Ode to a Nightingale (modernised)

 (context: Keats at this point knew he was facing certain death of tuberculosis, he would soon after die at the age of 25)

 My chest hurts, and I'm numb like I've drunk
        Too much red wine, or maybe
Half a bottle of absinthe that dragged me
        Into that place where memories fade.
Not because I envy your happiness,
        But because your joy is too much to bear—
                You, free spirit singing in the trees
                        In this music-filled corner
        Of deep green leaves and endless shadows,
                Singing of summer without a care.

God, I need a drink! Some vintage wine
        That's been aging in cool cellars forever,
Tasting of flowers and countryside,
        Of festivals, folk songs, and sun-drunk joy!
Give me a glass of that Mediterranean warmth,
        Pure inspiration, red as a blush,
                With bubbles dancing at the rim,
                        And wine-stained lips;
        So I could drink and slip away unseen,
                And fade with you into the dark woods.

Fade far away, forget completely
        What you've never known among the leaves:
The exhaustion, fever, and anxiety
        Here, where people sit and complain;
Where illness shakes the last grey hairs,
        Where young people waste away and die;
                Where just thinking brings sorrow
                        And stubborn despair,
        Where beauty fades like summer sunsets,
                And love dies before the season ends.

Away! Away! I'll fly to join you,
        Not high on alcohol or coke,
But carried by poetry's invisible wings,
        Even though my mind is slow and confused,
I'm already there! The night is gentle,
        And maybe the moon rules her kingdom now,
                Surrounded by her starry subjects;
                        But here below the trees
        There's no light except the shards that peek
                Through green darkness and winding paths.

I can't see the flowers at my feet,
        Or what perfume drifts from the branches,
But in this sweet-scented darkness, I can only guess
        What gifts this season brings:
Wild grass, jasmine, and fruit trees;
        Hawthorn, and wild roses;
                Violets hiding under leaves;
                        And May's firstborn,
        The budding rose, drunk with evening dew,
                Where summer moths will gather.

In darkness I listen; and not for the first time
        I've flirted with the peace of death,
Written poetry about its gentle call,
        To take my last breath into the night air;
                Now it seems more tempting than ever
        To stop breathing at midnight, painlessly,
                While you pour out your soul
                        In such pure joy!
        You'd still sing, while my ears turned to dust—
                Just another ghost in your audience.

You weren't born to die, eternal Voice!
        Centuries of death can't bury you;
The song I hear tonight was heard
        By kings and peasants long ago:
Perhaps the same song that reached
        Churchill's tent in moonlit woods, while penning
                Last letters before the dawn's breach;
                        The same song that's often
        Echoed through fantasies, across stormy seas
                In forgotten, lonely lands.

Lonely! That word rings like a morning alarm
        Jolting me back to my isolated self!
Goodbye! Even imagination can't fool me
        As well as they say it can, you beautiful lie.
Goodbye! Goodbye! Your sad song fades
        Past nearby fields, over the quiet stream,
                Up the hillside; now buried
                        In the next valley:
        Was this real or just a dream?
                The music's gone—Am I awake or sleeping?

Come sunday

 Its Mid-day thursday
I'm afraid come sunday, the twilight of the week
Everyone else is way ahead of me
everyone else got to work yesterday
and this morning
now im left behind, and im afraid.

Though theres still half a week left,
i feel like my week has begun to end
and all the good parts are over

It feels like i made so many mistakes
without really risking anything

I cant shake the feeling that its too late to have a good week.

Therefore im afraid come Sunday.
If i even make it there.

Traveller

 i'm a world traveller
i come from a different world

for the first 20 years of my life i lived in that other world
 

and for the next 20 ive been living in this world
 

maybe for the next 20 i'll live in yet another world
 

this other world looks a lot like this world
but is so very very different in the living of it

never was

Severe nostalgic sadness has a way
of letting you know you're really alive
or at least that you used to be
Put on a song that reminds you of your broken childhood
or rather the sweet rare gems of happiness scattered in it
each tied to inevitable tragedy
Each happy moment swelling and glistening with what could have been
what should have been
but never was
Each of those moments now like
a candle melted all the way down to the end of the wick
Your life a druggie's altar under the causeway

My heart's arms can no longer reach out
like they used to
now they are burnt stumps turning people away

the mid morning winter sun

the mid morning winter sun
shines like a lone sentinel
keeping watch over the land

sitting here inside my house
its tendrils stick through the open curtains
caressing my little dog on the couch
with its comforting warmth

But me here in the corner
i cannot feel its warmth
i am tied here to my work shackles
i must be content with seeing it
feeling it in my mind's eye

the coldness under my desk
pulls and claws at my legs
bites and gnaws
as if trying to drag me into the underworld

but i dont think i'll go there today
for now this half mid morning winter sun half underworld limbo
is where i'll stay

Feminine Mystique

Temples

Mouths like reception

Towers and exterior ornamentation but bare inner walls with cracked and damp bubbled paint.

Of damaged and crumbling towers outside but beautiful and fragrant on the inside.

Some priests and nuns just party all the time and in some they study and write and philosophise.

Some would bar me from the drinking fountain and some would let me enter the inner chamber for a short while and for a price

Some were desperate for disciples that they would let just anybody in and in those I felt invisible.

Some required me to be a saint first and perform 3 miracles before I was granted entry to the sanctum but they let me drink at the fountain in the meantime.

Some would say I didn't pray in quite the right way and some thought I could not pray at all.

And some have left me bruised and battered, and stronger than before.

I have wandered upon many different temples;

Some as similar as all the others and some as different as can be.

For many years now have I travelled through the desert

searching for my religion.

Yet still in the sky the hope-star shines,

and still i see on the horizon more temples to explore.

Sunset of the sunrise

Let me tell you about the girl i met last night
In a quiet busy bar during daytime
She came along as plain as day
as beautiful as the rising sun

She guided me by the hand or by the eyes or by the ears,
i really cant remember
we went outside and sat on the grassy sidewalk
under a tree
and spoke a little bit about her and me

She had an encouraging disapproval
she was no scientist or mathematician
but oh god was she pretty

And just like that she whisked out an easel
and a palette and started painting
the bakkie across the road
which carried a rack of tools and vegetables

though we had on one side the breathtaking mountain
with crevice like frozen sides and that silencing presence
on the other side we had the quietly thunderous ocean
dropping crystal blue swells almost on top of us

yet none of this was in the picture
that was drawn by this vision of mine

i was taken, in mind and in soul
and in everything else i had to give
smitten and sold and beyond love
with that avatar of heaven behind the blue eyes an heart stopping smile

But i will never see her again
not ever
that was a once in a lifetime experience
i wish it wasn't, and that i could just drop everything and go find her again

But by the end of tomorrow I'll probably have forgotten what she looks like

A fairytale called life

--A fairytale called life

Sometimes i feel like dying
and living my next life
as the shade of a tree
or the smell of rain on a hot day
and it is not a death wish
but a wish to be more beautiful than beauty itself

My god is in the forest, in the trees
she lives in a warm embrace, quickened breath
he has a house in the kind of pain that makes you feel like your skin is tearing from your soul
My god walks in the sky and is a dark-heavy cloud, angry with tears

my god is not your God
and asks nothing of me
only demands that i be free
and that i listen, think, see

my soul is in the trees and the streams
my heart in the moist earth and dusty dunes

when i die i will be forever silent
but i will scream with the wind
and howl with the wolves
and cry with ravens

i will cheer with the waterfalls
and sigh with the oceans
and i will grumble with the earth

sometimes i feel like dying
and being god
but it is not a death wish

--Stark Botha

My favourite part

My favourite part to look at 
Your eyes 
To kiss 
Your lips 
To feel under my fingertips 
Your cheeks 
To brush against my lips 
Your neck 
To feel pressed against my face 
Your breasts 
To roll over my tongue 
Your nipples 
To smell 
Your sweet salty skin 
To rub 
Your warm moist soul

Big black patch of happiness to make me whole

Last night, what man looked at the same stars as do i tonight.
where is he or she who gazed up yesterday's eve
who looked up last night to meet the archer
like i greeted him tonight?

Which man, woman or beast
gazed at the stars to the east
on any of the nights gone past this week
whether by chance, purpose or answers they seek

Over whose heads did tonight's stars hang
when the moon was last full
under these stars was there anyone who sang
when the zodiac was still in the bull

in whose eyes did sparkle these lights
sparkle the year before,
these lights of infinite nights
in whose eyes,via surface or floor

tens of years ago
was there anyone I'd know
who stood under these stars

so the skies will fly
as they ever have flown
for longer than people have known
till long after the last man would die

our forefathers and mothers
made love under these same skies
our ancestors killed and ate
in the light of this very heavenly pate

from monkeys we came
from the ocean, all the same
millenia ago, as nights washed to and fro
on this curtain the winds of time would blow

In ages past they have inspired
men to believe them gods, fools
and even holes for ghouls
to heaven's pyres.

But to me they are a father that never died
a mother that never shy'd
a family that never crumbled
and a love i never fumbled.

- Stark Botha

Commiserate a bygone era

oh it hurts oh it burns
to think of the world gone by
the lives our fathers and mothers led
all gone up in ash and smoke
gone gone gone forever and away

little thoughts and big dreams
big hair and funny shoes that gleam
thinking of the loss
it almost makes me scream

poppy choppy hoppy jive
technofunky colours
in a world in a twirl
what a place what a place
to make my heart so race

in the days gone by
dear dad dear mom
did you ever feel this way
about the times before your day?

what of us, of us young folk
who now have to carry the yoke
sooner or later our youth, our lives, will choke
oh the notion of it, it makes my heart so broke

so here we are, brief sparks
best we embrace every opportunity that harks
make of it the best we can
by hook, crook or even by plan

oh sigh
oh sigh
the end seems ever nigh
sooner or later the bubble will pop
and our era will abrubruptly stop

usurped, upturned by a new kind of pop
made away made to be gay by a new kind of 'Hey!'

-Stark Botha

Life and Limbo

There is a life that some of you dont know.
There is a life i lead, that none of you know.
A life where it is the norm
To be so alone
that you can feel your soul bleeding.

So go on all of you, you all
enjoy your lives, so fruitful and full
of joy.
Your partners and families, uncles aunts and even dogs.
Go have your happy little life, without me.

Me, on the other hand,
let me sit here
like a laurel'd hero in my own world.
Akimbo of this vaudevillian life.

A veteran am i
on not being known
nor understood
but that is not chief of my fears

the monster that haunts me most
is the wasted hours by myself.
Is life really life in absence of fellows?
Is time spent alone, akin to hanging from the gallows?

- Stark Botha

Progressive Cacophony

If rain could speak, what would it say?
Yesterday, last night, tomorrow and today
Electric rain will splatter our faces
and leave of glory, absolutely no traces

The clouds that swirl
are hounds of fog in our minds
billowing soot and smog
a heavy laden blanket that blinds

The wind that howls and gusts
could never upturn the gales of our lusts

All hail, all hail all the hail
the bombs of our natures
rained down and left craters
that soon became history's braile

We are a force that should be reckoned with
a force that was borne of nature
So we erupt on a technological plinth,
we will get our own back, but only much too later.

-Stark Botha

realise

Its when you realise how sad the world is that you begin to feel sad to be a part of it.

Its when you realise how much the same everyone is that you begin to feel so very alone.

Its when you realise that theres nobody out there who will ever really know you, that you begin to know yourself.

When you begin to understand the world, you begin to realise that nobody will ever really understand you.

In all the hope that has been lost, you hope that everything you understand can still be proven wrong.

The loneliness drives you.

The darkness comforts you.

And everyone around you could be just another person just like you, afraid theres nothing to live for.

The rain feels like your mother, hushing you when you're sad.

The earth feels like your father, supporting you at all times, someone to fall against.

6 billion people. And counting.

Nature never speaks. But its always there.

People never stop talking. Always talking. And they'll never stop talking. Not even the deaf, the blind or the mute.

But who are they? Who is any one of them and who are you?

The people are nothing to you when you are nothing to them.

Its a crying shame. Its a shame that there are people crying. Crying over all the wrong things.

There are those who call everything evil, just to hide the evil in their hearts.

 

Do you hear the rain that always falls at the back of your mind? Your mind is a

grimey city street where it always rains and nobody ever walks. All the people that you see are in their cars

or buses but they never walk. It is dark. A dark night where you cant hear anything but the rain.

No crickets, no owls, no talk. Just the the splattering of drops and splashing of tyres driving through

the deluge. And always you sit at the window, some window. Looking through the glass at the rain, the black night

and the occasional light. Sometimes like now you actually take a step outside to get wet. To remember what it

felt like to be you. Back in the days when people walked the streets but some of them could hurt you.

 

Its better this way, you know. Its better. No people rather than evil people. People who would hurt you,

people you could kill.

sonorous brother

where have all my old lovers gone?
and do they ever think of me
or do they float on the winds of joy and life
like seeds of grass to grow completely free 

i will rattle my shackles
in an envious tenure
thinking how my affections changed
and made them see me as manure 

hope as we may
that we did learn
lessons from those gone by
hope we got something from that lovely art
something for the hole each one left in my heart 

but we grow
and even hurts of the heart may heal
and leave the scars of love's great spars 

on we look to the new horizon
hoping theres someone out there in the storm
to see us cowering against the wind
to pick us up and keep us warm 

bereft of hope and seeking life
like aliens we stumble fumble hobble about
pained by those who cannot understand us
those we cannot comprehend 

exquisite pain for those of us
whose butterfly wings have been stripped and torn
before we could even on the wind be borne 

so for now i must forget
i had such wings
forget that i
could ever even fly 

on hearts tumultuous winds
on mother's woven sky
and i must seek to be another
seek to be the man i never was
the man i should have been
or else die
as a cold weather shudder 

-stark botha

The moth and the butterfly

What is the nature of a flower
to a creature in the sky?
it is all the world and more
to a butterfly

what is the nature of a flame
in the night's cloudy froth?
the single-most deathly lust
to a moth

the moth flies swiftly to its demise
wanting for the brightest flame it spies
over every obstacle she will fly
only in putrid smoke to die

wings up in flame
a never ending game
the moth would do everything in its power
to go to the flame and not the flower

the butterfly is drawn to the flower
the sweet sweet nectar gives it its power
the butterfly will shy away from the flame
it will not dance the deathly game

floating on the softly scented summer breeze
beautifully fluttering with grace and with ease
to sip away at wholesome heaven's water
to fly again another day, nature's daughter

-Stark Botha