterfly Blues .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 122The Lord’s Touch .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 124Awaiting .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 125The Charge of the Unwary .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 126Advertisers All... (A song to the pamphlet kings) . .. .. 127Tranquil Encounter .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 128The Pied Pipers of Slum (East London) .. .. .. .. .. 130Free at Last .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 132Paradise Lost. Rhodesia, the aftermath... .. .. .. .. 134The Promise .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 136Priorities .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 137Tribute to My Father-in-law, Nic Strijdom .. .. .. .. 138Eternal Life.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 140

No 8 Whittlesey Street .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 141On Turning Seventy-one .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 142Sowing and Reaping .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 143The Lonely Guy’s Lament.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 145Jasmin .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 147The Poets’ City .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 148Harbouring Pearls of Wisdom . .. .. .. .. .. .. 149We are Survivors. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 151Expectations .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 153Limerick Time! .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 154Cecil John Rhodes .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 158Tribute to Jake White. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 159The Alfa Romeo Experience .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 161

PART 4: Letters to the Family .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 16345a Alice Street .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 165Izeli Convent Farm Orphanage .. .. .. .. .. .. 168De La Salle, Kings Road, KWT .. .. .. .. .. .. 170Family Genealogy... the Ketterers .. .. .. .. .. .. 173Genealogy... The Deutschmanns .. .. .. .. .. .. 176The Prior Years .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 177On Turning Eighty .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 180The Rhodesian years .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 186


PART 1The Early Years

11

Responsibility

Oh, he who vows, declares he’s dumb,Should ponder matters, then succumbTo tempest’s ways, to cupid’s love,And then harken, and pray, to Him above.

Should he then forego his rightTo guide poor souls through blackest nightAnd bear them safe and see them homeIn steadfast state, in glistening tone?

Then deprive him of his right to live,Condemn his creed and to him giveA soul, a name, and gently passAs still as stone in cold morass.

Dale CollegeDiocesan Hostel1951

12 13

In Thought

Beyond, amid, betwixt, between,No brighter light had ever been seen,The stars they shine, their mighty sheenSo frustratingly lovely, so sickening clean.

Call but the bee and let him strive,Denounce his honey, condemn his hive,Renew his glory with ancient blissFor on the morrow he will fly, and once again the pollen kiss.

More still, we often harken toThe memoirs of the morrows do,Tragic too, we chant awayO’er natures joy, the break of day.

Round and round my thoughts they scramble.Down and down, they quietly amble,Fleeting through the heavens, through the sky,Doing justice to my eye.

Dale CollegeDiocesan Hostel1951

The Last Resort

Surrounded by the mystic sky and dancing sea,Loud blows the wind which scatters foam about me,Retreat I must or I will drown in lust,Oh tempest take; ’tis but my life to you, I trust.

Were it not for this great wonder of the earth,Were it not that we survive the thirsty sun,How then can we but prove our worth?Oh, we will pay when our day is done.

Through wood and dale, o’er mountains soaringFar out at sea the rains come pouring,And when gone past and singing no more,Those mighty echoes, they cease to roar.

Loud rumbles the ocean’s mighty voiceAs angry waves break on yonder shore,Loud whistles the wind, her only choiceTo whistle louder each time than before.

Who is to know how the soul doth ache?How are we to know when our lives it will take?All these things we ask when time we can’t afford,All these things have answers in the eyes of the Lord.

When life doth cease to play its part?When our souls are judged for right and wrong.How will we hear our pitying heart?When it doth cease to carry on.

14 15

On a jubilant sea all scattered with foam,In a desolate sky where the sea hawk doth roam,Why should we suffer when life has no end,And our remorseful souls we’re bound to mend?

Out on the ocean blows a gale at full force,Out on the foam the waves take their courseAnd the rollicking breakers choose the sea as their gravesAnd the birds wheel o’er, far from their nests in the caves.

Out on the horizon, a ship sails into viewHer sails struggling against the pounding galeGreat waves rush out to plunder and subdue;The wind is strong and tragedy will fail.

Lost, the ship drifts far from home,Lost, her timbers squeak and groan.Motionless, ever still, a silhouette against the forlorn sky;Land ho, the coxswain cries as a gull screams by.

Weary eyes take in the dismal sight of shore.Heads are raised skywards, voices whisper,Praise the Lord,Praise the Lord that we survived the storm,Grateful are we that under Thy care are men born.

Dale CollegeAlice Street1952

Take Note

In the cool of the night,As birds sweep o’er in flightBound for nests and chicks with appetite,One can’t help but wonder at the sightThat boldly so portrays itself,Giving yet another glimpse of rare delight.

Dale CollegeAlice Street1952

16 17

I Believe

I believe man’s wisdom will prevail,Some hand will guide and plan the future, grim or gay,Some heart will understand where others fail,Some eye will see the light and show the way.

I believe that through the yearsMan has weakened to the point of tears,His success through toil and sweatIs lapsing now as a result of threat.

I believe that strength is force,The weak must bow to the forceful strong.The strong are kind, the weak pursue an abstract course,The strong survive in a weakening throng.

I believe in the awe and splendour of the Lord,That He appointed men long before my timeTo guide and teach the ignorant of His hordeAnd His teachings still pertain to our very clime.

I believe that the Lord did not intendFor red or white or black or brown to blend,The purest in a strain or species castIs a thing of beauty with the yen to last.

I believe that we all have selfish aims,That trust and friendship and aches and painsDerive from feelings deep within our souls,That we obstruct advancement in our goals.

I believe that at some timely hourThoughts will bud and life will flower,Love will conquer and reign supremeAnd the dreamer on waking will fulfil his dream.

I believe that the bird of the airConveys in his flight some form of prayer.The innocent path he follows each dayShould teach us to tread in the self same way.

HalverKWT1953

18 19

Do You Know Him?

No kinder than He is there,For He is generous and kind-hearted.He, who bears malice not,Can you compare Him with another?Nay, His are features rareAnd His is a lonely life;He grieves for those departed.

HalverKWT1953

Nonsense to Some… Sense to Others

From day to day I pass the time away,In manner strange, not fierce, nor gay.For I am restless in my search for thatWhich so evades me, as mouse with cat.Surely this, my search, will be in vain,I search for that which bears no nameAnd conjured in this game of cat and mouseI live as one, not conscious of carouse.

From night to night my thoughts are of the dayWhen steeped in glory I may walk my wayAnd cast my gaze where once my Coleridge satAnd where in soliloquy he dreamed that actWhich I have learnt to love. Am I insane,That I should ponder thus, in agony and pain?Though mine is a lonely life, I have no grouse,I have no faith, no wealth, no time to espouse.

HalverKWT1954

20 21

Searching for an answer

Have you cast your gaze about?Have you looked above this night?Have you seen and sought in doubt?Have you watched in vain ’neath fading light?

Aye, the day is ended and is past.Night is here and ghostly is the air,Ghostly all echoes, ghostly and nearAnd soon I’ll weary, and will sleep at last.

Alas, I in requiem live,No one to love, no one to whom my love to giveSave He that guides me onAnd lists to my reverberation and song.

Why can’t I create some touching work?Why can’t I be touched with power? Where doth power lurk?Is it hiding, is it not conscious of my search,Is it not conscious that I seek ’neath poplar, willow, pine and birch?

Dusk, a miracle of rare delight,Resplendent in this twilight paradiseIs that your shadow slipping by?Stop your fleety flight, lest your memory die.

Day, are you near?Cast your shadow hereAnd let me ponder whereI can breathe reviving air.

Night, cast your spell,Tantalize my mind, tellMe of the joys beyond the dell,Show me where chimes that mystery bell.

HalverKWT1954

22 23

Phases

Soon,Very soonOh Mother Moon,You will disappearInto the lonely atmosphere,Where, lost from view,We will remember every glimpse of youAnd all in all will ballads singOf your sweet radiance,Of everything.

HalverKWT1954

For the Uninitiated

Aye sweet love, once were you an honour,Once in the hour of passion was I the donorOf sweet caresses, and so shall I always be,For no one else matters, but her at the sea.

But now, the hour of passion is gone,The ecstasy, the flame, the songToo is ended. No love have I any longer,No faith have I in such, and disbelief grows stronger.

Am I to blame for this, my deed of woe?Is this my doing, is this the answer to my dream?Is this resultant of the love I’ll never knowOr e’er perhaps fair nature, seeking statues lean?

And all the while, myself I’ll blameEven though I know and feel not wrath nor shameAnd come the day when some comely maidBeckons, calls, in sound response I’ll answer, not afraid.

Yet, I feel most depressed at such a thoughtAs I am thinking now, for was I not taughtThat pride and honour maketh man?This I know, I uphold, I will – I know I can.

But so much as man is bound to honour

24 25

And as much as he is trodden, called JonahAnd such names that make his forefathers turn with care,So is a man’s life: empty, mediocre, drear.

HalverKWT1954

Shangri-la: Reality or Myth?

Never a night goes by that I don’t toss or turnAnd when awake, I quiver and quakeAnd my love, I yearn with all my heartTo be with you in that far off land,Where love is true and there’s no blood-stained sand.

Is it wrong that I should ponder thus?For after all, I am a man who loathes the lustThat encumber the minds of men.Must I forever tempted be?Oh, that I were turned to dust.

HalverKWT1954

26 27

Sarcasm

Pray,Congratulations on your birthday,Tis said you are twenty.May the future hold plenty more,May your life ne’er be empty nor soreAnd again and againMay there never be pain,But strength and the willIn the blood in your vein.Be but awareOf love and care,And I wish you well...Lunch draws near.

HalverKWT1954

Guilt

Why do you weep, oh friend?Are you grieved?Do you glanceAt some word said out of placeOr is your happiness torn, perchance?

HalverKWT1955

28 29

Restless

I, disgusted in this hour,Write these words to no avail.Here, aloof in my ambling towerWhere the clouds in fleecy sailOvertake in countless numbersThose far hills where dwell all wonders.Yet, as I sojourn and I linger,So my gaze it sweeps about me.Restless are my heart and fingerAs I write these memoirs freely,Thoughtless of the time now passing,Blind to all the merry laughing.

Sweet Waters MillKWT1955

Escape

Oh that I were away now,Away from the quiet sereneness,Away at the sea with sunburnt browWith a maid who’ll vow willingness.

Where the sea is blue and foamy,Where the sky has a hue that is homely,Where the stars shine bold and bright,Where the days are short and there’s always a long night.

HalverKWT1955

30 31

Strife

Truly, this world is a strange world.Sadly, man his power doth hurlAgainst all weak and ornate things,Against all helpless, defenceless beings.

Consider how each thriving nationPits its wits, its strength for power.Yellow men who strive do ration for survival!Yet their future seems so dire.

HalverKWT1955

The Three Wise Men of Suez(The 1956 Suez Crisis.)

Somewhere north are three wise men.They study the star that shines o’er Moscow.The sickle they want but don’t know whenAnd wait the hour for hatred to grow.

These three wise men they share their ideals:We’ll stand our ground, we’ll give of our blood,We’ll keep the Suez, we’ll flow in the flood.Anglo French wait in vain, hearing naught from past appeals.

Nasser, the ruler, cynic, dictatorPreaches, “My brethren, the time will come later,When we will chase away the adjudicator,When the shores of our land will be rid of the hater.”

President is he of Cleo’s land,Colonel, they call, most profound.Luxury he has, from the toils of the peasant;Little do they know of a life more pleasant.

Frightened is he of what might occur,That, should he slip and his people stirAnd should they discover his objectives and aims,They’ll curse the nation for their toils and pains.

King Saud, the second wizard,Strolls the desert like a wanton lizard.He was poor and demure before the cry of oilEchoed o’er Arabia and drenched the arid soil.

32 33

Now he thrives on the rich, black substance,Lives a life that’s free and shows absence of mind.Yet his kind are always in trouble,Lack the logic and elect the rabble.

Kuwatly of Syria, rebuked and condemned,Called to his people to fight, not pretendThat their nation was weak with despairBut brave in the sense – that their day was near.

The star o’er Moscow they see no more,A curtain of fear has closed the doorThat opened and led to a brighter trend;The shores of their land they now must defend.

Unbeatable unity, the wise men swore,With the guidance of Allah they’d equal the score.But alas, no luck, depleted they stand,Ruined and exhausted, a defeated band.

The three wise men a lesson they’ve learnt:Never seek chaos, think for yourselves,Never lack patience, the gift of the elves.Always seek guidance when your pride is burnt.

HalverKWT1956

Relief

Hark, I hear the pitter patterOf rebounding hail.The rain has come, the crops shan’t fail.The rivers flow in a torrential stream,The sea claims all;A life long dream.

Mud and sand become rich againAnd the grass takes on a pretty hue.The trees they sway,They all refrain,As if to thank for the wondrous do.

The danger passed,And all these months of heedless toil.The earth is drenched,Its thirst is quenchedAnd the water oozes, gushes from the muddy soil.The sun doth shine.The water from the grave is wrenched.

HalverKWT1956

34 35

Sunset

Gently, the shadows seem to fade away:The sun hath set and darkness doth prevail.The farmer, his toils done for the day,Turns weary homewards,Thirsty for his ale.

Steadily, the shadows have formed, and fellAs the blazing sun dwindled o’er the dell,And the cloudless skyFilled with magnificent austere,Has given up the ghost, darkenedAs dusk comes near.

The night is still,No sound is heard,The sky is bright, a galaxy of dancing lights,The sea is calm, placid,No sign of bird.The cliffs stand majestic, awe inspiring heights.

And all the while,Great rivulets of crimson bloodDrown the sky in celestial light.And, as you gaze and wonder at the sight,The light is gonePassed gently in the flood.

As you look and gaze again,Small shining stars peek out in gleeAnd brighten all the sky and seaWith reverent charm,While lunar beams affect the sane.

HalverKWT1956

36 37

With Mixed Feelings

Of Bonaparte we know, so too his dear Louise,Of Nelson loyal, the battles Royal,The Saders feats of woe.Of England too, her fabled kingsSo destined not to please,For some old Pope forbade some kingAnd Henry was his foe.

da Gama sailed from Lisbon, ambition had been born.The sea route to the east he sought,So to his king he’d sworn.His venture in vain was not:He mastered well the oarAnd scoured the Cape and, now in sight,The bold Asian shore.

Through the long and ageless pastMemories flash back through one’s mind,Of Moses and his prolonged fast,Ulysses, Circe, Caesar and his kind.Death wrought despair when David aimed his slingAnd tall Goliath toppled headlong to his death.Victory brought relief when the great armada of the Spanish KingSuffered shock, took the toll and gently ceased to breathe.

HalverKWT1956

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Rose that you are,Must you grow so far?Must you bloom in MayWhen the sun is away?When a day is not a dayAnd the night, a glim array.

I fear that that day is lost.I fear that I must sayThe thing I most fear to sayAnd that is that for sureThis night, this day, I grow moreAnd more fond of your joyous smileBut warrant not ’twill last a while.

Last night I lay and ponderedAnd there, before me, the sightThat swept my thoughts away.I wondered whether love was true. Alas, no light.

HalverKWT1956

38 39

Nostalgia

Away at the sea, at a place of celibacy renowned,Where the ocean rushes, plunges,Dressed in radiant gown,And sweeps the shoreWhere bathers gather by the scoreTo prance and splatterOn a lively wave and sandy floor.Where the seagull dives and dips his wingsIn waters gay, that hide his prey and other things –That’s where I long to be.

Where the rippling waves of the riverUtter a sigh that’s refreshingAnd the tumultuous roar of the deepHolds your hand in hersAnd draws you nearer to a clearer sky.A sky of blue with fleecy cloudsScattered in fleecy folds,Where a sprightly breeze doth echo a tuneOf love, of joy, of what to expect next moon –That’s where I long to be.

HalverKWT1956

Disappointment

Where the rainbow ends, seek your treasure new.Seek the glory, the happiness, that only He and fewOthers know, and guard your booty against sensitivity,For surely you will lose your gain, your blessed longevity.

I seek that rainbow morn and night,Yet in vain,For I have found but pastures greenWith life that bears no name.

HalverKWT1956

40 41

Conscience

List to the wind, ’tis a sad heart that so doth mourn, ’Tis a shrill cry uttered; canst thou not wait till mornThy sorrow thus to keep? Thy words so old, thy whisper worn.Pray, do not tarry. Flee, lest thy memory perchance sojourn.

Morn hath come and yet thy echo sojourns still.Morn hath come and the sun peeps out from far hill.Weary am I, I slept not through the tempest. ’Twas thy willThat I should lie awake, that I should tremble, shiver from the chill.

HalverKWT1956

Longing

Oft have I gazed though my window at night.Oft have I watched sweeping swallows in flight.Long have I lingered, long have I pondered in glee,But strongest of all is my longing for thee.

Alone, all alone am I this night.I see your image in the waning lightThat so enthrals me to point of ecstasyAnd makes me shudder at the thought, the touch thee.

HalvaKWT1956

42 43

Nobody’s Perfect

She strikes me as being quite queer.She gives that impression, I’m afraid.Otherwise, she is most sweet –Not bitter as beer –But her actions have undone me,They bewilder and stun me.Aren’t I a jade?

HalverKWT1956

Recall

Do you hear?Do not fear,Bide your time,Hear yon chime.Harken to the ringing,Far voices singing,Ghostly echoes racing,Sweet notes chasingThen fading, falling,Dying, dwindling, callingBack a relentless doing,Weeping, wailing,Then once more wooing.

HalvaKWT1957

Written on my 21st birthday.

44 45

The Tempest

Away, away, away fair wind,Blow, blow, blow thy merry tune.Sing thy song so sweet, whisper to the moonThy words of love and ease thy mind.Then cleanse the sky with thy fragrant breath.Pass o’er, sweep by, quiet and still as death.Make thy shadow fall upon a crested waveThat ripples, flows, echoes in some abysmal cave.Let thy sigh brush the leaves of the forest,Let thy voice be stern, thy sting the sorest.

HalverKWT1957

The Price to Pay

Desperately doth the hangman guard his noose.Languidly cries the victim, when let loose.Defiant to the end, death takes its toll,Flamboyant bells reach o’er the knoll.

Guard well your soul, ’tis all you have.Forget all sin and look to God.Pray and remember those days so grave.Look ahead, be sure of each nod.

HalverKWT1957

46 47

Have You Ever Wondered?

Misty, mazy, all around,Echoes, voices, not a sound.Weeping, wailing, all in glee,Troubled, weary, o’er the sea.

Amid the hidden, darkened fenThere strolls an angel true.He guards the peace and tortures themThat scandal, sin and evil do.

Oh, come what mayIn this cruel world of ours.Oh, give, they say, with generous heartTo he who strives for hours.

Rest be to him who strives to liveFor peace shall conquer tumult in due courseAnd silence ever golden must then deriveSome earthly power from some earthly source.

Oh, majestic light, thy stare is bright,Thy powers great; oh, wondrous sight.The wanton stars, they stare in fright.Their day is near, what is their plight?

Oh, evasive dark, you bear the markOf evil: no sign of light, no sound of lark.We neither see nor hear for fear you break the nightAnd drown the solitude in celestial light.

Must a man forever live in strife?Must a man condone his ways each day?Might a man not live a gay, uproarious lifeAnd fester all evil that bars his way?

Is this life as fair as man would like?Is this life as gay as not to smiteThe glory, pride, that flows within man’s bloodAnd flows throughout his being in magnanimous flood.

Merrily, satiric echoes fill the airFor work proclaimed is neither here nor there,And should you gamble for a further shareYour better judgement is your only care.

Oh, winding road, what burden you uphold,Yet you stretch a lengthy courseAnd separate a lover from his lover boldWhose mind grows weary, whose heart grows hoarse.

What greater gift is there than the gift of giving?Far greater, aye, far sweeter, yes, so is the way of the living.So is the way of living, aye, day in, day out, men connivingIn splendrous fashion, wooing, aye, night in, night out,Yet thriving.

Oh, time, thou must tarry, thou must idle be!Fly, fly thy endless flight, but stop for meWhen I beg of thee. When I with my loved one stroll,Then time, thou must tarry and thy cogs cease to roll.

Halver HouseKWT1957

48

Pity

She’d not a tear for me.I am not worthThe mirth,That so ‘enshrouds’ you.

HalverKWT1957

PART 2The Rhodesian Years

51

Fear

Dark, dark is the night and the wind doth blow,Ere long eerie echoes murmur lowThat pierce the night with languid fright,With grave despair,And bring a tapping to the windowWith intent to scare.

But as I sit, intense, the sound grows fainter;The tapping is no longer heard.So still, so quiet, so restive.Then all at once the sound is heard again,A festive sound, and then I fear ’tis my wild heart I hear.

I am no painter.

Umvukwes Village1957

52 53

Observant

I walked beside a stream one day,Ever so sprightly,And there I watched birds and their way,Ever so quietly.

And so I have learnt to love,Ever so dearly,Places where finch and doveSing phrases clearly.

There has always beenRoom in my heartFor beauty that is seldom seenOn nature’s part.

When I walk at dawn,Beneath her widespread shroud,Tranquillity is wrenched and tornBy echoes loud.

Especially at noon I am movedWhere, in the shade,Nature has all but provedHer willing aid.

But when the sun is gone,Canto and verse,Feathered friends refrain from song;Night is their curse.

Still Observant

Oh, yonder lies gigantic granite massBeneath clear skies and where clouds pass by,With all respect and reverence givenTo those deserving and who have past hardships striven.

And far below there sleeps a tranquil poolClosed in by wall and rustling reeds,Where duck and fish nestle coolAnd, on occasions, a duiker feeds.

A thousand and one delights are thereOn awakening at morn in this lovely land,Up and about where duiker and hareBetray their exploits in shifting sand.

Crystal clear, oh water, here and there,No sound of merriment do you hear,For soundless is your world of mud and weeds.You share no joy in autumnal days or mourning reeds.

Yet I envy your possessive ways,Your yen to travel o’er morass and vleis,And e’en at night, when toad and owl cry out,You journey on your endless course, no doubt.

Munera1958

54 55

It was for this that I was born.Here is my life.No more will I gaze with scornAt nature’s strife.

MuneraUmvukwesRhodesia. 1959

Time Gazing

Long have I beheld time in ever changing stages.Long have my surmises passed with turning pages.For ratifications of ideals and outlooksAre not to be remedied from opinions of those who divulge in books.

Time, your advance is preposterous.No longer can minds calculateWithout being bombarded with statements by worldly statisticians,For we are safely ensnared in the hands of patricians.

Munera1959

56 57

Temptation

Awake, to the full, concerted sound of morn.Behold the sun rising midst stately spires;Behold the full-bloodedness of animated formThat joins in cadence with nocturnal criers.Wander hither, thither in the spell of dayAnd sit beside a stream that winds a lazy path.Control your inklings of delight as best you mayLest your thoughts be swamped in the aftermath.

Feverish, your heart will tend to growWhen day is ended and is gone.Remember but, and do not sowThe hatred of forlorn song.Seat yourself as need you mustWhen weariness overtakes you.Control the yearnings of your lust,Lest temptation conquers midst the morning dew.

Embittered love tends to die away.Is the flattery bestowed on you a conciseAnd wretched consolation, or is far dull dayThe moment you await to exercise your flight to paradise?Enlightened song that lifts no longer hope on high,Where is the sad and piping stress your magic held?Condemned by critics loathsome, who know not whyThe reason for your expulsion, nor your power felled.

Oh forest, seneschal of the dying day,How I marvel at your rhythmic swing and sway.Is your sigh a grave and destined callCrying out lest you topple headlong, lest you fall?

Pure is the air and sweet is the scent of flowers.Long have I lingered midst stately bowers,Midst woods and vales and ambling towers,Midst winding roads and gurgling streams.Here, have I spent my hours.

Munera1960

58 59

A Fire Conjures Memories

Oh, fire bright,Grave and grim in your yellow light.Does not your hiss and crack extol a toneOf sheer remorse? You’re left aloneTo burn throughout the night.

Oh, dancing flame,Are your outrageous acts to drive insaneMy mind, and other minds of less decreeWho join me in my quest that you let bygones be?Pray, return from whence you came.

Oh, trodden ash,Is your hideousness to revive that flash,Which wrought and scarred my heartAnd engineered an end before the start?Pray, fate is rash.

Munera FarmUmvukwes1960

Scandal

Ah, scandal. Scandalous, itchy tongueSpread thou thy gossip, thy deed is done.Wake not now those long-forgotten talesNor break a confidential vow.The tongue is sharp, akin to threshing flails.

The web is spun, ready for her prey.Tread thou gently now, ignore hearsay.Listen mutely to painful, parrying words,Much wisdom can be gained from nature’s birds,

Munera1959

60 61

Window Shopping

City lights everywhere,Noises that so oft you hear,People who do stop and stareAt gay windows here and there.Nevertheless, they do not care,Their pockets usually always bareWith not even enough for the homeward fare –So remember, look ahead and be aware!

Salisbury1960

Loyalty(Apologies to Cowper)

South Africa, with all thy faultsI love thee still, my country,And while yet a nook is leftWhere peace and laughter may be foundShall be constrained to love thee.

Though thy task be greatAnd thy labours criticizedBy jeering jades or debated by a wit,I would not yet exchangeThy torrid hoursOr days without a friendFor colder England with all her smog,Nor for America’s boast of statureAnd her confounded pride.

Munera Farm1960

62 63

He Who Cries Wolf

Before we came they were primitiveAnd now it’s not the sameAnd we trust, in God’s name,That they forget their objective.

Should that we allow them their aims?Yet it is no better now;Trouble is sure to flower.Will it all end in flames?

Answering guile of a thousand curses,Disheartened bard of palsied verses,Dismembered flame of sultry hearths,Downtrodden friend of friendless paths.

Veteran of never-ending wars,Breaker of a host of laws,Dreamer and satirist alike,Don’t dilly dally through the night.

Cause for alarm, rumoured by oneWhose ignorance rates second to noneAnd of whom all the world all jointly decryThat blindness lacks blindness in infamy.

Munera1960

Heartbreak

Prithee, I pray,I prayed for the dayTo not end in this way…Yet it has happened.

Here there are no smiles,Between us are many miles.Alone I will pass my whiles.My hopes, they are dampened.

I will not cry in vain;This is but a passing pain.My turn will come again,Regardless of years.

Munera FarmRhodesia1960

64 65

Complacency

Look aboutBehold the mess.Control your shout,Do not doubt,Nothing more, nothing less.

I imploreIn earnest,Son of whoreMy word is law,My bark the sternest.

In this gameIt’s on the double.What’s your name?Where’s your shame?Stay out of trouble.

Say the wordAnd it’s obeyed.Look absurd;Your headache cured,Your day is made.

I have not beenTo far off placesBut I have seenThe bastard fiendIn all the darkest faces.

Not to hearAnd understandCan foster fearFrom ear to ear,Can cause a shaking hand.

I have not boughtA single acre.I was taughtIt matters naughtThe nature of your caper.

Can you foreseeAny change?Who are weWho in revelryControl the range?

Some will fretAnd then give in.I haven’t yetLost a bet,And that’s no sin.

If at allYou crave assurance,A wager smallIs on the ball,And adds stamina; endurance.

LyntonCentenary1961

66 67

Dedication

Let’s hopeThere’s scopeOn a farmFor a willing arm.

No fearNext yearWon’t be in vain,Even if I suffer multitudinous pain.

LyntonCentenary1961

Prognostication

So days have come,And days have gently passed.Worried am IThat the days end much too fast.All in all,Some days I feel inclinedTo think that future daysAre already left behind.

Lynton1961

68 69

A Winter’s Day

Sunshine and sparkle are gone today,Lost in the heavensAnd lost in play.Instead there are cloudsAnd wind and all,And the heralding of SpringAs the end to the Fall.

Sunshine and sparkleYour presence is here,Embedded in shrubsAnd dewdrops clear.Untold is your secret by river and brook,Majestic your splendour,Thus pleading, to you we look.

Lynton1961

A poet’s dilemma

Bury me not ’neath the fertile soil.Cover me instead with dull, grey stones.There let the elements their labours toilAnd the scavengers pick at my bones.

Bury me ’neath a sky of blue,Not near the shade of the dying day.There, let me gaze at some mystic viewAnd nature watch at play.

Mourn not for me when I am laid to rest,The Good Lord knows my end.That I have sinned and He is vexedIs reason my life to mend.

Place not a stone with mournful words,Nor with flowers my tomb adorn.My memory I leave as a plaything for birdsAnd a bleak silhouette to the dawn.

Lynton1961

70 71

Man Has Itchy Feet

Solar bodies all aboutMake one ponder,Make one doubtWhy, of all the worlds we see,Ours should be supreme, the hierarchy.

We are all of staunch beliefThat far beyond no humanWill ever reach.But there is logic in the minds of dauntless menWho pry in hidden times.

Lynton1961

All Work, No Play

Bountiful,Beautiful,Benignant.Bonny were the lights,Uniform their spacing,Contradictory, flawless flashing.Dazzled by the splendourOf the colour contest clashing.I was a stranger in a city, escaping sleepless nights.

Salisbury1961

72 73

Awareness

Deceitful world and shameless woe,Where does this biased torrent flow?Faded flower and dazzling lightYou blind the virtues of my sight.

Oh, tortured, scorched and dying log,Once so proud and standing upright,Viewing far in sleet and fog;Now all aware of day and night.

All about the land is green,Resultant of the new born sheenThat pays her annual callAnd stays, until her leaves begin to fall.

I do not know the reason whyEach and every season should have effect of aweOn the simplest mindAnd the humblest door.

We sense His power in the beautyThat He unselfishly has sworn, His dutyTo impress upon our mindsHis creations of varying kinds.

Oh noble world,Was the chisel that fashioned you immortal?Was He that perfected your architectural layA man of patience great?Yet unhindered are your lines of destiny, of temperance and failure,And all the reasons for your provocation seem ungainly:

All is lost, and all too late.

Dear Lord, my God, I am awareOf all Your tenderness, Your care,Your virtuousness, Your goodness,Your unselfish aim to prosper understandingIn Your Holy Name.

LyntonCentenary1961

74 75

Spring: In awe of the Masasa trees

Oh, September,Have you come to make a call?Have you brought with you garments new,Garments of beauty, in red, not blue,Imposed on trees: stately, tall.

LyntonCentenary1961

In From the Cold

And when this sickly, mournful grip wears off and disappearsI shall discard this morbid, sordid look and asses ears,And all in all I’ll frown upon my tempo to quicken tears:I long to glance and reminisce, To mingle with these past few joyous, fleeting years.

No more the painful longing,No more the terse, tense celibate.

Gone forever that lonely, eerie abyss and moods irate.Future, fruitful years will in time relateThe twisted, tuneless musings of a minstrel’s fate.

Nyadevi1962

76 77

Reasons

Alas, alas, alas, is it fairThat I should once again referTo this ill work of sad repair?Or should I instead with the elements confer?

Rain, you were not to blame.Your presence was rare.Though welcome when you cameI still did not care.

Sun, you witnessed the funI enjoyed o’er the years.You saw the deed that was doneAnd dried off the tears.

Nyadevi1962

In Ponder

A man might live in vain,His heart’s desire might never be fulfilled.What causes doubt to gather queer momentum in the mind?What causes love to follow inconsistent paths?What causes distance to breathe an old familiar air?What causes absence, the heart to ache, to pound and tear?

A man might live within himself,But deep down he is prone to torment and despair.Love inspires him and he reaches new heights.Here, he waves precariously on his pedestal,Enduring only by hope and faith and love.But doubt, that old insurgent,Plays host to scores of minds.The strongest minded of us all,Falls tragic victim in the end.

Aye, life was made to liveAnd we are meagre pawns in a big field.

NyadeviPalm Block1962

78 79

Love!

Love. What is love?Is it an abstract and splendrous experience?Is it an endorsement of prolific, contented pleasures?

To love or be lovedMight well be the prelude to bright and happy understanding,Might well be the climax of achievement.


Soliloquize

Sweet flower, how I miss your sweet, enchanting smile.Faded is the memory of you.Lifeless is the world about me.Gone are all those joyous inklings,Inklings of delight and wonder...Gone the sunshine,Gone the moonbeamsTo another far-off land.To the land of the hereafter,To a world of better judgement,Where the sun shines bigger and brighter,Where the moon her moonbeams squandersAnd her rays career and clusterThrough the heavens,O’er the valleys,Like the god Apollo chasing,Charioteering and colliding,Challenging the rays of heaven,Sufficing the laws of natureYet careering ever onwards.

Mystic is the world about me.Mystic are the skies and water.Awesome are all savage splendours,Awesome are all deeds disastrous.Joyous, all the sounds of laughter;Joyous, all good deeds accomplished.Yet, there is much doubt of wisdom,Never failing sighs of anguish,Always erring ever onwards.Are the minds of men affected?

80 81

Are the yearnings of suspension?Sad are all those hearts defeated,Sad the mingling of the waters,Sad the murmur of the forests.Sad the whining of the tempestAs the winds of heaven plunderAnd convey their glory onwards.

Many are the miles uncovered;Many are the lands unconquered.Savage all the seas uncharted,Ruthless all the tribes unchallenged.Waning is the moon each winterWaxing in an endless slumber,Slumber that enthrals the living,Weaves a silence o’er the foregone,Yearns potential in all matters.So is slumber in the making,Slumber stealing rest and quiet.Slumber wooing all about her,Slumber, slumbering in the heavens.But the world aghast in slumberSteeps her beauty in the twilight.Soundless is her motion everAs she turns and hurtles onwards.


The Rains are Late

At last the purple sails do gather in the sky,Rolling and forming a sheet of promising proportion.And as I gaze, so stretches the horizon of my eye,Grabbing in excitement, but with caution.


82 83

Guidance

Nights and days

Roads and byways,

Sky and sea… I plead with thee,

Guide me.


Geniality

I will not defer from thoughts of joyful nature,Nor will I ascend the steps of swollen pride.Instead, I seek both love and humble statureAnd the reaping of God’s blessing in the tide.

I do not fear the wrath that is in store,Nor do I labour with the guilt of bygone days.Instead, I crave the patience to abhorAnd the strength to uncouple sad mis-trodden ways.

Along these lines I infinitely pursueEvaded pride and the ingenuity to foresee.I will not set my hopes upon the newBut pause and ponder, though engulfed in revelry.


84 85

Follow Your Impulses: Revelry

Dazed and not thinking straight,Upset about not being up lateAnd taking part in joyful revelry.

Another time, perhaps, I would have madeAn effort to stick it out and not to fadeFrom a merry scene that precipitated with its devilry.

Surely, you must go on longing for something,Even though this something with it may bringA score of upsets and ups and downs.

Yet, the moment one ceases to followAn inkling, one fails, and the hollowFeeling experienced is forever cursed with frowns.

The George HotelSalisburyRhodesia1962

Come Down To Earth

Supposing you were to wanderEndlessly through the dark of nightAnd seek the thunderThat raves within you and adds to your plight.

Supposing you were to wave asideYour stupid thoughts and worthless dreamsAnd just for once abideWith reason, before you crossed your streams.

Supposing you did decideThe worthiness of someone’s views, of the other side,And opened the door, oh very wide,And ventured forth on a long, long ride.

Supposing, you did changeAnd you felt and thought and ravedAnd even walked on the same rangeAs the man next door with his sidewalk paved.

Supposing… you lived for once!

Nyadevi 1962

86 87

Addendum: Contentment

Content am I that this dayI have found theRest and peace of mindThat only those boundFor a better life do find.

In Reply to Annette’s ‘Bloodiness’

Bloody this and bloody that,Your bloodiness bemoans the factThat life is bloody hard.

Bloody heat and bloody car,Don’t you think your bloodiness a far cry,From words used in the yard?

I’m not angelic in my thinking,I prefer my bloody drinkingThan to criticize the bloody words of others.

Yet it is a bloody shameThat the rhythm when it came,Should be in a style not taught by mothers.

Oh, I’m the bloody fool,The servant and the toolOf the bloody language on the whole.

But the bloody awful partIs the feeling in my heartAnd the blame for your straying from the fold.

Now take my good advice:We are men, not bloody mice.The feeling’s universal, after all.

Forget this bloody swearingOr for sure you’ll find you’re steering,Retreating up against a bloody wall.

88 89

Be a woman with a purpose,Be a girl of modest charm,Be respected in your circle,Be aware of all the harmThat surely will deriveAnd can only but surviveFrom the frequent use of words,Not akin to those of birds,Which you use with fervent zestJust prior to your bloody nursing test.


Sailing(In response to a painting, painted with the foot by P. Mouleveld)

You, who curse your blindness that you cannot see.You, who seek sympathetic tribute, be you deaf or dumb,And you who crave, no matter what your plea,Gaze here awhile, to your yearnings to succumb.

I see a lake with silvery-violet hue,And tiny tassels tossing on each wave;A skiff of sorts, ploughing through the blue,Fecund clouds, and perhaps a sheltered cave.

I can hear the sombre plunging of her bow,Gliding, skimming, floating in the breeze.I can hear each tender ripple, clear and low,The far inviting whisper in the trees.

And you who struggle without courage in your fate,Blind, that somewhere lurking is an outlet to create,Take this brave example, we leave you now to moot,That the creator in creating, had his outlet in his foot.


90 91

When in Love, Communicate!

I have reached the stageWhere I could turn the pageAnd think no more of it.

I do not care aboutThe constant glareAnd the odd nitwit.

Let’s face the truth,I’m not uncouth;Oh, misled heart.

The bell has tolled,No tears have rolledFrom your fair cheek.

My life beganWhen a worthless manShowed yearnings meek.

And now the roadLeaves your abodeFor a brighter scene.

I pray aloudTo the listening crowd:Pity me, an old has-been.


A Vain Attempt to Communicate

Oh maidens fair,We send this credence fleetTo bow before your very feetAnd to lament our long nightmare.

Oh tactless love and untold joy,What apprehensive methods you employ.You cast our hopes upon a mistletoeThen rock the wretched thing both to and fro.

Oh, tactless time and mirthless miles,Alone we passed our worthless whiles,And in the end, at the ghastliest of hours,Bade ‘Edison’ contact our precious flowers.

We had with us your coarse and ‘bumptious’ noteAnd, while we waited, feared to doteUpon the thought that two admirersHad dashed the hopes of two nocturnal criers.

We do not curse the tides of woe.Instead, our blessings we do bestow,And confirm our heartfelt trust…We thought that ‘phoning’ was a must.


92 93

Decline

Falling, lifeless leaves,Bearing scars from once invading hordes;Hordes not searching for reprievesBut taunting hordes, tempting e’en the breezeTo match the might of their destructive swords.

How too, as leaves do fall,So too, eddying time devoted in her aimWaves unobtrusively aside each call,Each plea, each referendum to installA ‘status quo’: tranquillity in a tranquil frame.

Bleak, obtrusive, barren twig,Hidden once by foliage, a wondrous sheenThat shielded you, moving now, a gig.Aware of frugal nakedness, no wigHave you to hide your pale mis-features, lean.

How too, as twigs decline,So man declines, sinful man, man depraved,Shielded too, in infirmity, tempted now by wine,Resolutely hastening haunting prime,Leaving but a shadow, a hindrance to be saved.

Life abounds in the labyrinth. Fertile seed,Devoid of nature’s cycle, clings, clutches, consolidates.Here no urchin longing to be freed,Restless to pursue a long and dire need.Here, abounding with fecundity, nature duly oscillates.

How too, as trees are fecund, or beast or fly,The infidel that is man, too, bears fruit.But here the restless urchin does soon espyThe dire need to wander from the spire,Existing in a lifeless world: lifeless, mute.


94 95

Flower Arranging

Who will gather flowers of blue,Sparkling and fresh in the morning dew,Trim them with scissors on table bare,Caress them with fingers, deft and rare?

Observing Annette arranging flowers while on holiday in Rhodesia.

NyadeviPalm BlockRhodesia1964

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Greece,The Golden Fleece,The Argonauts and Jason.In queer caprice,I now beg that winter hasten.

Pray,For a far winter’s day,Our love to strengthen.Nor be there slight delayOr the day’s need to lengthen.

Call,From a summit tall.Cry out aloud.I condemn that wallAnd that low black cloud.

Where,Dear heart, in this stately sphere,Sleeps there a wellNurtured by seer?Tell, pray tell... I beg thee, tell.

When,Thoughts of you are again and again,To search is in vain.The well of life is guarded by fen,There, no high piping strain.

96 97

Yet,I must not forgetMy solemn aim.Great is my cause to fret,And waiting, a game.

Dream, ’neath that beckoning screenOf twilight and twinkle.Devour dull distance mean,Your message to sprinkle.

Time,Revered in rhyme,I am your slave.Now, for a distant chime,That moment I crave.

I supposeThat somewhere, someone knowsI pine and yearn.Every moment assurance growsI shall not spurn.

Now,My sweet and precious flower,All these words, are they sense?My love for you respects the hour,Past, present and future tense.


We were engaged, separated by distance......

To Communicate (the wrong way and the right way)

A thousand pardons for my scornful words,Grave regrets have I for pampered thought.Unlike your subtle voicing, whereby the birdsEstranged you with their joy,I this guilt upon myself have brought.

I feel inclined to run a thousand miles,Hurrying, no time to tarry... hiding from the wretched curseThat haunts my mind and hinders workless whiles.I have not courage now to ponder,Nor the thirst for verse.

Since you departed from this once joyful scene,A cloud, a cloud, a gloomy cloud has spread her gloomy shroudUpon my gloomy head.No more the magic stress of childish laughter,Endowed as I have been, silent now,The source of raptures loud.

The torment and unrest that is my mindHas enveloped that dim cavern.While once the words of logic skirmishedWith the blind ‘pros and cons’ of argument,They have now elapsed, I fear.

Exchange of words during our engagement period.


98 99

Gratification

Bless you, my darling,For happiness abounding.Bless you, my precious,For the life we are founding.Bless you, my angel,For your patience astounding.Bless you, my dear heart,For your love so surrounding.

As newly weds.


A Drought Can Break Your Spirit

Why do I toilWith this wretched soil,Where nothing will growRegardless of what you sow?

Where is the bonus?On me there’s no onus:I did my bestWhen put to the test.

Another yearOf rationed beer,Not that I drink...It’s an outlet, I think.

Still, people will smoke,Even when broke,And the prospects look better...That’s me, a go getter.


100 101

Tarnished Verse

I lack in thought the words to praise,Nor can I fathom. Yet I sought,Searched regardless in these latter days.

Perhaps this non-appellation derivesFrom my present state of ‘sixes and fives’,That ‘nothing is hopeless’, I agree,But thinking of you is by far, the nicer nicety.

Thinking of Annette....


Toeing the Line

Annette was in Greys Hospital after a bunion operation. I sent her a get well card depicting a vase of flowers.

My precious,I bade them send you flowersOn your grim, disquieting day.

I fear a dotard,Careless ‘’tween the towers’,Caused my messages to stray.

In recompenseNo sensational ‘showers’,But a vase in mild array.


102 103

Passage

Here today,Gone tomorrow,Gone to stay,Apart from sorrow.

Far from the rumbling,Far from the tumblingNoises of dire excavationAnd the hazy beat of civilization.

Temporary regrets, none.Cravings few and far between.For the life of yore and once upon,Once passed, remains unseen.

There, the breath of the wind gusts sweetly,There, season and time pass not fleetlyBut sojourn at will and as they please,Not conscious of abuse or disease.


Separation

Mean, dull distance,Far, shrill cry.Staunch, strict persistenceFor a craving eye.

Quiet, lonely solitude,No more the old familiar sounds.Reclusive, haunting rectitude,Curse these prying mounds.

Days that matter naught,Weeks that matter less.Here a lesson taughtTo the mind under stress.

Comfit for the grieving and the grieved;Longing eats the very soul.Time ensures the teether teethed,Extracts fair portion from the toll.

Stressing so of the mind,Crude and bumptious vision.You will search but will not findSolace from contrition.

Laughter heals: healing laughter,How I crave my every due.Daughter, mother... mother, daughter,The weeks remaining are days but few.

104

Loved ones, this bond that binds,This pure and binding bond,This life and love to shareIn God’s gigantic pond.This faith and feeling,Stemming from His very hand,Endorses my belief in Him,I thank the planner that He planned.

Daughter, your father lacks in wordsHis fullness of expression.That you are part of him and part of her,Makes you a treasure.Treasured in our very hearts,Sealing too, the binding bond of intercession.That life is short and love eternalAre words of no mean measure.

Loved ones.One is loved by next of kin,Loyalty merges and, mergingLike a lustful spring,Soothes the heart of all encumbrances,But pricks like a spiteful pinThe separated heart from the mothers wing.


PART 31966 Onwards

107

Change of Fortune

Apologies to Omar Khayyam and a tribute to Charles Arthur Frederick Fortune.

Charles Fortune was a teacher at St Andrews in Grahamstown before he ventured into broadcasting as a cricket commentator. His commentaries were very descriptive and poetic.His descriptive ability was marvellous and would leave today’s commentators speechless for fear of making fools of themselves. He was without peer and it is a pity that recordings of his commentaries are not readily available.I remember the epic series of 1966/1967 and 1968/1969 between South Africa and Australia in South Africa. There were some very interesting and famous players on both sides.I have mentioned the following players in this account.

Australia.

Ian ChapellRennerberg – nicknamed ShineMackenzie – nicknamed Garth after the famous comic character in the London Daily MirrorHawk – NeilLawry, Bill – he had a very long and pointed nose, like a bird’s beakMiller, Keith – From the 50s who had made a feast of runs in St Georges Park. A legend!Benaud, Richie – another legend from the 50sSimpson, Bobby – opening bat and captainLindwall, Ray – Another legend and feared opening bowler from the 50sBradman, Sir Donald – legend of all legends

108 109

Change of Fortune

Awake, for Fortune in St George’s ParkHas rescued brightness from the abysmal darkAnd lo, the Tiger of the North has caughtThe harassed Chapell and has left his mark.

Dreaming when Tiger’s lance was in the skyI heard a voice within my transistor cry,‘It’s sailing, it’s sailing, is it a six or four?’ The vanquished are the victors and the cup’s no longer dry.

And as the crowds stood, those who stood before the box shouted,‘Tell us now the score,You know how little while we have to stay,And once we queue for Castles may return no more.’

Now, this test reviving old desires,Remember too, the deeds of the umpiresWhere the White Hand of Kidson from the crease puts out,And Simpson from the ground retires.

Benaud, indeed, is gone with all his pose.And Lindwall’s young successor, to where no one knows,But still the land her famed talent yieldsAnd still a Bradman into manhood grows.

And Simpson’s lips are locked, comments none,But somewhere, ‘Kidson, Kidson, Kidson,’The Lawry cries to the Hawke,That bashful beak resplendent in the sun.

South Africa

Bacher... AliBarlow – nicknamed BunterPollock, Graeme – nicknamed Little DogPollock, Peter – nicknamed Big DogVan der Merwe, Peter – nicknamed MurphyLindsay, DennisProctor, MikeLance – nicknamed Tiger

Others

Kidson – South African umpireHutton – famous English cricketerHammond – famous English cricketerCompton – famous English cricketerWisden – treasured for all cricket statistics and referencesFortune – commentator

In 1967, I wrote my own interpretation of the tests using Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat as a medium, for which I apologise. I imagined that Charles Fortune was in the commentary box.

110 111

Come bear with me on this fine summer’s morn.The covers are off with no sign of wicket worn.The players are out and have but little way to walk,And lo, the morning’s play is born.

And look, a thousand runs with the day woke,And a thousand scattered into clay.And this first over being bowled by GarthShall take both Eddie and Ali away.

But come with Old Fortune and leave the lot,Of Hutton, Hammond, and Compton forgot,Let Pollock lay about him as he willOr Dennis cry ‘supper’... heed them not.

With me along the turf of Kingsmead strewn,That unjustly claims the venue as is known,Where approval of my voice scarce is shownAnd pity any commentator on his throne.

Here with my mike and sweating brow,A cuppa tea, my priceless WisdenAnd thou, dear friends, listening in the wilderness,And wilderness is paradise enow.

‘How biased are your views,’ think some,Others, ‘roll on the wondrous views to come’.Ah, take the views in hand and waive the rest.Oh, the excitement of a distant run.

Look to the strokes that flow about us. Lo,Laughing, Dennis says, ‘into this game I go,Take that, oh Shine, and that, and that!’Oh, the sweet sight of an overthrow.

The worldly hope the writers set their hearts upon,Burns Ashes, or they prosper, and anon,Like grit upon young Proctor’s flaxen face,Overstepping by a yard or two... is gone,

And those who came to watch in vain,And those who sat and shivered in the rain,They waited and hoped for play,For once you’re ‘in’ there’s no ‘out’ again.

Think, in this spacious field of play,Whose stage is alternate cheer and flay,How batsman after batsman with his pompPlayed his over or two and went his way.

They say the Dog and the Tiger keepThe crowds, where Miller gloried and drank deep, enthralled,And Murphy, that great skipper, the Kangaroo,Stamps o’er his head, and he lies fast asleep.

(and so forth)

Brighton BeachNatal1967

112 113

A cockroach hiding in the drawer,Lust and squalor,Hunger, thirst,Deadly violence, uneasy peace –Man, admit your folly,Come out batting, face the crease.

Going back a good while now,Settlers landed, made a vow,Trekked across the sprawling land,Lived in lagers,Ploughed the blistering sand.Tribes were conqueredAnd the pioneers settled in,Grimly struggled and grimly foughtFor family, folk and kith and kin.Soon there stood a fort,A village huddled by a hill,And then the towns envelopedAnd are growing still.

Gentlemen!We know the world is round.But how much moreIs there to know and learn?Confine your effortsAnd deploy the pound,Use it for deserving causesAnd ensure foreverThat the world will turn.

Look no furtherThan your muddled mind.Search and searchAnd you will find,

Home Thoughts From Home

A breeze blew in from the seaAnd with it high tide.Tiny white crests ran precariouslyOn the water’s edge.The white crests disappearedAnd momentarily diedAs the breakers crashedOn the shiny black ledge.

The wind changedAnd no longer blewBut still the crests appearedAnd disappeared in uncertainty.The rocks remain unmoved,Condemned to eschewPersecution from the seaFor eternity.

Have you ever walked along the beachWhen the tide is out?Flotsam and jetsam greet you;Debris lies littered all about.Man made or nature’s cause?Rule out the latterThen pause and thinkAnd you will of necessity see nature, made bereftBy man. Pollution, improper and distinct.

No matter what the problem –Whether decaying on the shore,Foulness floating in the air,

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That old, tormented conscienceStaring out in fright.Cast aside the mantleAnd judge the wrongAnd then the right.

My ancestors evolvedA long time ago.They lived in the wildsAnd learnt to throwSticks and stonesAnd broken bonesAt the foe.Then they progressed with zest.

Justice, justice, justice,Fair justice in a sense.Trust us, trust us, trust us,Convert the shillings into pence –Just recompense.

Ah, yes, perhaps they do forgetThe generous favours,Tea and coffee,Bread and jam,All the leftovers from the table.Bed and lodging,Cast off clothing,Even Mommy’s worn out sable.But how, please how,Does this qualify them as neighbours?

Stranger,How you gaze in disbelief,Yet believe me when I say,

Gone foreverAre the ways of yesterday.The people are begging for relief.Relief, relief and more relief.

A name,A number,A card.A book,A number,A name.A book is soft,A card is hard.A card spells pride,A book spells shame.

Stamp its meaning,Endorse its worth.Kindle the wrath.Sit by the hearthWhen the flames lickAt the dismembered log.Gaze and gaze and gazeInto the foggy fog.

A man is on the beat.He peeps into cars.He peeps into bars.He peeps at anyoneCaught napping on their feet.Sure, he has a job,Sure, his name’s not Bob,Because to lookYou never can tell,The devil’s disciple

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Or the disciple of hell.

You have the voiceAnd always cry.You practise by choiceThe life you liveAnd the life you die.Does it not seem strangeWhen you think out aloudOf the dog and his mange,And the outside crowd.

When the day breaksAnd starts anew,Activity revolvesAround the chosen few.The sugar is counted,The cupboards are bolted,The doors are left opened wide.And while you dashTo your chosen view,The blood of your blood,The pride of your pride,Is left unattendedIn the frightening wild.

You know, my friend,It does not make senseIf you consider what it meansTo be surrounded by supposed fiends.Yet the supposed fiendIs given all sayIn the running of your enterprise, from day to day.Yes, you lock up thisAnd you lock up that,

And still they go amiss:A cup, a coat, a shirt, a hat.

When the day endsAnd is gone,Activity revolves aroundThe same old song.The sugar is counted,The cupboards are opened,The doors are bolted, outside and in.And while you are toldOf the day and its wrongs,The barking of dogsThe croaking of frogs,Sends you hurrying, scurrying and burrowing.

Hypocrisy, age old and worn,What solution do I teach?Banish vagary when it’s born,Put into practice what you preach.

I foresee sanity, eventual and plentiful,A stand for every man, precise and concise.Road and abode, far reaching and breaching,Treatise for the species, borrowing, no sorrowing.Likelihood for livelihood, entrenched and ensconced,Privacy, no piracy and trust that is just.Place for Alsatian, place for Dalmatian,Room to live and room to strive.No one will try for stew and pie.Common sense, no impertinence.

Bestiality and brutality gone forever, a new inviting river,Madness gone, sadness flown,Cat and bird in the peaceful herd.

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Flair for long hair driven to sheer despair,Laughter, no slaughter, useful chores, no wars.Saints with paints clearly defined, no harmful remind.Mellow yellow and true blue,Dark and stark and light and bright,A picture, no mixture.Black is right, and right is white.

Late.It is never too late.Take stock now of the peas on your plate.Invest and juggle,Juggle and invest,Digest the peas, the peas in your chest.To share wholeheartedly, is to checkmate fate.

Uplands DriveKloofNatal1970

There was much turmoil in South Africa at this time. Verwoerd was dead and the apartheid laws were draconian. The education system, pass laws and immorality act caused untold bitterness. Fear and uncertainty were prevalent throughout the country.It was a time for deep reflection.

Searching

Oh, righteous breeze,Your breath consoles the flesh,Yet untarnished is the skinAs your ripples weave their mesh.

Strange, the sky is bleak today,The mist hovering on the peak,Mighty oaks shedding leaves,Drifting to their grave beneath.

Light: there is no ray,No sharp rebounding shade,No playful sparkle in the sun,Autumn already made.

Yet, there is a glimmer,A glimpse, a grip, a graspOf not all hope forsakenIn life’s determined clasp.

Troubles, woes, harassed in sleep,Tortured mind in a trapped corner,Steeped in prayer and faith,Without the faith, the hope forlorner.

Guidance, what path to tread,Where lies the start and end?The Wondrous Guide unselfishlyThe map of life did send.

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Soon the seasons’ cycleWill repeat itself again:Autumn, winter, spring then summer,First one year, then ten.

Here we learn a lessonFrom the very map of life.Interfere with natureAnd the cycle leads to strife.

The body is a vehicleFor the mind and soul,Treading on a tightropeWhere heaven is the goal.

The path is tight and narrow,Just room for sole and toe.Falter and slip, and you’re caughtIn that grim net below.

Imagine the catastropheIf the seasons were reversed.There’d be no life worth livingIn a world forever cursed.

Simple, when you think of it:No other course is there.A start and end to every lifeIs one of give and share.

Some days you pray and pray,Pleading for reply,Then the floodgates openAnd the answers multiply.

The problems then ariseAnd you sift out one, then ten.The answers are elusiveAnd you turn to prayer again.

Muddled is your mind,Mingling in a maze,Every effort madeThe past to erase.

Problems are a curse,Yet they must be overcome,Handled systematicallyAnd sifted one by one.

Tomorrow, what might it bring?Where will you go?Promises of realityMidst more melting snow.

Hopefully, you reach out,Begging to be filled.The faith and spirit evades youLike virgin soil untilled.

Parel ValeiSomerset West1979

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Butterfly Blues

Oh, toDarling daisies,Pale pansies,Voiceless violets,Anxious asters,Faithful forget-me-notsAnd dancing daffodils,(Varieties with many hues)I pledge this song:Butterfly Blues.

Oh, toSneakish squirrels,Dauntless doves,Ambitious ants,Spiteful spiders,Fiendish frogsAnd dancing dragonflies,(They come in ones, they come in twos)I pledge this song:Butterfly Blues.

Oh, toCunning cats,Determined dogs,Shameless snakes,Grimy gardenersAnd outcast owls,(Please call a truce)I pledge this song:Butterfly Blues.

Oh,Brave butterfly,Busy butterfly,Bashful butterfly,Banished butterfly,Battered butterfly,Oh, beautiful butterfly,I let you loose.Accept my song:Butterfly Blues.

For Nicolette’s school project. Rhenish, Stellenbosch.

Parel Valei.Somerset West1979

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The Lord’s Touch

The touch of the Lord, it means so much to me.I cannot afford to lose your touch, Lord, as it means so much to me.

It gives me peace,It gives me joy;The peace and the joy from Thee.My heart is racing,My spirit is chasing;A chasing after Thee.

For the touch of the Lord, it means so much to me.I cannot afford to lose your touch, Lord, as it means so much to me.

Bonnie Doon1989

Awaiting

Uneasiness in the wings,Aisles and niches and nooks.Recesses and aperturesWilling to receive and to welcome,But still awaiting.

Fleeting time passes and vanishes,Fast, rapid and meaningless.An orbital element, repetitive,Again and again and againBut still awaiting.

Opportunity to explore and to delve;Worthy pioneers on a journey.Horizons both new and discovered,Hopes for a breakthrough undaunted,But still awaiting.

Spiritual blessings a promise,Jesus, our light and salvation,The Father’s Home all eternal,The journey’s end our reward –But still awaiting.Bonnie Doon1990

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The Charge of the Unwary

Half a metre, half a metre,Half a metre each way,All in the valley of potholesRode the Unwary.Forward the brave brigade,Dash for the gaps, he said,Into the valley of potholesRode the Unwary.

Forward the brave brigade.Was the whole town dismayed?For sure they all knewThat someone had blundered.Theirs is not to make reply,Theirs is but to pay and cry.Into the valley of potholesRode the Unwary.

Potholes to the left of them,Potholes to the right of them,Potholes in the front of themNumerous and varied.Rode over in heat and sweat,Boldly they rode and wellInto the jaws of wreck.Into the mouths of debt,Rode the Unwary.

(And so forth... apologies to Tennyson.)

Bonnie Doon1993

Advertisers All... (A song to the pamphlet kings)

Midas, Kwikspar, Colordek, Bradlows,Here’s to all pamphlets free,Home Finder, Giddys, Uncle Joshua, Latimers,Hail to the kings of the spree.Spreaders all for some dreamer’s sake,Guilt be yours and shame,And guilt as long as the day shall breakFor harm to the city’s name.

Chorus:

Adventurers all for the city’s sake,Stop filling our post boxes with litter,For as long as each new day shall break,Our sentiments grow ‘bitter’ and ‘bitter’.

Apologies to Sir Henry Newbolt. (The Song of the Sea Kings.)

Bonnie Doon1992

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Tranquil Encounter

As I lay spread-eagled on the lawn,My gaze focused on the ethereal sky,A world of wonder then unfolded.The heavens opened like a torn curtainAnd a host of chariots appearedEmblazoned with the flags of war, all waving high.

Legion after legion, speeding and gathering momentum;Formation after formation, all in bright array;Chariot after chariot, like molten metalCast from a master die.The legions formed, advanced, then formed again.Then lightning flashed and hurtled through the frayAccompanied by a thunderous clap, as ifAnnouncing the Creator’s entry into the warring train.

Then the Voice exploded.Words formed and streaked across the sky.“Master of guile, fake and counterfeit,You are defeated, banished to a world below.”The words then shattered into golden arrowsWhich, triggered by the Archer’s handAnd aimed at awesome speed,Sent the legions plunging, to their final overthrow.

A new order would be found.The deception would not cease.The quest for souls, the relentless questSpurred on by the relentless thief.The battle rages,The guise and guile intent to ruin the peace.

Then, stirring, I stood enthralled in that tranquil place,Knowing that the encounter had not run its course.A pathway beckoned and, meanderingThrough the shrubs and trees, I followed,Then reached the cliff faceWhere the pathway branched off to either side,Anxious to learn the truth of either source.

One side led to Eden, a new life in Paradise.The other pointed to the tried and tested way.Then, beckoned by the Eden sign, I followed,Compelled and drawn by the wonderland around me.What perfection! Foliage, colour, exotic birds,All watching, waiting and relishing the intrusion.There was something lacking in that eerie solitude,But I pressed on, oblivious of the grand illusion.A pool invited, and drinking I felt refreshed and strong,Then gazing, Narcissus-like at the reflections in the pond,Was sucked in, trapped and helpless.

And then I woke up!

Hogsback1988

Hogsback is a strange and enchanted place. We spent a weekend there in 1988 and after Sunday lunch had a catnap on the outside lawn. What I experienced is beyond description.It took me some time to comprehend and what I have written here is a hazy sketch of my encounter.

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The Pied Pipers of Slum (East London)

Slum town in Border,By famous Mdantsane city,The river Buffalo, murky and wide,Washes its waste on either side:A more unpleasant sight you never spied.And when begins my ditty,Almost five years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer so,From squabbles, was a pity.

Councillors.They fought like dogs and scratched like cats,And bit the babies in their cradles.Dined on cheeses, drank from vatsAnd rubbed in salt to their cooks’ own ladles.Split open grudges, flew blind like bats,Made mockery inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoilt the women’s chatsWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking.‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a Noddy!And as for our corporation, shocking.To think we elect clowns who rant on sermonAnd dolts who can’t and won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin.You hope because you’re old and obese

To find in the furry civic, robe and ease.Rouse up, sirs, give your brains a racking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’

(And so forth... Apologies to Browning.)

Bonnie Doon1994

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Free at Last

The release of Nelson Mandela from Polsmoor.

I caught a glimpse of the future;History in the making.Not dark and stark,But light and brightAnd rising like a starBeyond the beyond.

The gates of the past are shut,Slammed and sealed, welded with forgiveness.Consigned to the cobweb corners,The attics of a forlorn era,The unsteady steedFinally bolted into oblivion.

Yes, light and bright,Stretching like a winding river,Twisting and turningFlowing onwards,Steady and sure.Like a stream of molten lava, all consuming.

A river of life and hope, and love,Lifting the spirit to new heights.An Everest surmounted,Humbled by the majesty of the moment.Acknowledging!All praise to the Creator.

Men amongst men,Leaders with vision,Caught in the maelstrom of destiny,Playing out their callings,Their exit and their entrance, to perfection.

The play goes on.The roles will change.Asides and promptings,Comedy and dramaAll for an inspired audience.

Yes, I caught a glimpse of the future,History in the making.Not hesitant and uncertain,But bold and brave and champing at the bit,Eager for the chase.

Bonnie Doon3/5/1994

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Paradise Lost. Rhodesia, the aftermath.

Written in 1997 at the outbreak of farm invasions and the eviction of white farmers.

Who can forget those priceless yearsAway to the north in the land of plenty?Digging and hewing and clearing,Ploughing and reaping and curing,The adventurer free to pursue the life of his making.

Borrowed time that seemed endless,Day after day, lost in the yearsOf total commitment to achieve and improve.Primitive forests transformed, the fauna crudely vanquished.Magwagwa and Gwaai, roads and tobacco,One spot, Mhlope, Gazi and green,Even Mompara, all graded and faded,The infant jargon well grounded.

Who can remember those men at the fore?They came flocking to the land of plentySoon after the war.Commissioners and teachers,Lawyers and clerks,Tradesmen and colonels and colonials galore,All seeking to prosper in the land of plenty.

I remember too well that ride on the train.Blaney, Bloemfontein, Kimberley, Francistown,Mahalape, Bulawayo and on to Salisbury.Three days of soot and steam and sweat.Yes, in the fifties

We had all heard of the land of plenty.

Take your pick:Mufilira, Kitwe, Ndola.Mining, the Copperbelt and great fortune.Or Umvukwes, Karoi, Centenary or Banket,The land of the Gwaai, the golden tobacco.

Who can forget the Federation years,The disruptive sixties and U. D. I.,The resistance to change and share?It could have been different.The energy and flair to transform the land,Rather the thrust to change the nation.Wilson was right, Smith was wrong.Sanity demands that admission.

What fate awaits the short-lived Shangri-La?A land grab in reverse,A fifty year reprieve, now elapsed,But gone the forest primeval,The fauna crudely vanquished.All denuded now: a kind of culling field.

The erosion has set in.Another fifty years and who will remember the land of plenty?Bwana and Mambo,Magwagwa and Gwaai,The eye’s old horizon,The scene set to die.Who will remember the land of plentyIn a fast-fading sky?

Bonnie Doon1997

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The Promise

A new day has dawned,A positive breakthrough has taken place.A new dawn, a new era,A never-look-back situation has developed.A new responsibility has been bestowed,Wisdom, much wisdom;Only Heaven’s Wisdom will prevail.

We will accept the challenge.Now is the time to create, to restore,To enable, to equip,To endure, to endow,To encourage, to enthuse,To persist and to bless.All praise, all honour and all glory to the Father, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.

Wake up! Wake up, all you children of the earth.Shed your scales and take your rightful inheritance.The victory trumpet has sounded,We will not look backBut forward to God’s eternity.Thank you Lord for this, your promise.We can be trusted; we shall not be found wanting.

Bonnie Doon1997

Priorities

Lord, so often the emphasis shifts from You.Lord, so often we need to rediscover anewThe mysteries of Your ways,The truths of Your works,The wisdom of Your sayings,Your mercy, Your love, Your peace,Your son Jesus and Your Holy Spirit.

Your word says it all.Your word is life and light and truth.Your truth sets us free forever.Lord, I repent my sinful ways.Forgive, I pray; enable Your Spirit within me.Guide me and teach me Your ways,That I may bless You with my deeds and actions.Thank you Father, Jesus and Holy Spirit.

Bonnie Doon20/4/1997

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Tribute to My Father-in-law, Nic Strijdom

Describing words:Dreamer, student, scholar, educationalist,Linguist, romantic, poet, orator, author,Novelist, husband, father, grandpa,Dignitary, patriarch.

A lull has spread her shroudUpon this gathering.Why thenThe mournful tearsWhen knowing full wellHis victorious march to eternal bliss?

Yes, pull down the shroud.His spirit has soared to a free and lofty flight.The banners wave on high,The cheers of the heavenly host cry triumphant,His entry deserving and awaited.

We rejoice in his procession,Living his earthly life steeped in service.That vast and endless chain of scholars,A vibrant memorial to his special gifts,That deep commitment to duty and to preserveThe treasury of God’s Laws.

The Father entrusts only those who know Him,The Son teaches only those who seek Him,The Holy Spirit indwells only those who desire Him.You, who knew him well will recognize these virtues.

Those who knew him not have missed the rare honourOf his Godly inspiration.Today, we salute his ethereal call to an even higher duty.We, in turn, will forever treasureThe memory of his unique example.

Bonnie DoonJanuary, 1998

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Eternal Life

The course is runThe race is ended,The day is doneAnd the account is rendered.

Only a few will mourn.Alas, memories are marred by time.The cruel passing is testimonyTo the inevitable... death.

Do you recall those distant yearsOr are they lost in the past?Abandoned, jettisoned, flotsam at best.Come then and draw on a rational future.

Eternal life, we toast the promise....

Bonnie Doon1999

No 8 Whittlesey Street

Yes, the curiosity.How quaint the streets,The gardens, shops and cobblestones.From Piccadilly Circus and on to Trafalgar Square,Then back to Waterloo, I have walked and traipsed the high ground,But nothing for me can surpass the spirit of Whittlesey Street.

Conrad’s house is in Whittlesey Street;No 8, to be exact.Steeped in the glory of the Waterloo days,A crimson door on a two up and two down.A sunlit garden of roses, hydrangeas, poppies and cornflowers,Most unusual for the centre of town,But I have fallen in love with the life-bearing lustreThat clings to the chimneys and rooftops with a dreamlike reality.

London is a sprawling place,Wriggling in taxis,Worming in tubes.Delving into my ancestral past,I came to visit and was blessed.An old curiosity awaited meAnd I saw it in all of its finery,The pomp and pageantry and jubilation, a time to remember.

Dickensian, Yes!Thank God we can still dream.

Whittlesey Street, London2006

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On Turning Seventy-one

I woke to the clamour of birdsong,A cacophony of sounds muted and mixedBut merged in a strange joyfulness,Beyond all human comprehension.

If only the custodians of this ever-changing worldWould listen to the chirping pleas,Would listen to the doomsday chants,For without the treetops all hope will die.

The wayward weeds have enveloped,The wayward weeds have encroached,Trespassed the very edges, usurped the boundaries.The wayside is no longer, only wayward and untoward.

Wanton waste, the wastrels wallow in the mire,The willows weep a veil of tears.The weirs are dry and dust bowls eddy in the sky.How long until the final suffocation?

Yes, I woke to the birdsong on this, my special day,And I wonder whether my long-lived daysWill outnumber the short-lived days to come.There are signs and there are omens,Alerting signs and motions.

Listen to the chirping pleas and doomsday chants,For without the treetops, all hope will die.

Bonnie Doon17 September 2007

Sowing and Reaping

Stony, scattered soilMingled with the barren dust.Opportunistic footsteps homeward tread,The desert’s loss.

Heated hardships,A desperate fear of failure,A weighted fragile heartSeeking favour from the Father.

The larder is empty,The rain an absent stranger.The dust and torturing heatYearns for new behaviour.

The Father steers the plough,The forlorn land is tilled.‘My son, receive your rightful acre,’The sand is ready for the yield.

Onward, pressing ever forward,Singing high in quickened song.Reap the promise, live the life,Claim the victory: the battle’s won.

A day is but one thousand years,Ten thousand years are but a day.The lonely road greets but a few,A few have searched and found the way.

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September 2008Morris Rd

In response to Hein’s poem dated 8/8/2008( Reaping and Sowing)

The Lonely Guy’s Lament

The mermaids in the skyWink back and whisper,‘My Love, My Love’.

The giraffes in ManhattanStretch out and echo,‘My Love, My Love’.

And all the timeThe Airways seek out the stars.‘My Love, My Love’.

No vapoured mermaidsIn the morning trades.‘My Love, My Love’.

No billboard giraffes orDream holidays on Manhattan streets.‘My Love, My Love’.

Instead, I soar, and soar, and soarAnd see and touch the Hula hawk.‘My Love, My Love’.

I see! I see the vapoured veil,The promise of a new-found hope,The heartbeat of the elusive GrailAnd know the leap of loveIs well within my grasp.

My Love!

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Morris Road2009

In reply to Conrad’s poem while he was surfing at Old Man’s on Oahu’s South Shore, Hawaii

Jasmin

Sure! The months were longYet life pressed on,Your tiny pulse, and feeble kick grew strong.At last, the gasp for air and you were there,Sweet, fragrant Jasmin.

Your mother’s arms are fully wrappedEven though her strength be fully sapped.Your father, too, so loyal and strapped,All for your life, so nobly mapped.Sweet, fragrant Jasmin.

In the days ahead, you will grow and grow,Your opened eyes will see and know,All shadowed features will melt like snow,Movement here, there, and to and fro,Sweet, fragrant Jasmin.

Sweet, fragrant Jasmin, God’s gift sublime.Your name is etched for all to seeThe echoes sound for all to hear,Calling out...Sweet, fragrant Jasmin.

Bonnie Doon2010

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The Poets’ City

London is the poets’ cityHark and hum, that age old ditty,Stride beside the tidal flow,Hear the echoes come and go,Meandering through the poets’ city.

From the eye above the skyThread your gaze through ancient needleStitching fast the watchful dialThen in and out the cursed stileAiming for the poets’ city.

Drifting ’neath the bridge that cowersAnd heading for the mast that towers,Precise, the ticking, chiming hour,Green and grimy the awesome power,Floating in the poets’ city.

As I go, I hum and strum,Marching to the beat of drum,Watchful eyes from a timeless pastPoets all with vision vast,Caring for the poets’ city.

Whittlesey Street, London2011

Harbouring Pearls of Wisdom

I was still young when they came from the sea,Droning like bees in a flower garden,The nectar young and ripe.They pierced the armour of the slumbering anchored fleetAnd then they left, leaving a mangled messOf buckled hulls and senseless death.

The sleeping giant stirredAnd, angered by the sting, went to war.The land of the free, the home of the braveAll rallied to the bugle’s call.The engines of industry switched onAnd ignited on a yet unrivalled scale, and began to march.

As crisscross battles raged,The Pacific graveyard wept,And then the backlash came in an awesome act of atomic tremor,A wave of devastation as yet unseenBut clearly aimed as retribution for that sad Sunday’s act of war.

For fifty years and more a truce prevailed.And now in my twilight years I have seen a new evil, a faceless foe,Silent, deadly, lurking in the undergrowth.Domineering, commandeering, terrorizing.Yes, I saw them come on that fateful Tuesday morning.

It was a helpless load of hapless humanityAimed at the heart of what is good and true,First one load and then the other, leaving a flaming, raging fury,Then, shattering and imploding, the two great towers ceased to be.

150 151

Again the mangled mess and buckled steel.Again the outrage and the senseless death.Again the giant has stirred.Again the anger and the bugle’s call: the march is on.

In distant hills the goatherds roam.The herders dance a gleeful jig,The children skip and clap their handsTutored by their troubled, turbaned mentors.

Here I stand in a far off land, mindful of those far off tremors.Hiroshima. Nagasaki.A stand-off for fifty years and more,And now this domineering, commandeering, terrorizing.Kabul is not far from the heart, an awkward place, a trapNot far from the resurgent Genghis, flexing his muscles on the Mongolian plains.Two blasts of deadly tremor proved effective, now for the future.Two plus two is four: four deadly tremors.Tripoli, Kabul, Baghdad and Tehran, four quietening blastsRid the world forever of blackmail and terror.

I trust the powers that be will harbour these pearls of wisdom.God bless America.

Bonnie Doon11 September 2001

We Are Survivors

(For those born before 1940)

We were born before television, before penicillin, polio shots, frozen foods, Xerox, contact lenses, videos and the pill. We were before radar, credit cards, split atoms, laser beams and ballpoint pens, before dish-washers, tumble driers, electric blankets… and before man walked on the moon.

We got married first and then lived together (how quaint can you be?) We thought ‘fast food’ was what you ate at Lent, a ‘Big Mac’ was an oversized raincoat and ‘crumpet’ we had for tea. We existed before house husbands, computer dating – and ‘sheltered accommodation’ was where you waited for a bus.

We were before day-care centres, group homes and disposable nappies. We’d never heard of FM radio, tape decks, artificial hearts, word processors, or young men wearing earrings. For us ‘time sharing’ meant togetherness, a ‘chip’ was a piece of wood or fried potato, ‘hardware’ meant nuts and bolts and ‘software’ wasn’t a word.

Before 1940 ‘made in Japan’ meant junk, the term ‘making out’ referred to how you did in your exams and ‘stud’ was something that fastened a collar to a shirt while ‘going all the way’ meant staying on a double-decker bus to the terminus.

In our day, cigarette smoking was ‘fashionable’, ‘grass’ was mown, ‘coke’ was kept in the coal house, a ‘joint’ was a piece of meat you ate on Sunday’s and ‘pot’ was something you cooked in. ‘Rock Music’ was a mother’s fond lullaby, Eldorado was an ice cream and a ‘gay person’ was the life and soul of a party, while ‘aids’ just meant beauty treatment or help for someone in trouble.

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We who were born before 1940 must be a hard bunch when you think of the way in which the world has changed and the adjustments we have had to make. No wonder, there is a generation gap today… BUT, by the grace of God we have survived.

Writer unknown

Expectations(For Hein and Lara)

New life heralds new joy,A pair of beaming smiles,Proud moments for all to bear.

Cosmos, chaos, the world in disarray,Foundations crumbled and forgotten;Pleas for a return to sanity.

Not long and the pitter-patterOf tiny feet will echo through your hearts.A racing sound, like new-formed rain;One heartbeat with a common aim.

Cosmos, chaos, the signs are there to see.Hunger, greed, despots grabbing every morsel;Disaster looming, the world at risk.

There are teachings, there are scruples,The Great Book holds it all.Words of wisdom, words of truth,Words of knowledge and words of peace.

Therefore, take these treasured moments,Plot the course your new-born craves.All that matters is the Spirit,Destined for eternity.

Bonnie Doon2010

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Limerick Time!

1. A college bear, highly degreed,Was famed for his great drinking speed.When he entered a barVoices echoed afarPraising the pace of his breed.

Salisbury. 1959

2.The Macintosh poet of Dale,His black Citroen for ever on trail,Was dubbed Gurkha the lurkerNot Gurkha the shirkerFor the rhyme when it came, never failed.

A tribute to Ray Godden, my English teacher at Dale.

3.An aspiring Doolittle of Gulu,Assisted by his first mate named Lulu,Set sail for the QuanzaBut instead reached the Bonza,In the face of much push me, pull you.

Bonnie Doon.

4.A despairing game farmer from GonubiWas puzzled as to where his gnu could be.While hot on its spoorHe was bewildered once more,That his gnu might in fact be an Oribi.

Bonnie Doon.

5.An infamous hijacker from IdutywaSaid ‘Here’s what I can do for yer:In this neck of the woodsIt’s hijack and hoods,So please, the loot in the boot, if you know what’s good for yer.’

Bonnie Doon

6.An ambitious soprano from KingWho’s desire and wish was to singA Beethoven sonataIn the haunts of UmtataWas rewarded in time with a fling.

Bonnie Doon.

7. Slum! ( say East London quickly)The pot hole city of SlumContrived not to be outdoneBy installing elders so wittyWho resorted to dittyTo the strains of ‘fe, fi, fo, fum’.

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8.The Kamikaze elders of SlumContinue the ratepayers to stun.With their drive for a MercWhich is bizarre and berserk,And the cost of a sizeable crumb.

Bonnie Doon

9.A wonderful woman called ‘sister’Was convinced that no one would miss her.Until she went awayFor what seemed a year and a day,And caused a moan and a groan from her ‘mister’.

Bonnie Doon

In 1992, South Africa played India in the Friendship Series and the term Mankaded was again brought to the fore. It is deemed an unsporting gesture when the bowler, while running up to bowl, stops, and runs the batsman out at the bowlers end crease.The incident involved Kapil Dev, Peter Kirsten and Kepler Wessels.

10.A moustachioed batsman called KirstenWas renowned for his rescues as ‘first in’Until Kapil DevGave him a revWhich led to his ‘talkin ‘and ‘walkin’.

11.A pimpernel bowler called KapilBy contriving to act Dr JekyllBroke the bowler’s end wicketWhich gave Kirsty his ticket,Midst the shock of his underhand chuckle.

12.A pugilist skipper named WesselsFor once received praise, not heckles,By pounding Kapil’s poor shinFor his unpardonable sinWhen he sent Kirsty back to the trestles.

Bonnie Doon

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Cecil John Rhodes

Early on, while working in Munera on a farm, Umvukwes in Southern Rhodesia, I came upon a rather tatty Readers Digest which featured a saying by Cecil Rhodes. His words have since been a motivating factor in my career and contributed greatly to the success of our family business.

“There is no use in one dozen of anything. Always think in hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands. That is the only way to create an impression or to cause an effect.”

That was sixty years ago.

Tribute to Jake White

Lycidus, by John Milton, is a special poem.The introduction reads:

“In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas in 1637, and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupt clergy then in their height.”

Yet once more, oh you critics, and once more, you comic clowns, in unison, we come to judge your motives, harsh and crude,And with mingled voices rude,Shatter your snugness in this a tarnished year.

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dearCompels us to disturb your spineless act.For Jake is gone, gone before his prime,Brave Jake, he has not left a peer.But who would not sing praise for Jake?He himself praised others and built the Springbok fame.

Begin then, brothers of the sacred gameThat from the hallowed turf of Newlands sprung.Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep awayThis pestilence, this plague, and every poor excuse.Shout with joy and praise the destined urnAnd, as Jake passes, turn and salute his fame.

For, Jake, your sadness is not unshared,Sunk though you be in this your testing hour.So sinks the sun at close of dayBut in the night sheds off its drooping headAnd regains a new-found sparkle in the morning sky.

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For, Jake, sunk low but mounted high,Will walk new paths, where other grovesAnd other streams belong.Now, Jake, the critics gloat no more.Henceforth, you are the genius of the sacred lore.

And now the sun has stretched out along the hillsAnd dropped down into its watery bed,For, tomorrow Jake will rise and ply his talent true,Tomorrow, to fresh woods and pastures new.

Bonnie Doon2007

With apologies to John Milton

The Alfa Romeo Experience

If you have never owned an Alfa Romeo you will not easily associate with the passion that old men, ogling boys and fast women experience when pawing over these works of art.

My first glimpse into the Alfa Romeo realm was ‘love at first sight’.A brand new Giulietta Sprint Normale in red. In those days, cars were shipped in individual crates and I experienced first-hand the wonder of an ‘out of the box’ sale. What a purchase!

Rhodesia, in the early sixties, was booming and every conceivable make of car was available in Salisbury. The memory of the Alfa Romeo showroom, with its array of art, still lingers on. A Sprint Speciale, a Sprint Veloce, a Sprint Zagato, a Spider (all Giuliettas), even a 2000 Sprint and a 2000 Berlina. All brand new and in today’s world very collectible. Mike Harris, the Rhodesian racing champion (Cooper/Alfa) was the sales manager.

My son Roderick and I were drawn into the Alfa Romeo dream world in the early 80s mainly by way of exotic car magazines. The fantasy became reality with Roderick’s introduction to an early Sud Sprint Veloce which had raced in Mauritius. He was at boarding school in Grahamstown and ended up the envy of his schoolmates.

The collecting started in earnest in 1988 and has become a hobby which stimulates much pleasure, has opened doors for close friendships as we have met many great personalities, and have been to unusual places to track down potential acquisitions.

Our cars all have a history of endless pursuit to complete a puzzle which had been conjured up in our dreamland. Some of the missing pieces are impossible to find, some are priceless treasures that you seldom see, but in the meantime we are endeavouring to keep the

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name alive, a flame burning and the desire to keep the baton changing for the generations to come.

To describe the Alfa driving experience is to wax lyrical; it brings out the poet in you.In the sixties ; ( an extract from a yet unpublished poem which could well apply.)

Bonnie Doon1989

“…through the heavens, o’er the valleyslike the god Apollo chasing,charioteering and colliding,challenging the rays of heavensufficing the laws of nature,yet careering ever onwards…”

Munera FarmUmvukwesRhodesia1959

PART 4Letters to the Family

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Letter to the Family: 45a Alice Street

9th September 2014

My seventy-eighth birthday has arrived and I am in the process of recalling many memories which, somehow, have presented access to the distant past.

I was born on the corner of Alice and Wodehouse streets, grew up in 45a Alice Street and finished my schooling in another house further down in Alice Street. All three houses were within one hundred yards of each other. Oddly enough, all three homes were semi-detached, cramped with small gardens and sorely tested in accommodating our large family.

The house in the middle was 45a. It was here that I was hospitalized for diphtheria; it was here that I was hospitalized for my eye operation; it was here that we received the news of my father’s death on active service; it was here that I lived when my mother passed away while hospitalized in East London.

It was from here that the family finally dispersed to go their different ways.

But, 45a Alice street is more than a memory!The house was a double storey with a tiny staircase. My mother

and sisters occupied the ground floor and the three boys held out in the solitary room on the top floor: three black metal beds with striped coir mattresses, faded, peeling wallpapered walls and one window overlooking the tennis court of the palatial residence of the very posh Brent family.

Mr Neville Brent was a garage owner and had the dealership for Nash cars. His wife was a very gracious lady, always smiling and endearing... a Queen Mother sort of personality.

Next door, in the other semi-detached, stayed the van Vuuren family: very ordinary and down-to-earth plaasjaapie types. I do

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remember that there was always some bush mechanic activity on the go and the smell of oil and grease still lingers in the memory bank.

My brothers had a pigeon loft in the small backyard and bred all types of pigeons. They also spent a lot of time fishing for eels in the Buffalo River. We had a faithful maid named Elsie who was part of the family. My first pet was a Jack Russell – Patches, by name – who followed me everywhere.

Across the road lived the Black family who owned a local pharmacy. Their neighbours were another Ketterer family, my father’s cousin, uncle Heinrich. Further down lived the Burton family, the renowned historian, Dr A.W. Burton, author of the acclaimed book Sparks from the Border Anvil.

The town council controlled the town and had many lovable personalities rendering service to the residents. The characters I remember well were the Avis brothers who ran the roadworks department. The sight of Mr Avis behind the wheel of his steamroller was something to behold. Pipe in mouth, weathered hat and braces and the chugging, clanking and grating sounds of metal on gravel were a fascination that still exists amongst small boys today.

Another character was Sgt Kotze of the CID. He was a burly man who wore a brown raincoat and long leather boots and was inseparable from his military issue Harley Davidson with side car. At curfew he was renowned for terrorizing the transgressors.

The Cadumby’s were an Indian family who hawked fruit and vegetables from their old Ford Lorry with wooden spoke wheels and frequented the street on a regular basis.

Kingston & Son was the neighbourhood grocer, a Roman Catholic Chinese family.

The Pollmanns lived next door to the Blacks. He was a train driver and I remember him clearly, dressed in his leather clothes: black waistcoat, pocket watch and chain and leather cap. The neighbours behind us were the Zeelies – a rather strange family. The mother was besotted with cats and was seen regularly feeding the city strays.

Father Pentergast was the parish priest. He was later elevated to Monsignor by the Pope. It was he who came cycling down the

street, resplendent in his robes on his balloon-tyred bicycle with shiny cyclops lamp to break the news of my father’s death on that fateful day in 1941.

My father was seldom home, forever on active service. Looking back, it was not a happy arrangement and was the missing ingredient in cementing the family unit.

As children we played in the street: rounders, kick the tin, hide and seek, marbles and toktokkie.

In the war years there were constant blackouts, food rationing and aluminium collection projects for the Spitfire-building campaign.

The American’s dropped the atomic bombs during this period. We were fooled into staying awake to witness the bangs and flashes. We were very gullible at the time.

The Royal Family in the White Train paid a visit to King Williams Town as part of their tour.

My mother died in 1947 after a long illness. For me, the sky collapsed.

The chapter on 45a Alice Street closed and life moved on.Years later, while I was farming in Rhodesia, my eldest brother,

Errol, married Dolores Frauenstein. Before he had met her, her father had bought her a property for a birthday present.

Guess where… 45a Alice Street.

LoveDad

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Letter to the family: Izeli Convent Farm Orphanage

9th September 2014

After my mother’s funeral in 1947, 45a Alice Street was soon vacated.My two eldest sisters had jobs with Barclays Bank and my two

brothers were serving their apprenticeship at Kaffrarian Boots, an established footwear manufacturer.

It was decided to send my sister Pamela and me to an orphanage.Izeli Convent Farm was established by the Dominican order of

nuns as an orphanage and was situated about fifteen miles outside King on the Stutterheim road. We were dropped off at the main convent in King, where we waited to be fetched by the farm transport. The moment arrived when a black Ford Woodie stopped to pick us up. The driver was an elderly Xhosa man with a stately grey beard.

It was a dark and gloomy day with the threat of rain and thunderstorms. We no sooner reached the turn off to the farm than the lightening struck, the thunder clapped and the rain bucketed down, the driver lost control and the Woodie ended up in a contour on the side of the road. No injuries and no damage to the Woodie.

We were compelled to continue on foot for the last two miles. I remember seeing all sorts of activity along the way: nuns threshing hay, nuns herding animals, nuns cultivating gardens and, as we passed the barns, nuns milking cows.

Nuns, nuns and more nuns.The stench of fermenting dung and other peculiar farm smells

still lingers.We were greeted and received by the mother superior of all

mother superiors. I was ushered to a room and subjected to a thorough examination, after which my hair was shaved off and my fingernails cut brutally short. To this day, I cannot tolerate long fingernails.

There were two dormitories, one for the boys and the other for the girls. Each dormitory accommodated about twenty children with ages ranging from four to sixteen years.

The first night was a never to be forgotten experience... I eventually cried myself to sleep.

We soon grew accustomed to the routine at the orphanage but were always conscious of the circumstances that had brought us there.

I remember a boy by the name of Froneman. He was sixteen years old, big for his age, and was a father-like image to the children. He was a very good influence and mature beyond his years. In later years he excelled in many areas and was a prime example for overcoming adversity.

I enjoyed the days when we all went swimming in the river, which was clean and close to its mountain source. We spent hours splashing and jumping off the willow trees.

My eldest sister visited us during that first term and each time she sensed the loneliness and despair that we reflected. Our unhappiness was plain to see.

At the end of the term a miracle happened. We were rescued and told that other plans had been made for our future. Good-bye to the head shaving and savage nail cutting, good-bye to the sobbing nights and barefoot running around, good-bye to the dubbeltjies and fermenting dung.

Most of the children were placed there with no alternate options. we were fortunate – very fortunate – to have had the chance of a new beginning.

LoveDad

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Letter to the Family: De La Salle, Kings Road, KWT

11th September 2014

The rescue operation from the orphanage was great news.Together with my father’s war pension and some other charitable

grants it was now possible for a directional change. Pamela would go as a boarder to the Sacred Heart Convent and I would go to the adjoining De La Salle Brothers School.

What an adventure it turned out to be.It was a small school catering for classes from Standard One to

Standard Six. I started in Standard Three and boarded in the same house as the brothers who managed the school.

Brother Raphael was the head followed by Brothers Boniface and Kilian. They were all from Ireland and were very accomplished in their profession.

Brother Kilian was the youngest, very handsome with rosy cheeks, and was the heartthrob of every convent girl who dared to steal a peep from across the boundary wall. He taught, coached tennis and football and was a member of the Lorain Tennis Club.

Brother Boniface was tall with a Doctor Spock look about him. He wore glasses, had one eye and it did not take long for us to relate to each other.

Brother Raphael was a leader and instilled confidence in the boys around him. He was well versed in the Roman Catholic culture and taught us the Latin used in church ceremonies.

There were five other boarders. Neil Collins, nicknamed Hugu, was the eldest. His father owned a trading store on the way to Grahamstown and I had the privilege of being invited to his outpost for the Easter holidays. His family conversed with each other continuously in Xhosa.

Guy Keth was another boy, from Berlin, and then there were the Whitfield brothers from East London.

Georgie Chantler from Grahamstown completed the list. He was my age but small in stature with mousy looks. He invited me to his home for the July holidays which turned out to be a new and enjoyable experience. His parents were divorced. His father was a traveling salesman and took us to Grahamstown and the journey seemed to go on for hours.

We spent time on a farm near Bathurst before spending the final week in an unforgettable environment. Georgie’s mother had a boyfriend who had a trading post in the bush outside Grahamstown. It was remote, very remote, and we lived and slept in proper indigenous huts. The boyfriend turned out to be a genuine Long John Silver look alike, with a peg leg, a silver beard and a bellowing voice. Georgie was petrified of him.

Here, I learnt to eat goat meat, observed the finer art of trading best knives and billy cans, learnt how to wrap sugar, tea and coffee and tobacco in funnelled newspaper and to appreciate dining off enamel plates and drinking out of enamel mugs.

As an individual, I blossomed during 1948. I was like a sponge, hungry to absorb and learn.

Brother Raphael turned us over to the church for altar duty where we came under constant scrutiny by Monsignor Prendergast, the same man who’d brought the bad news some five years earlier.

The ritual of pouring wine over the priest’s fingers into the chalice by the altar boy during mass, required a steady hand and perfect timing. It was accepted practice that the wine would be decanted very sparingly. His Eminence kept nodding his head for more and the decanting only stopped when the container was depleted.

It was here that Mike Sokolich and I met up again after having been together in kindergarten. Mike and his brother were very young when their father passed away. His mother remarried Uncle Bill, his father’s brother. Uncle Bill worked at the British Kaffrarian Savings Bank, was an accomplished saxophonist, played in the Borough Band and performed his own arrangements for special occasions.

My sister Maureen, who was by now the official matriarch of the family, gave me a special treat for my birthday – a spanking new

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Kodak Brownie camera – and we spent the afternoon snapping away in the botanical gardens.

The year passed by rather quickly. I learned and grew and read. I was grateful for what I had.

More often than not, bad news surfaces in December. This time it was Brother Raphael who dropped the bombshell. The boarding arrangement was closing down and was being transferred to East London.

Another move!

LoveDad

Letter to the Family: Family Genealogy... the Ketterers

11th September 2014

Ferdinand Ketterer was christened at Guendelwagen, Walldshut, Baden on the 1st of October, 1793. He was my great-great-grandfather.

Ferdinand married Therese Fehrenbach.On the 19th of June 1825, their son and my great-grandfather,

Johann Baptist Ketterer, was christened at the same place in Baden.On the 16th of January 1857, he disembarked from the Sultana, in

East London, accompanied by his wife, Pauline Konrad. They settled in the Marienthal district near East London. I have a suspicion that Fort Jackson is in close proximity.

He had served in the Crimean War and in 1856 volunteered to serve in the 4th Light Regiment in South Africa. He was discharged in 1861 when the regiment was disbanded.

They had five children: Ida, Otto, Elizabeth, Friederich, and August.

Otto was my grandfather and married Bridget Sansom and they produced six children: Arthur William, Florence Winnifred, Victor John, Albert Otto, Alma Mary and Rita Margaret.

Victor was my father and married Wilhelmina Dorothea Deutshmann and they produced six children: Daphne Maureen, Errol, Kenneth Edward, Yvonne May, Pamela Shirley and Keith Roy.

I married Annette Maryna Strijdom in 1964 and we have four children: Nicolette Anne, Hein Victor, Conrad John and Roderick Hugh.

Nicolette is married to Dr Aleksander Radonovic. Hein is married to Lara Phillips and Conrad and Roderick remain bachelors.

Hein and Lara have two beautiful daughters, our only grandchildren.

I am the only surviving sibling from my generation.Back to my father’s siblings.

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Uncle Arthur, I don’t remember.Uncle Albert settled in Bethlehem after marrying a farmer’s

daughter. Their daughter was hospitalized in Frere Hospital, East London, in 1947, where she died of blood poisoning. She was twenty-one years old and was in hospital at the same time as my mother who passed away in the same year. Her name was Petal Malvonia Ketterer.

Florence (Aunt Florrie), was my favourite aunt. She married Ernest Rowles, a teacher at Dale College. They had six children: Alicia (my godmother), Billy, Sammy, Mary, Wally and Joseph.

Alicia (Tickle) married Ian Hunter, who served in the British Navy during the war. His ship HMS Cossack was involved in the famous Altmark incident, a rescue mission ordered by Winston Churchill. The Altmark was carrying over 200 merchant seamen prisoner as a result of sinking raids by the German battleship, Graf Spee, in Atlantic waters. The Altmark was the supply ship to the Graf Spee. The sailors were rescued and taken to England amidst great jubilation.

They settled in Northern Rhodesia.Billy was a captain in the Green Howards, a famous marine corp

in the British Army. He was wounded in battle and returned home highly decorated. He was a teacher and ended up as the headmaster of Dale College before retiring to the old family cottage at Kidds Beach.

Sammy served in the navy, worked in the postal services and also retired to Kidds Beach.

Mary married Geoffrey (Ginger) Fowles, who was an air force pilot in the war. I remember him strapped in plaster of Paris from his neck down to his waist. He had been shot down and was on leave at Kidds Beach with the Rowles family. It was early in the 40s during the war.

Wally married a Jewish chap by the name of Bokkie Davidson... you’d better believe it. His parents owned the Central Hotel in King Williams Town.

Joseph ( Joey) was the youngest and we spent much of our youth together. I was the best man at his wedding when he married Chloe,

in Que Que, Southern Rhodesia in the early 60s. He died very suddenly in East London at a fairly young age.

Uncle Ernest died in 1948 and Aunt Florrie lived to a ripe old age.

Aunt Rita married Franz Holly who worked for the Ginsberg Soap & Wax factory.

They had four children: Valerie, Oscar, Jill and Bridget.Valerie and her boyfriend, Colin Collins (cousin of Hugu of

Xhosa-speaking fame), made a pact to join the ministry, he as a priest and she as a nun. He was eventually ordained but Valerie denounced her vows and ended up marrying Arthur Rowles, a relative on Uncle Ernest’s side of the family. Arthur had an electrical business and was fatally electrocuted while repairing a refrigerator, leaving behind a widow and small children.

Valerie never remarried.Father Colin left the priesthood, married a New Zealander and

settled in Australia.Oscar worked as a motor mechanic and was stationed at the

roadworthy department in Gonubie. Roderick will remember him.Jill married Clyde Attwell who became the Director General of

Public Works in the old Ciskei Government. They are retired and are living in Port Elizabeth.

I don’t know the whereabouts of Bridget.Aunt Alma married Jack Brent who worked for Kaffrarian Steam

Mills (KSM).They had three children: Margaret, Bernard and Terrence.Margaret married a Whittaker, Bernard had an audit firm and his

son is a dentist in East London.I don’t know the whereabouts of Terrence.That completes the Ketterer genealogy up until my generation.

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Letter to the Family: The Prior Years

15th September 2014

My earliest recollection as a child is of being confined to a cot and speaking gibberish to the amusement of my mother and laughing siblings.

I was probably just over two years old.At three years old I was confined to Grey Hospital with diphtheria.A year later my tonsils and adenoids were removed in the same

hospital.At the age of five my left eye was removed as a result of a cornea

ulcer infection.Dr Pringle was the surgeon. Penicillin had not yet been discovered!By this time I had become very familiar with the ins and outs

of Grey Hospital, had developed an absolute craving for jelly and custard and adapted myself for things to come.

As a three year old we stayed in a house in Henry Street for a short while, before settling in at 45a Alice Street. Our neighbours were the Booysen family. One of the sons, Danny, worked for the borough water department and was loved by all the neighbourhood kids. We couldn’t wait for the occasions when he loaded us onto his lorry and took us on his inspections to the Pirie Dam. We were a bunch of barefoot, bubbling and enthusiastic children.

Back at Alice Street there was always something on the go.Not far away lived the Kent family in Thomas Street. Edwin

Kent was a barman at the Prince of Wales Hotel and had a family of twelve children, six boys and six girls. The one son Cluadie, was my age and we played marbles with gongs in the nearby park. When the last child was born we were playing as usual when his sister came running and shouting, “Come home, come home, the stork has arrived”. The baby’s name was Conrad.

Letter to the Family: Genealogy... The Deutschmanns

14th September 2014

My great grandfather, Frederick Deutschmann, was born in 1832 and married Wilhelmina Deutschmann.

They had nine children: Edward (my grandfather), Carl, Hermann, Wilhelm, Wilhelmina, Louise, Daniel, Franz and Robert.

Edward was born in 1861 and married Emma Esprey. Emma was abandoned as a child and was taken in by the Rev Hugo Gutsche, a German Lutheran minister in King Williams Town.

They had six children: Hugo, Frederick, Edward, George, Robert and Wilhelmina (my mother).

Edward and Emma moved to Barberton during the gold rush and their children were born there. In 1899 he fled with his family to Keiskama Hoek to escape the Boer War.

My mother was one year old.The third son, Edward William, survived the battle of Dellville

Wood only to die in the “Flanders Mud” in 1918.I have no recollection of relatives on my mother’s side other

than Uncle Ferdinand, her uncle, affectionately referred to as Uncle Fennant or just plain ‘Uncle’. He was my great-uncle and I have never been able to find where he fitted in.

Uncle was a baker and was married a second time to Aunt Aggie, a skinny little lady. In contrast, Uncle was a mountain of a man. He had a daughter named Olga who was married to a man named Simpson.

I can remember a Barry Deutschmann who worked for his father who had the Standard Vanguard franchise in King Williams Town. He died in the 60s at a young age.

There was an Aunty Dulcie Deutschmann and another Deutschmann who took us on occasion to visit my mother in hospital in East London.

That completes the Deutschmann genealogy as I recall....

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The Kents had quince, apricot and pomegranate trees in their back yard. The father kept a constant supply of beer, milk stout and ginger beer with marble seals, packed in wooden crates and stored in the main bedroom.

Jerry Cyris (the Lutheran minister’s son), Malcolm Wright, Donald Langley and Lennie Leppert are names that come to mind. We got up to all sorts of mischief, especially with the Chinese grocer, Kingston & Son. We would stand at the door of his shop and sing uncomplimentary jingles and then disperse in great haste in all directions.

We were never caught.Uncle Ernest was the house-master at Diocesan Hostel, a

boarding establishment for Dale College schoolboys. The facility was previously at Durban House in the same road. The Rowles family lived there and in addition they owned a house in Lonsdale Road which they rented out.

After mass on Sundays, Aunt Florrie would often invite me to the hostel to play with my cousin, Joey ( Joseph). The breakfasts were scrumptious: bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, all so impressive. The lunches were even better, always a roast with a variety of vegetables.

The holidays spent at Kidds Beach at their holiday home were always special moments.

Joey taught me to ride a bicycle and one Sunday I was presented with a ‘handed down’ resemblance of a small bicycle, which I rode back home to the astonishment of my mother. It was the first and only time that I owned a bicycle.

After Uncle Ernest passed away, Aunt Florrie retired to Lonsdale Road which was very close to Alice Street, and my friendship with Joey blossomed. They had a hunchbacked maid named Selena who had an illegitimate boy named Mackie.

My many excursions and escapes to Uncle Fennant’s (Uncle’s) bakery were always highly adventurous. He and Auntie Aggie lived in a small annexe adjoining the bakery which was a Dickensian-style red brick arrangement. The area was referred to as the goods

train section of town and there was always much activity: shunting trucks, whistling trains, hissing steam and teams of Clydesdale horses hauling wagons for distribution of goods to the local merchants.

Uncle’s bread was the best on the Border. He was a master baker. Inside, the bakery resembled a foundry with huge fiery furnaces. The smell of baking bread and roasting peanuts was ever present.

Uncle owned a faded, military green Chevrolet panel van for his bread delivery services and I accompanied him on his rounds on many occasions. He had a standard route in the Breidbach district.

We had a way of sporting with each other. I would ask him, ‘Wie geitz, Uncle?’ and he would reply, ‘Iron gates and wooden gates’.

In the meantime I attended the Convent primary, witnessed the extent of impoverishment amongst the poorer section of the community, went on many picnic outings to Town Hill and was eventually confirmed in the Catholic faith.

My brothers, Errol and Kenny, were always fighting and shouting, which caused my mother a great deal of anguish. Yet they bunked school together, went paalang fishing together, reared racing pigeons together and eventually worked in the same factory together.

My father was seldom home on leave and his visits were usually accompanied by another soldier and of very short duration.

I remember my mother’s illness and her hospitalization at Frere Hospital and the arduous train trips to visit her. Our last visit was on Christmas Day, 1946, the six children together, which pleased my mother immensely.

We celebrated lunch at the Waldorf Astoria, a restaurant in Oxford St, before repeating the arduous trip back to King Williams Town.

A month later my mother passed away.

LoveDad

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Letter to the Family: On Turning Eighty

5th September 2016

A Meander in Time

As I sit and ponder on the past, sights and sounds, speech and songs are constant reminders of memories that were, and are still, echoing in the mind like running water in a sylvan forest.

Alive and sparkling.King Williams Town was founded in 1835 by Sir Benjamin

d’Urban, one hundred years before I was born in 1936.The first premier of Rhodesia, Charles Patrick Coghlan, was also

born there.Steve Biko was also born there.I grew up during the war years when most families had fathers,

brothers, sons, uncles and friends ‘fighting up North’. Servicemen and women in uniform were a common daily sight.

Food rationing was the order of the day and the drive to collect aluminium pots and pans for recycling to build Spitfires and Hurricanes was a special campaign. There were daily blackouts and routine inspections and soldiers were forever coming and going and some would never return. The War Memorial in King Williams Town bears testimony to their bravery and commitment... my father’s name included: Sgt. Victor John Ketterer.

The war years were testing times for my family. We lost our father and I experienced my hospital ordeals. The war ended in 1945, after the dropping of the Atomic bombs and the surrender of Germany and Japan.

After my mother died in 1947, which was before the Royal Visit and the announcement of the engagement of Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip, I spent time at a Convent orphanage, and boarded at a Brothers School before moving to Diocesan Hostel at Dale College.

At Dale College we had an English teacher by the name of Ray Godden who had the knack of breathing life into his poetry classes. I was a changed individual after latching on to Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was besotted with this poem and I made an effort to learn the words off by heart for an assignment. He was taken aback when I recited the poem in class. Ray Godden was a secret agent during the war and was nicknamed ‘Gurka’. Thanks to him I can still recall snippets...

And from this chasm with ceaseless turmoil seethingAs if this earth in fast quick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forcedAmid whose swift half intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the threshers flail:And amid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred River.

Years later I wrote a limerick in his honour.The Macintosh poet of DaleHis black Citroen forever on trail,Was dubbed Gurka the lurker,Not Gurka the shirkerFor the rhyme when it came, never failed.

He usually wore a Macintosh raincoat with collar held high, wore glasses and drove around in a black Citroen with huge headlights mounted on the front mudguards. He wrote and published his own poetry.

From this time until I emigrated to Rhodesia at the end of 1957, I spent my time enveloped in books, reading and accumulating my interest in poetry. Tennyson, Longfellow, Coleridge, Omar Khayyam and other collections were forever on hand to fuel the imagination.

One of my earliest attempts at writing a poem was in 1951 while still at school.

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In the cool of the nightAs birds sweep by in flightBound for nests and chicks with appetite,One can’t help wonder at the sightThat boldly portrays itselfGiving yet another glimpse of rare delight.

In 1953 I started work at The Good Hope Textile Corporation, the largest textile mill of its kind in the Southern Hemisphere. It was here that I learnt and gathered knowledge that would assist me in future years.

I played cricket for the Pioneer Cricket Club under the captaincy of Keith Kirton and, later, Nummy Zasman. I played rugby for the Albert’s Rugby Club and experienced many memorable moments as a member of the second team.

I joined the Border Club and assisted with the secretarial work. The club provided for bowls, bridge and rummy, and men’s only billiards and snooker.

Taffy Rees, a Welshman, owned a local pharmacy. He was also the South African billiards and snooker champion and represented South Africa at the Empire Games. I spent many hours setting up the tables for him while he practised and I was a very fast learner in both formats of the sport. Another peculiar game was ‘Foochi Foo’, a game using small wooden skittles. The game originated in India and was introduced by the British soldiers during the frontier wars. There is no trace of this game being played elsewhere.

Joe Davies, the world champion, visited the club for exhibition matches, as did Horace Lindrum.

In the mid 50s I entered the King Williams Town snooker champion. My highest break at that stage was 87 and is recorded in the club’s break register. I reached the semi final after beating Taffy Rees, who promptly snapped his cue and called me a lucky little so and so.

There were many established hotels in King: The Crown, the Prince of Wales, The Barkly, the Grosvenor, the Commercial, the Central, the Masonic and the Oddfellows Hotel.

The Oddfellows was owned by Jock Galloway, a one time mayor of King. It was a notorious water hole for Pirates sports club supporters. Across the road, on the corner, was a shoemaker’s shop, the Emmerick Brothers. On the other side of the road were two landmarks, Stoter Monumental Works and McKenna’s Funeral Parlour.

Mac McKenna was a undertaker, an ice cream maker, a rugby referee, a cricket umpire, a free mason and carried out many activities of a dubious nature.

The snooker finals were scheduled to be played at the Oddfellows Hotel and I had to play against Ross Meyer, a burly giant of a man, a detective policeman, a Border lock forward and a Pirate fanatic. It was me versus Ross Meyer.

I remember pitching with my sole supporter, a skinny, mousy looking chap by the name of Garth Schroeder. The atmosphere was intimidating, the Pirate vultures ready to pronounce the outcome and to claim my scalp. The game did not last long. I won in three straight frames, received my trophy, not much larger than a egg cup, and fled the scene.

The referee was none other than Mac the undertaker and ice cream maker.

In 1948, the National party won the elections. It was all doom and gloom. General Smuts lost his Irene constituency. He had neglected his duties and lost his popularity. Changes were imminent and the influx of hand picked nationalist administrators was noticeable at all levels of society. The government service shape-shifted overnight.

I developed my own ideas and in 1953 penned these thoughts... a few extracts...

I believe man’s wisdom will prevail.Some hand will guide and plan the future, grim or gay;Some heart will understand where others fail;Some eye will see the light and show the way.

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I believe that at some timely hourThoughts will bud and life will flower,Love will conquer and reign supremeAnd the dreamer, on awakening, will fulfil his dream.

In 1956, war in the Middle East broke out... the Suez Crisis. It was over in days. Syria was defeated and the Egyptians abandoned most of their weapons and equipment, including their boots, in the Sinai desert. It is reputed that some wide awake Israeli made a fortune selling the second hand spoils of war. The characters involved were King Saud of Arabia, Kuwatly of Syria and Nasser of Egypt.

Here is a one verse extract of a poem titled The Three Wise Men Of Suez....

Somewhere north are three wise men.They study the star that shine o’er Moscow,The sickle they want but they don’t know whenAnd they wait the hour for hatred to grow.

My 21st birthday was a solitary affair. I spent the night in my room in Halver House, a boarding establishment, and reflected on many events and memories.

Do you hear,Do not fear,Bide your timeHear yon chime.Harken to the ringing,Far voices singing,Ghostly echoes racing,Sweet notes chasing,

Then fading, falling,Dying, dwindling, calling

Back a relentless doing.Weeping, wailing,Then once more wooing.

That year I spent Christmas with my sister Maureen and her family in Rhodesia, found a job as farm assistant on a tobacco farm, returned to King and resigned from my lucrative employment with a promising and secure future.

At the end of January 1958, I packed my worldly possessions – my priceless books, my father’s war medals, my egg cup trophy and my cricket togs – all in a big, white wooden chest with a gleaming black padlock.

I summoned a taxi to the station, made sure the white chest was safely placed in the Guards’ Van, and then boarded my carriage.

I sat back and relaxed as the train puffed out of the station, oblivious of what the future held.

The white chest accompanied me on all my future moves. The trophy and medals disappeared, but most of the books are with Nicolette for safe keeping.

LoveDad

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Letter to the Family: The Rhodesian years

17th September 2016

I remember too well, that ride on the train.Blaney, Bloemfontein, Kimberley, Francistown, Mahalape, Bulawayo and on to Salisbury.Three days of soot and sweat and steam.Yes, in the fifties we had all heard of the Land of Plenty.Take your pick:Mufilira, Kitwe, Ndola,Mining, the Copperbelt and great fortuneOr, Umvukwes, Karoi, Centenary, or Banket,The land of the Gwaai, the golden tobacco.

Who can forget those men at the fore?They all came flocking to the Land of PlentySoon after the war.Commissioners and teachers,Lawyers and clerks,Tradesmen and ColonelsAnd colonials galoreAll seeking to prosper in the Land of the Plenty.

The train stopped at Salisbury station at midday after a three day journey from King Williams Town. I retrieved my white chest from the Guards’ Van, and went out meet Sonny Maurer, the manager of Munera Farm.

During the Christmas holidays, the owner Rafe Johnson had offered me the job of farm assistant.

‘Do you play cricket,’ he asked at the interview.‘Yes,’ I replied.‘What do you do,’ he asked.

‘I’m an opening fast bowler,’ I replied.‘You’ve got the job.’ The shortest interview ever.It was dark when we arrived at the farm after a bumpy and dusty

ride. We lit candles and lamps for orientation and after settling into my modest room I fell asleep. I woke to loud clanging of mettle on mettle. It was the daily roll call alarm summoning the workers to gather for duty. The source of the clanging was a huge plough disc suspended from a shady tree and repeatedly struck by an enormous steel bolt.

As the names were being called out, the response of ‘Mambo’ answered from shadows. In the early morning light I was soon able to establish my surroundings. We had walked in the dark to the nerve centre of the farm, made up mainly of tobacco-curing barns, storage and grading sheds and garaging for tractors and implements. It was like an alien world with strange ‘Star Wars’ characters creeping out from the shadows.

My induction on Munera Farm lasted for eighteen months. I learnt all the basics of tobacco farming, drove tractors, supervised workers and walked and walked and walked. I absorbed all the wonders of nature, the smell of freshly ploughed virgin soil, and the sweet aroma of maturing tobacco stacks. I played cricket over the weekends and visited many interesting venues.

Rafe Johnson, who wore a plantation-style Panama hat, was married to Mary, a qualified nursing sister. Mary spoke in whispers and invitations to tea with her were notorious for the ever-present and boring Bakers plain digestive biscuits.

They had three children: Patricia, Gillian and Robert.The girls were show jumpers, while Robert was up to all sorts

of mischief during the school holidays. He was a serial arsonist and kept the establishment busy putting out fires.

Rafe had a beige Chevrolet Impala, the size of the Queen Mary. I was asked on many occasions to chauffeur the girls to parties in the district. Driving the Impala was a harrowing experience.

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Sonny, the farm manager, was a middle aged bachelor who drove a clapped out faded grey Standard Vanguard which he later traded in for a mid blue baby Austin.

He was a fearless man.One day, some terrified workers ran out of the maize store. They

had seen snakes: not one, but two.Captain Courageous strode calmly into the shed and moments

later reappeared holding two dead Cobras by their tails. I witnessed him rescue a worker’s dog from a python and despatch a green mamba busily devouring a parakeet in a bird cage.

I learnt to be observant and thrived on the wonders of nature in the outdoors.

And so I have learnt to loveEver so dearlyPlaces where finch and doveSing phrases clearly.

It is for this that I was born.Here is my lifeNo more will I gaze with scornAt nature’s strife.

The Federation encompassed Southern Rhodesia, Northern Rhodesia and Nyasaland. There was unrest in all the African colonies. Soldiers were busy all over trying to quell rebellions. Ghana was first to go, followed by the Belgian Congo. There was a rippling effect throughout the continent.Roy Walensky, an ex train driver, was the Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia and was later knighted by the Queen.The Federation dissolved. Hastings Banda took over Nyasaland (Malawi). Kenneth Kuanda acquired Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) and Seretse Khama was firmly entrenched in Bechuanaland (Botswana)

It was a time for contemplation.

Before we came they were primitive.Now it is not the sameAnd we trust in God’s nameThat they forget their objective.

Should that we allow them their aims,Yet it is no better now.Trouble is sure to flower.Will it all end in flames?

The situation in South Africa was becoming more and more isolated under apartheid. The Springboks were invincible and our sportsmen were a credit to the country. We all remained loyal and steadfast under very difficult circumstances.

South Africa, with all thy faults,I love thee still, my country.And while yet a nook is leftWhere peace and laughter may be found,I shall be constrained to love thee.

Though thy task be greatAnd thy labour criticized by jeering jadesOr debated by a wit,I would not yet exchange thy days without a friendFor colder England with all her smog,Nor for America’s boast of stature and her confounded pride.(apologies to William Cowper)

I managed to make the Umvukwes first cricket eleven and played against the best players in Rhodesia. At one stage there were six

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Rhodesians playing for the Springboks: Colin Bland, the two Pithy brothers, Goofy Lawrence, Joe Partridge and a chap named Traichos.I was fit, capable and a credit to the team, much to the delight of Rafe Johnson. His short, terse interview and prompt decision to employment me had been vindicated.The winter nights were long and cold and lonely. The fire place was a welcome retreat and conjured many memories.

Oh, Fire bright.Grave and grim is your yellow light.Does not your hiss and crack extol a toneOf shared remorse? You’re left alone,To burn out through the night.

In July 1959, I left Munera. I had served my apprenticeship and was ready to take on a manager’s position. I joined Alan Tarr on his farm Lynton, in the Centenary Block.

The area enjoyed the reputation for growing the finest quality tobacco in Rhodesia. There were vast tracts of virgin land which were systematically stumped out. The farmers were very enterprising.

In a previous letter, I related my visit to a trading store outside Grahamstown with a friend from boarding school and his mother’s Long John Silver boyfriend! Alan Tarr had one leg, experienced spasms called ‘phantom foot’ and wore gum boots. The workers called him Makambuza and he was subject to massive mood swings and mystifying decision making.

The first season was a huge success. I bought a new Volvo 122s and spent three weeks in Durban on holiday. I was independent, continued to play cricket and had a good network of friends. Peter Riley and I spent many moments socializing and one day I was shocked to learn that he had been killed while driving back to his farm.

There were many characters in the district.Jack Rickard, an ex Kenyan farmer, had a big reputation. His

workers called him Jack Mompara: Jack the fool. He was a champion

marksman and represented Rhodesia in all formats of the sport. The story is told of the occasion when, while out hunting with his team of trackers, he suddenly lifted his arm and whispered, ‘Hema’... stop. The trackers were puzzled. They’d heard nothing, could see nothing, but nevertheless stopped.

Jack calmly picked up his rifle, took steady aim, and fired.‘Humba dopa,’ he said... go and fetch. One of the trackers now

takes up the story.‘We walked and Jack followed. Go over the hill and turn right,

Jack said. We walked. Not far to go, Jack said. We walked a long distance and still no sign of the kill. We were tiring fast and about to give up. Lapa, Jack called and there, lying under the bush, was a Kudu bull with a bullet hole in his forehead. And that is how he became known as Jack Mompara.’

Les Jellicoe was a fellow cricketer and had the unenviable record of making two ducks before lunch in a cricket match played at Shamva. He was a descendant of Earl Jellicoe, First Admiral of the fleet in World War One. He was also one of the first casualties in the terrorist war. He was killed in an ambush on his way to his homestead.

Marc de Borchgrave, a Belgian aristocrat and also a member of our team, was over two metres tall and leased a farm in the Mount Darwin area. The farm belonged Robin James, the minister of defence in Ian Smith’s cabinet. Marc was very unpopular with his workers and used very inhumane tactics to exact productivity from them. He was singled out in later terrorist attacks, escaped unscathed, was taken in by his neighbour, Archie Dalgleish... only to be attacked again and to escape again.

The second season was also successful and I traded my Volvo in for a Alfa Romeo Guiletta Sprint.

The third season was a disaster.The preparation was perfect and the water planting was

progressing as planned. It was a safe but long winded process and needed patience. One morning we experienced a light shower of rain

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and Alan Tarr made the fatal decision to abandon the water planting and to hasten the process without water.

The seedbeds were stripped, including fledgling plants, which struggled in the dry conditions. It was a monumental disaster and a wasted season, thanks to the phantom foot and mystifying mood swings.

I pondered and contemplated...

Let’s hopeThere’s scopeOn a farmFor a willing arm.

No fear,Next yearWon’t be in vainEven if I suffer multitudinous pain.

Nyadevi (Rustling Reeds) was a farm bordering on the Great African Dyke in the Palm Block. There were palm trees scattered for miles along the Umsengedzi River, relics from the early Arab slave traders. The Zambezi Valley was close by.

Henry Tuckey was a retired British colonel and was married to Rosemary, a supposed heiress to the Electrolux empire, His hobby was Polo and he played overseas with the likes of Prince Philip and the comedian Jimmy Edwards. Together with a tycoon named Wells, he formed a team under the banner of ‘The White Ants’.

The Tuckeys had three sons who were schooled at Plumtree, close to the Bechuanaland border. They were Simon, Andrew and James. Simon married the daughter of the chairman of British Airways and is now a retired London judge. Andrew was the chairman of Barings Bank at the time of its demise and James ended up at a agriculture college somewhere in England.

They were a very warm and friendly family and loved entertaining visitors. They excelled in organizing after-dinner games, especially Donkey and the Potato Game. There was a lot of social activity at Nyadevi.

My first crop was a bumper one. Henry and Rosemary went to England for four months, returned home by boat via Turin where they picked up their new Lancia Flamenia and disembarked at Beira before driving home to the farm.

I traded in my Alfa for a Volvo P1800s and descended on sunny Natal for a well-deserved break.

From that moment my life took on a new dimension. I met your mother, we fell in love. She visited Rhodesia in November, we announced our engagement on the 22nd, the day John Kennedy was assassinated, and were married the following year, the 4th of July 1964, American Independence Day. A horse by the name of Numeral won the Durban July and it was four days after Oupa’s sixtieth birthday.

The Tuckey’s loved Mum. Her bubbling enthusiasm was contagious. From the time we met to the day we were married was nine months and during that time we were only in each other’s company for three weeks. We wrote to each other, phoned each other and dreamt of each other. I wrote many poems during this period and one day I will share them with you.

Nicolette was born on the 2nd of May 1965, at the Lady Chancellor Hospital in Salisbury.

Nicolette, our very own,Dear to us upon her throne.Now this moment, magic in our very breastsFinds us with our new-born treasureRicher than a thousand chests.

Life was perfect and I was the happiest that I had ever been.Your mother was always busy, especially with flowers.

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Who will gather flowers of blue,Sparkling and fresh in the morning dew?Trim them with scissors on table bare,Caress them with fingers, deft and rare?

A year later Hein was born and I realized that it was time to move. The mood in the country was changing and I sensed the inevitability of things to come.

Look about,Behold the mess.Control your shout,Do not doubt,Nothing more, nothing less.

I have not boughtA single acre.I was taughtIt matters naught,The nature of your caper.

In early August 1966, we handed our few possessions, including the white chest with the gleaming black padlock but excluding my father’s medals and snooker eggcup trophy, to Stutterfords for consignment to South Africa.I had changed cars again, this time to a white Volvo Amazon.

We said good-bye and took our leave, with a baby and an infant, but without the steam, soot and sweat.The erosion had set in.

Another fifty years and who will remember the land of plenty?Bwana and Mambo,Magwagwa and Gwaai.The eye’s old horizon,

The scene set to die.Who will remember the life of plentyIn a fast fading sky?

A week later, in South Africa Hendrik Verwoerd was stabbed to death in Parliament on the 6th of September 1966.

LoveDad

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