Culture Poems
The Swagman's Rest
by Banjo Paterson
We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood tree
With the date of his sad decease
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"
We wrote "May he rest in peace".
For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
......
Dirge of the Last Lap
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I
The loud, cruel laughter of dirge
besieges us so greatly in the face of
wanton humiliation.
It comes mightily, crashing our aged
city walls, unearthing the foundations of
churches,
tolling bells in pulsated grief . . .
......
Discrimination
by Adelaide Rhead
Why do you think you're better
If your culture is not the same?
Yes, maybe you seem different
But deep inside all are the same.
Why do they think they're better?
If one is black and one is white,
If one is man and one is woman.
They are the same, that is their right.
......
Lost Art
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Behind the moon, where hunters hunt
In secret, the whiff of boiling lipsticks
Chastises the lungs of scorpions.
Murals hang on battered doors of
Decrepit banners, hoisted by dust-swept
Elements of colours –etched and painted.
Drums are sober, frightening withered
Hands that beat them to lean delirium.
Rotten eggs hatch on their own,
Their shells, white-toothed fragments of
......
Blood, Sweat And Tears
by Susan Mary Robertson
Think just think, of all the blood, sweat and tears
London has shed with the passing of years.
The dirt, dust and smog, the noise and the grime.
Poverty, slavery, squalor and crime.
Ambitions and hopes, mad schemings and fears,
Disease, depravity, vice, wines and beers,
Arts and culture can pass the test of time,
City of contrast from base to sublime.
......
Dirge of the Last Lap
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I
The loud, cruel laughter of dirge
besieges us so greatly in the face of
wanton humiliation.
It comes mightily, crashing our aged
city walls, unearthing the foundations of
churches,
tolling bells in pulsated grief . . .
......
A Stranger's Prayer
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
......
Heiligehuisjes
by Mario Odekerken
Langs de route verschijnen ze,
onopvallend en heilig tegelijk.
Bloemen in vazen,
kant op tafels,
beelden onder gewelfde doeken
alsof de hemel even afdaalt
tot op straatniveau.
Een stoel,een kruisbeeld,
het zachte kaarslicht
......
Verandering 02
by Mario Odekerken
Er was een tijd dat ik op de straat liep
en de wereld om me heen
voelde als de mijne.
Blonde en bruine haren in het zonlicht,
blauwe en bruine ogen die ik herkende.
Zondagen klonken zacht,
de klokken riepen ons samen.
In de kerk vonden we stilte,verbondenheid,
iets groters dan onszelf.
......
Veränderung
by Mario Odekerken
Es gab eine Zeit,
da ging ich durch die Straßen
und alles um mich herum sprach
wie ich dachte,
klang wie ich fühlte.
Blondes Haar im Sonnenlicht,
der sanfte Klang
vertrauter Worte
in einer Sprache,
die mich großgezogen hat.
......
