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Quotes about kraal

Far too many times I have baked in hot armour (Fay Slimm form)

Too many times I have baked hot in
armour,
drove in long army convoys on the way
to hell,
had to attend in-training as a game,
before
war erupted deadly into slaughter,
where faces
of citizens numb in shock, innocent
looked,
at how war destroys everything, without
arms or
a leg, while they lived on through it
in pain,
without hope, still trying hard to exist
planting
maize, chasing scared bucks to a kraal while we
burst through,
at speed, firing at fleeing enemy
chasing,

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Mourning for her Innocence

With my heart torn open
I have never seen such a wound
With life suddenly struck to a stand still
I have never had so many questions

I must have used the words “why” atleast five times
No one could have predicted this now
The beast has built a kraal in my home
It is here to stay “forever” it said

All I find myself asking is “so soon? ”
Bidding farewell to what can nolonger be
There is no holding on to it anymore
So one has to to just let go now

Farewell to you innocence, you yes I mean you
With my chest torn open I bravely say
I don’t know how and I don’t know why
But prematurely I let you go, farewell to you!

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The Lost Sun (African song)

Police herd the helpless through Landrover doors.
Soldiers mount women like dogs on all fours.
Children bear parents, shot down in the road.
How can the Sun be so terribly cold?

Maize fields abandoned, eaten by flames.
Mud walls destroyed, villages without names.
Livestock run free, the kraal gates cannot hold.
Who left the shivering Sun to the cold?

Breakfast plates empty, stores with no supplies.
Noon, vacant desks, hunger in pupils' eyes.
This was the New Dawn, for breaking the mould.
How rose the Sun so unbearably cold?

Grass was preserved by communal rotation
Wildlife conserved by decrees of the nation.
Watered, watched over by Sun-Gods of old.
Now who saves the African Sun from the cold?

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The Voortrekker (in answer to Tony Harrison)

A track from a kraal
goes direct into the veldt
decked in blood
from the remains of cattle.

The sick Boer walks alone,
now abandoned of dog,
children, farm labourers
with a.303 rifle wavering in his hands.

Somewhere in dense green bushes
in front of him to the right
lions roar and at speed
one, two and three more
appear with tails flashing like whips.

The rifle is still wavering in his hands
but an expert eye finds the sight
with the trigger at his finger tip,
the exploding sound of bullet after bullet

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First night in Botswana

I push Radio Botswana
It spills a kindergarten song
From the villages, call and response,
Into the hotel room

A floor below, and down across the street
The band and beer, the discotheque

But I have a newer freedom to support
To touch the fire-spikes of redden flower
To breath the heavy perfume
Of the blossom-trees
To sleep away in the desert
Woken by the bark of baboons like angry men
To watch the heron and the kingfisher
Near the dam of Molepolole

Away from the carrion sound
Of bands and domestic dogs
Feasting on the meat of modernity:

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The Kosa

The free-born Kosa still doth hold
The fields his fathers held of old;
With club and spear, in jocund ranks,
Still hunts the elk by Chumi's banks:
By Keisi's meads his herds are lowing;
On Debè's slopes his gardens glowing,
Where laughing maids at sunset roam,
To bear the juicy melons home:
And striplings from Kalumna's wood
Bring wild grapes and the pigeon's brood,
With fragrant hoard of honey-bee
Rifled from the hollow tree:
And herdsmen shout from rock to rock;
And through the glen the hamlets smoke;
And children gambol round the kraal,
To greet their sires at evening-fall:
And matrons sweep the cabin floor,
And spread the mat beside the door,
And with dry fagots wake the flame
To dress the wearied huntsmen's game.

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Rudyard Kipling

The Settler

(South African War ended, May, 1902)


Here, where my fresh-turned furrows run,
And the deep soil glistens red,
I will repair the wrong that was done
To the living and the dead.
Here, where the senseless bullet fell,
And the barren shrapnel burst,
I will plant a tree, I will dig a well,
Against the heat and the thirst.

Here, in a large and a sunlit land,
Where no wrong bites to the bone,
I will lay my hand in my neighbour's hand,
And together we will atone
For the set folly and the red breach
And the black waste of it all;
Giving and taking counsel each
Over the cattle-kraal.

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Rudyard Kipling

Alnaschar and the Oxen

There's a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide,
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,
On peaceful, postless, Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl,
I know the pride that Lobengula felt,
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal,
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue . . .
I have only six and twenty, but the principle's the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!

To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips,
Level-backed and level-bellied watch 'em move.
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips,

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When

When I can no longer feel the breeze upon my skin,
When the angels in heaven have ceased to sing
The graceful melodies that they sang through my life,
When the air in my lungs can no longer sustain my lifeless self.
When the cracks had torn the wall of the Hardap Dam
And water came out gushing like an untamed horse.
When the white Brahman cow no longer comes home
And when the cows in the kraal no longer have milk.
When their milk in their ducts have turned to yellow powder
That runs out of the nipple and mocks and laughs at me
While running down the hot Kalahari sands.

When all hope is lost and the birds can no longer build their nests;
When the hour hath come.
When the hour hath come.
Me, unprepared;
Running through the streets of the old town
With houses falling apart and sinking into the sand.
The clay surrendering its self and becoming part of the soil
And me about to become part of the soil too;

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Rudyard Kipling

Columns

(Mobile Columns of the Boer War)


Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A sectioin, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.

'Ere comes the clerk with 'is lantern an' keys
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin 'again!)
" Surplus of everything--draw what you please
"For the section, the pompom, an' six 'unrdred men."

"What are our orders an' where do we lay? .
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
"You came after dark--you will leave before day,
"You section, you pompom, you six' undred men!"

Down the tin street, 'alf awake an 'unfed,
'Ark to 'em blessin' the Gen'ral in bed!

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