O Tempora!
Five 0' the clock . . . the lazy sun
Already slips across the hill
And tips the sea, his day's work done,
And through the valley steals a chill
As subtle as a shadow, still
As solitude . . . Unheard, unseen,
Her cold and silent fingers will
Tomorrow tarnish leaves from green.
So softly Autumn's feet creep by,
And Summer knows she may not stay.
The light is altered in the sky.
. . . So silently Youth slips away
And none knows why.
Or on what day . -
Dorothea Spears
Oases
I would I had a camel’s hump to store
Against some dry and distant desert day
This too abundant beauty poured away
Perpetually from the fountain core
Of beauty, bubbling through the planet’s floor
At rich oases, where a man may stay
And sate his thirst, but never take away
Two such as these can any man ask more,
October, In New England, when the Fall
Spills the flaming splendour she distils,
And April, in old England, when the wall
Of Winter’s reservoir is breeched and fills
The flooded land with loveliness for all,
With waves full of cherry blossoms and daffodils!
Avondster
Klein Constantia Rd
Constantia, C.P.
Oboe Notes
The soaring song of the silver flute crying;
Laughter of violins, and muted sighing:
The thoughtful oboe’s deeper notes replying -
October Day
(Above Plettenberg)
A sense of brief cessation when all sound
And movement ceased, as if the celluloid
Of life’s perpetual film was suddenly devoid
Of motivation and this moment bound
Upon the silver screen of mortal sight,
Intensified by stillness, every shade
And shape and colour magically stayed
In rich translucence of embodied light.
Against the unadulterated blue
Of sky and Bay the towered clouds reared white,
And moulded mountains, muted, shadowed, bright,
Unbreathing, waiting silently…I, too,
Engraving this vivid moment on my brain
Before the rude assault of wind and rain.
Veritas
Constantia C.P.
October night
I hope that someone, when I am gone,
Will sit at night as I do now.
In the full moon's light, sit very still
When the blossom is white and the jasmine fills
The place with its fragrance and the broom
And the alyssum . . . and the moon flowers
That scent the silent hours before
The clamorous day knocks at the door.
The shadow of the young leafed plane
Paints a pattern of lace on the grass
And on my hands and face. I hope
That someone will sit, as I do now
And listen to the minutes pass.
It would be a pity to waste
Such beauty, caught in time and space
Dorothea Spears
Of Father Christmas
In seeking for the truth we lose the true
(Our love of reason often costs us dear)
The true that lies too deep for words, the clue
Behind the symbol, that the heart can hear.
In our mundane impatience we discard
The fairy tale, because our hearts are blind.
Because we find interpretation hard
We lose the living truth that lies behind.
Our algebra accepts an x and y
But man must clothe his faith in factual word
And fit belief in rigid formulae
That can be proved and seen and touched and heard.
And Christmas catches us with empty hands
Because it is the heart that understands.
Dorothea Spears
Oh Night, Unlock The Door Of Sleep
Oh Night, unlock for me the door of sleep
That in that quiet room I may forget
The unwon goals on which my heart was set,
The love I lost, the faith I could not keep.
And light no glowing dreams, Oh Night, let peep
No curious star, no single ray to whet
The unease of remembrance or regret,
But let the silence and the dark be deep.
Unlock the door of Sleep, Oh sombre Night;
But leave intact each closely shuttered pane
That neither setting moon nor rising sun
May touch to joy or sorrow or delight,
Nor any consciousness at all profane
The luxury of that oblivion.
OH SOUL, DRINK DEEP
Oh soul, drink deeply of the peace that fills
These dappled valleys and these sun-kissed hills!
Drink deeply of the fragrance sweet that lies
In Nature’s chalices: the flower dies
So soon……. Oh! Sieze and quaff the brimming gourd
Of beauty that the generous gods have poured
Unstinting on this lovely southern land,
Before some evil dash it from thine hand.
Drink deep, as though each moment were thy last:
The lest thou, too, may face the chilling blast
Of war, that leaves but ruin in its wake,
Dry lips, and hungry eyes, and hearts that break.
Oh Soul, drink deeply of the peace that fills
These dappled valleys and these sun-kissed hills!
Oh, My People
My people, oh my people, I behold you
Passionately, passionately clutching at the sun
In sordid pools and broken glass and shadowed mirrors.
Giving your lives to possess distorted reflections
That shape you, mould you, and intolerably hold you
And leave you standing with empty hands when all is done.
My people, oh my people, I have told you!
Lift your eyes: from the unreal to reality,
From dark to light, from death to immortality
Lift your hearts and let the Living Son enfold you
And in His Image mould you.
Dorothea Spears
Old scores
So very, very long ago
It was, that innocent Eve
First offered Adam the apple
She couldn't retrieve:
Many the times that Eve has been shriven,
But, deep in his inner being,
Adam has never forgiven.
So very, very long ago
It was - but nothing will ever make
Eve forgive the snake.
Dorothea Spears
Old station Site
This foil of open space
That by its very difference magnifies
The height and depth and breadth surrounding it:
That lends a grandeur and a grace
To an unnotable environment,
An unremarkable urban face;
Enhancing contiguity by contrast;
Turning an ordinary city scene
Into an unforgettable place.
Now that we have seen this, now we know,
Shall we let this juxtaposition go?
Dorothea Spears
Old Wounds
The wound heals…
And if the surgeon is clever
The fitted skin seals
The surface and never reveals
To unobservant eyes
The hurt that laid the bone bare.
But sometimes when the sky lowers
And the wind is unkind
The labouring heart reminds
The brain of the pain that was once there
And the old pain throbs again.
CT Friday Dec 5th 1970
Old Years Night
Tonight you go forever…I know.
I take my leave of you without regret.
Since time began it has been ordered so.
What boots it, then, to fret?
And what I shall remember, and what I shall forget
Is in the book of time… the jewelled thought unset,
The verse unrhymed, the song unsung, the uncarved stone
You brought to me to complete… the bitter and the sweet.
Tonight we say goodbye. I would not have it otherwise.
Your gifts remain. My parting word is thank you –
For your truths and promises and lies,
Beauty and ugliness, happiness and pain
And thorns and roses, questions and replies;
Apparent losses and apparent gain.
I thank you for your best and for your worst
(for who can separate eventual good and ill)
That endless quests are endless and eternal thirst
Unquenchable; that hunger is unsated still.
Whatever I forgot…whatever I remember…
Let there be no regret, no backwards looking sigh,
No sorrow at the ending of December…
Only thank you, old year, thank you – and goodbye.
Omen
The wind has stilled at last its strident tongue
The wearied landscape sank to slumber. Soon
Within the starry dome of heaven was hung,
Fiery and grotesque, a waning moon.
And as I watched the red turned to gold…
No longer was it a moon hung in the sky –
It was the Head of the Master aureoled
In a golden mirror, watching the world go by.
The frogs by the river sang: the mountains slept:
The dogs were silent who had bayed before.
Across the earth bereaved countries wept
Where seas had knocked too loudly at the door.
That face in that mirror – what did it portend?
A greater advent…or an augured end…
Feb 3 1953
“Veritas”
Constantia, C.P.
On An Early Morning Train Journey From Paarl
I’ll place this picture in my heart to keep:
Just here, the sun-tipped hill in morning gown:
And yonder mountain still is half asleep
Enveloped in her cloudy eiderdown,
While newly wakened veld between them lies
Aglint with sugarbush and waving grass
And blossoms opening their sun-kissed eyes –
The whole veld hymns the morning as I pass.
Too soon the sun that slants so softly now
Will climb to tyranny in that blue sky
Commanding all the servile blooms to bow
And, ere, the day is done, to droop and die.
But now the veld is rousing from her rest
And morning dew lies cool upon her breast.
On Delos
Shall we, on Delos, from this scattered stone
Will to reconstruct a beauty born
Of beauty and beauty triply torn,
The dream of a dream of an island overthrown?
Can this shore restore the tune, the tone
Of long gone centuries, the garb once worn
Before the glory of the gods was shorn
And broken Delos left to morn alone?
The long-forgotten ways we think to tread
Unearthing perfection in mosaic floor
And placing stone on stone, rebuilding door
And temple to glimpse a glory that is shed:
Can any present any past restore
Or bring to life gods that have lived and are dead?
Airlie Close
Constantia C.P.
On De Waal Drive
As I came from the hot town I met a wind
Frolicking through the hills, and he was kind:
Not like that passionate wind with the dry mouth
And the hot breath, that comes from the East and the South,
Whose burning kisses parch the ravished land.
This was a strong wind, with playful hands
And keen, cool fingers, that ruffled my hair
And vanquished the little demons of despair
That haunted me. His lips were cool and sweet
With a tang of the sea, and healing was in the fleet
Beat of his wings that made music through the trees,
Music like the swelling of still seas…
He printed cool, moist kisses on my face,
And in my heart he left a quiet place.
And so I thank God that I met His wind
As I came from the hot town with a tired mind.
On Listening to Beethoven’s Third Symphony
How hopeless I am, vainly trying to capture
With words the sudden, unexpected flight
Of spirit, borne unstriving to the height,
To float unselfed in clouds of breathless rapture
On some pure strain of austere music rising
Into the sexlessness of sheer delight;
Unhampered, as a wind-borne feather light,
The inertia of the wondering flesh surprising.
If heaven be like this ascent of soul,
On wings of music, effortlessly flying
Above white clouds, this hunger-satisfying,
This life intensified, this aureole –
If this be foretaste of the spirit’s goal,
This ecstasy – then I shall not fear dying!
“Oaklands, Newlands Ave, Newlands C.P
On living alone
Living alone has its compensations -
You can create your world in your image of God
No harsh words spoken
No beautiful memories broken
By present hands
That cannot understand
The meaning of a token . . .
You can believe that men are kind
And be blind to things
You do not will to see
With none to clip your wings.
You can keep your dreams shining
With none to take them and break them.
Your lion and your lamb can lie together
Independent of outer weather.
Yes, living alone has its compensations
And creations and may not be
As lonely as incompatibility.
Dorothea Spears
On Re-Reading, After A Lapse Of Years,The
Letter Of One Since Dead.
Now, when it is too late, I understand.
Remembering words that you long since have spoken
I reach across the years to touch your hand…
Alas! The wine is spilt, the pitcher broken.
I had not learnt enough, though I seemed wise;
Life had not taught me, then, what life can teach.
But now I read your words with unsealed eyes,
And you have gone forever from my reach.
On the Chao Phya River
You, and you, and you and I
Going down this great river
Together, under this Asian sky –
Whence come we together,
Whither go…And why?
Is it to see a new year born?
And an old year die?
Or to renew some contact here
Once more before we say goodbye?
31.12.75
Bangkok
On The Path To The King’s
Blockhouse
A wooded path on the mountain,
A sudden bend in the way,
Revealing a pool sequestered,
With bracken and hair fern gay.
How long since we found together
That turquoise pool, verdant set!
Oh, must one always remember?
And can one never forget?
A full moon gold on the water,
Glimpsed bright through rows of pine;
A fallen tree, moon silvered-
‘Tis long since, friend of mine.
Still full moons bring their longing;
And longing wakes regret-
Oh! Must one always remember?
And can one never forget?
On the road to the airport
On the road to the airport
No one needs to ask, here,
Which way the wind blows.
Every tree that grows
Grotesquely from travailing earth
Is bent from birth.
Distorted, single-sided, gaunt,
Handicapped, opposed.
But still undaunted.
Everybody knows here,
Which way the wind blows.
Dorothea Spears
Once to Every Civilization . . .
I wonder if we stood
At the parting of a civilization's ways
In those days,
And saw that tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood
The poet says leads on to fortune, but which stays
For neither man nor nation when
The tide has turned again.
Was opportunity for greater venturing spurned,
The ship unlaunched
That could have carried men into a new tomorrow.
The chance let slip?
Now, hard aground, she founders and disintegrates
Time cannot buy or borrow
Such a tide
The moment comes . . . unnoticed goes.
That flood ebbs strongly which so strongly flows.
Dorothea Spears
One fervent man, with soul afire
One fervent man, with soul afire,
One woman rich with love,
And then a glen where they conspire,
To reach heavens above.
One lingering kiss from burning lips,
One fond caressing hand …..
And just a touch from finger tips,
Against the world will stand.
One word of truth, with bated breath,
One willing ear to list,
And just a tender smile which saith,
“I’m longing to be kissed.”
One close embrace in loving arms,
One unresisting sigh,
And two can reach in evening calms
The bliss for which they cry.
One tender thought within a mind
One e’er responsive soul …..
And though one must stay behind,
They both can reach their goal.
One longing heart so sore oppressed,
One thinking of it too…..
And it will find a perfect rest ….
May I find such in you.
One noble life, one pure life-love
One constant wish to serve,
And just response from you, my Dove…
And never need I swerve!
I love your purity and truth,
I love your beauty too
I love your everlasting youth
But best…I Love …Just…You.
One is enough
“The beauty of all the roses of the world
Is in one rose,” I said,
“The miracle of beauty is in one rose:”
And the miracle of the breath
Of all humanity is in one being,
And all the sorrow of its cessation
Is in one death.
Dorothea Spears
One January Sunday
Now, the sky being grey, you grumble and say
“What has become of the summer and the sun?”
Lazy laggards, you have slept them away!
At five they were painting a deep horizon of gold
And gilding the vineyards climbing the sloping hill.
At six they were glinting on millions of mirrors of moisture
Hung on the grass and the trees, unbelievably still.
And turning round I stumbled over a rainbow
Spanning the mountain's face where clouds were building
An edifice that would tower and topple and spill
And fill the day with the rubble of clouds you’ve deplored.
I trysted with summer this morning while you snored.
Dorothea Spears
One Rose
Is beauty in a hundred roses more than one rose?
I sometimes ask myself if these two eyes
And that strange beauty-loving consciousness that lies
Behind the manifested senses, and replies
So instantly to beauty where it glows,
Can find a satisfaction multiplied
By number or by quantity, or has a single rose
The same ineffable and fragrant power
To keep the deep insatiable hunger satisfied
By swift perfection of a solitary flower?
Who knows . . . who knows . . . who knows? . . .
And that Great Lord, the beauty-loving
Gardener of the whole of earth's great garden, and of all it grows,':
Does He find lasting pleasure in one lovely soul?
O rose, O soul, be beautiful this hour!
Dorothea Spears
Only If The Universal Particularises Itself
Can It Come To Know Itself As Universal.” – Hegel
(After reading AM I? – Cape Times 18.11)
I am that I am. Am I?
And you? …Nothing? … One ultimate entity?
The self-same elements make you and me.
True. But see
What combinations and what permutations take
What individual patterns! Something knows …
Something chose that we should be
Whatever we are. Identity
(So Hagel preached) is only reached
Through the experience of difference. Truth
Is the absence of error only known to be true
To me or you
When error has been experienced and truth has won.
The goal of the whole can only be learned
Through the individual mechanisms of the soul
Experiencing separateness to earn
The knowledge of ultimate unity.
Man is no robot; even his face
Is different from every other face
Whatever his place or race as long as he wears
Habiliments of earth.
Though all are made of the same cloth.
And he will not recognise
The quicksands at his feet for what they are
May perish following a star.
Airlie Close
Constantia C.P.
Only One Beauty
There is only one beauty.
Sometimes it sets the sky on fire
And the heart stands still before the glory.
Or it may come upon us suddenly
In words of a poem or the page of a story;
A mighty chord of music;
Or the single note
That drops at twilight
From a bird's throat.
It is the same beauty, whatever the guise,
The same ubiquitous beauty −
Only our ears and eyes
Are unaccustomed.
Only flow and then
A revelation shakes us to the core,
And for the moment we are more
Than mortal men.
But whether it be tangible or intangible
Or the sky or the sod;
There is only one beauty −
The beauty that is manifested God.
Dorothea Spears
Only the actions or the just
Only the actions or the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust
Yesterday . . . tomorrow
Today was to-morrow yesterday.
What does a day weigh in the scales of time,
(Or a word in a rhyme)?
Do empty days weigh less
(Or words unheard)?.
Every day is made of twenty-four hours:
Are some hours weightier than others
And have they greater powers
(Are some words freighted)?
The days behind and the days before
Are they less or more according to count?
Midnight takes today from the pan of the future
And puts it into the pan of the past -
Does the balance alter the same amount
For every day paid
(And every word said)?
And can to-day borrow
An hour from tomorrow or yesterday?
Today will be yesterday tomorrow.
Dorothea Spears
Open Heart
Here is the glory of Easter day −
The stone rolled away!
The stone that mortal power had sealed
Against the human heart lest He
Who dwells within should be revealed,
Lest mortals see
And share at every humble board
The glory of the risen Lord.
The stone is rolled away that sealed the heart
Where He was held − and lo −
Through every acquiescing part
The living Christ is free to come and go.
Jubilate Deo!
Dorothea Spears
Opening Cruise (Z.V.Y.C.)
Repetitive patterns of white triangles
With pastel replicas in miniature
Against the blue and white new − Spring green
Of lake and mountain and sky
Scores and scores of them caught in the maze −
Of a geometric dance.
Forming and reforming in intricate displays
Of limitless formulae,
As swift as silence and as clean
That fleet of pelicans in flight
Might be the spirit, be the soaring soul
Of sea-bound sail,
Questing, perhaps, the self-same Grail,
Sharing the sheer delight
Of rhythm in the pattern of the whole!
Dorothea Spears
Our Earthly Immortality
Even in our lifetime we outlive
Men’s needs of us, and few survive
The searching test of death: the breath
Of fame may not proclaim our name,
So quickly men forget. And yet
We have an earthly immortality.
Every one of us shall be
Immortalised by what we give,
Our contribution to humanity
In kind, for none can pass from birth to death
And leave no mark behind.
Airlie Close
Constantia C.P.
Overburdened
Was it not enough, my Lord, that I
By mine own sorrow bowed and all but broken,
Should struggle on, nor ever faint nor cry,
But put my doubts behind me all unspoken?
Couldst Thou not leave this piteous wound to heal,
But every sorrowing soul must new awaken
My quivering heart to pain, that I must feel
The agony of every heart forsaken?
Oh, was it not enough, but I must bear
The lonely and intolerable aching
Of the world’s heart, every parting share?
Was not my own heart near enough to breaking
But I must share all love’s renouncement kiss?
My Lord, I have not strength enough for this!