It is my strongly held conviction that poetry is on its way back to popularity. Poetry of the deeper, more meaningful wind, that is. Hopefully this will prove to be the case, because from my early days nothing has influenced me more than solid, thought-provoking poetry, and I should like to feel that others have access to the same source of benefit. There is one particular poem of epic proportion that I have read a countless number of times, and shall go on reading, assured of genuine further inspiration.

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On the other hand there are very few novels, films or television programmes that have contributed significantly to my wellbeing, or bear repetition.

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Certainly there is the need for beneficial influences wherewith to counteract the present drift of society. This need is in the air, impinging upon the senses, and we may detect it, as do cattle the approach of rain after a period of drought.

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Distractions there are aplenty, but they serve only to aggravate the situation. Music, song and dance, the theatre, surrealist art, these play their part, but their main aim is to entertain. Something more substantial is required, capable of reaching to the heart of humanity, and this is where poetry must assume its true role if our style of civilisation is to prove worthy of survival.

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With youth in command as at present, we are disadvantaged, for wisdom presupposes maturity of years. Unfortunately, those who most qualify, the elderly, have been cast aside with seemingly contemptuous disregard.

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It was not so in the years of splendour of Greece and Rome. Nor was it so in primitive Africa, where the tribes had their councils of elders, with meetings around campfires at night, which lends itself to fruitful contemplation. Instead of being disregarded, the elderly were revered. Though past the peak of their physical prowess, as councillors they possessed a store of knowledge gained the hard way, and this was set to use.

Under prevailing circumstances, the elderly and wise, and the young who have matured early, are limited as to their contributions to the social system. So there is reason to hope for the resurgence of poetry to meet a real need, in which case it must prove itself. The challenge exists, it has yet t be met in the manner which I envisage. Here is a contribution, that and no more. But it can provide a start.

It will be seen that some of my main topics recur time and again, so it will serve a purpose to consider some of them in preamble, as follows:

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Time

It fascinates me. I recall climbing on a mountain in the Eastern Province of South Africa, and while winding our way up the lower slopes, one of my two companions talked for the better part of an hour on the one topic without repeating himself. The setting was helpful, with glorious weather and grand mountain scenery. A tape recorder at home or in office surroundings may have inhibited the one-sided conversation with its spontaneity, for we others spoke little, and then only to stir fresh avenues of thought. My Aspects of Time and other poems may have derived from this occasion. It was an unforgettable experience.

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The Past

There is nowhere for us to live except in the past. The present is ever on the move, sliding into the past. The future beckons, becomes the present and settles with it into the past. So, no matter what may be said to the contrary, the past is not dead and gone. It lives on, constituting history, providing a background, promoting the future. We should not be fearful of glancing back to see what follows us. Not too often, nor too seldom.

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Fate

Ah, fate! It is in the past, the Present and the Future as One. It is All. What else can there be. We do not ask to be born. In the womb we turn this way and that – which way? We may be considered expendable and be aborted; we have no choice in the matter. Neither have we any choice as to parentage, rich or poor, loving or unloving. Our fate rests with others. Born of love or lust – whose the choice? As to colour, black or white or brown, we have no say. Male or female or somewhere in-between, we cannot select our sex. Born short or tall, lean or plump, we have no choice. Our hair comes the way it is. We cannot choose our country of origin or place of birth. We are breast fed or bottle fed. Who takes us by the hand when we first walk? Who forms the ‘A’s and ‘O’s when first we talk? We are sent to school – we do not elect to go. The web becomes increasingly complicated, its pattern more difficult to follow. Where do we branch out when our schooling days are over? Is work available or do we join the unemployed? We tread by stepping stones of fate. When do we break free? At what stage do we succeed in breaking free? Are we ever free? We like to think that we are prime movers, but are we? To what extent? If there be such a thing as free will, then when and where does it start? A building rests upon foundations secure or insecure; one brick or stone or log rests upon another. Whose house do we occupy, under what roof do we shelter?

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Death

I attach no morbidity to the contemplation of death, which may strike at any time. Better to be aware, better to be prepared.

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Fear

If in doubt, turn to nature. In this instance, look to the timid antelopes living in lands where predators abound. An extraordinary degree of harmony prevails. The antelopes show fear when danger threatens. As soon as danger departs, so does the accompanying fear. It is momentary and purposeful. To we who believe in fate, what is there to fear, save fear?

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Nature

I love nature unreservedly, and this reflects in my writings. The total scene is worthy of reverence, the mountains, hills and lowlands: wetlands and deserts: shrubs, trees, forests; streams, rivers, waterfalls, lakes, seas; wild fauna and flora … all lend substance and give meaning to poetry.

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Heart

Medical scientists, among others, have arrived at the conclusion that they heart is more than a machine going pump, pump, pump. It has an intelligence of its own. This is something known to poets through the ages. The heart provokes feeling, provides depth. It is part of a poet’s aim, and duty, to perceive the true nature of things and pass on the knowledge to less perceptive people. In other words, to probe to the very heart of matters and convey one’s findings in the simplest manner possible, through symbolism.

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Circling

All that lives, matures and dies. The moon on its round, the earth orbiting, all is a circling. Night gives way to day, and day to night. Through the seasons, all is a circling. The best we can hope for is the circling of our days, that death be not in vain.

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Oneness

My unshakable belief is in Oneness. Whether it goes by the name of Allah, God, Ram, The Way – it matters not.

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War and Peace

To make war is easy, to keep the peace is hard. Once the slavering hounds of war are unleashed, they become uncontrollable. When peace prevails, the weevils of deceit climb out of the woodwork.

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Destruction

The universe always has been and ever will be. In my time I have heard much argument between creationists and evolutionists’ always it is inconclusive, often heated. Big bang or not, what matters it! To me destruction came first, and out of the destruction came life with sensitivity. From where came that sensitivity? We shall never know, and it is best that way.

 

But enough!
Let my poems speak for themselves.