Dorothea Spears 

             Parable

One by one the leaves fall:

it is the beginning of the end.

Tomorrow, it may be

that none at all

will leave the tree

if an indulgent heaven send

kind weather.

And no one passing by will see

that summer’s glowing prime

is past. Perhaps not even she

has felt, as yet, the ruthless hand of time.

But surely now through every throbbing vein

the ardent sap will run

more slow,

though still she may not know

(so softly falls the rain,

so warm the sun)

that summer’s too brief life is on the wane;

that autumn has begun.

               Passion-Tide

What learned you there in dark Gethsemane, my Soul,

Watching lone with Him the long night Through?

The wine

Was drunk: the bread was broken; before the goal

There reared a hill to crest …Thy will be done, not mine,

And having climbed the hill and reached for the crest, and hung

With Him in solitude against the darkened sun,

What thing of worth from such crude agony were wrung?

Forgive, forgive, forgive – whatever man has done.

And what had he to teach you, Soul, as low you lay

Within the darkened silence of Earth’s granite womb,

Before He rose and rolled the poisoning stone away?

Love has power to open even the darkest tomb!

                 Pastoral

God is abroad in the Woodlands …

I would be still, and hear

The sound of his voice in the poplars.

Hush.. He is very near.

God is abroad in the Woodlands…

I would be still, and see

His shadow upon the river

Down by the blue-gum tree.

God is abroad in the Woodlands…

I would be still, and feel

The touch of His hand in the Twilight

To comfort and sooth and heal.

I would be still in the silence,

Still in body and soul…

For God is abroad in the Woodlands

Loving the hurt ones whole.

          Path to Easter

Though paved and pled with pardon

The Path to Easter still

Is through Gethsemane's Garden

And over Calvary's hill.

Dorothea Spears

          Peace is indivisible

Write in the sky

And on the earth

Where every mortal passing by

En Route to death from birth

Can see it and be reconciled

Write it on the mind of every child…

Security is indivisible

Till each man makes this truth his own.

While any beggar dies in a ditch

No king is safe on a throne,

Whatever else is said or done

Of this be very sure –

There is no security for one

Until the world’s secure

                   People

I look at you. . . and you. . . and you . . . and wonder

What buds in you have never come to blossom

And what incipient songs you have never sung.

What fires in you were never fanned to flame,

What poetry has never found a tongue

In you and you, and me . . .

Potentialities, perhaps unguessed,

Or unconfessed, that none can see,

The might-have-beens become the never-to-be

And who and what is to blame?

I look at you . . . and you . . . and you, and ponder.

How little we really know

Of one another, you and I and we

Who see The outward show,

Each of the other but seldom probe to find

The beauty hidden behind the mask of the mind.

Dorothea Spears

             Perfection

A counsel of perfection

Can cause fear,

The perfect moment lost

If held too dear,

The picture out of focus

Seen too near.

Nostalgia

Is perfection’s clemency,

A child’s first garden

Time has left untilled,

A landscape scaled

To child-size memory

That fifty years of living

Have not killed.

               Perspective

How can one who has lived in eternity break

His heart on the happenings of a passing day

Or trip across a trifle on the way

Between a night and a night, knowing the stake?

Dorothea Spears

                 Petunias

A brilliant band of blossoms standing by the pool,

Every individual tip-toeing to see,

Across the intervening verge of grass,

Their quivering reflections in the cool

And quickened surface of the looking glass.

Avondster

Klein Constantia Rd

Constantia, C.P.

          Philosopher’s Memories

Memories of hours too sweet to last…

bury them…bury them deep

in the rich-loamed past

and let them sleep…

lest the gleam that proved too bright

for our eyes

should dim the steady light

of lately found content.

Let us be wise…

and bury the dream that was too frail to live,

and if we must remember

recall the darker days, the spirit’s Lent.

that by comparison a lustre give -

as March is fair against a dark November.

                Pigmentation

Here was a man who spoke our language.

Words kindled between us and took fire

And lit a light of understanding

That brought the syllables to life

And gave the letters meaning as we spoke them.

We sat there under the trees, drinking tea,

Discussing many things − unselfconsciously −

Which was as it should always be.

And there was nothing but sight to signify

That he was dark and we were light.

His education was higher, his thoughts as deep

As ours, his manners as fair

Yet he could never occupy a chair

Beside us in a public place, here,

Nor share a meal, a concert or a play,

Though any rogue with a white skin

Would be allowed in.

Dorothea Spears

          Pinions Unpracticed

Pinions unpracticed atrophy.

We forge a cage more strong than bars

Who will not practice to be free,

And shut away the stars.

Daily, then O bird of soul,

Spread wide your wings of faith and prayer,

From where earth’s traffic takes such toll,

And mount to purer air,

Lest when the day comes, by and by,

That death shall break the bonds of birth,

We, having lost the power to fly,

Still fettered fall to earth.

                  Plato’s Letter

I care for your enterprise and hope for your success, as I long for all that is noblest in mankind to triumph...

God willing, everything now goes well; but the hardest

Struggle is still to come…You are now the point to which

The world’s eyes are turned; men expect you to surpass them as they themselves do children. Yet there are rumours that all is going to ruin through the strife between you and Herakleides. Since you have not written, I only know what I hear…Take care.

People are saying you could be more tactful than you are.

Without winning men you can do nothing.

Intolerance keeps a lonely house.

             Plettenberg

“This is a free country, so I’m told,

This land where I was born, the only land

That I have ever known. I love these bold

Uncompromising hills, these trees, this strand,

This rising, falling, temperamental sea,

These dunes where in the Spring, the wild flowers grow:

I love the friends that have grown up with me.

This is my home, the only home I know.

I want my children to grow up to learn

This love, this loyalty – the golden rule

Of fellowship that gives the heart return –

And so I send my sons to the village school,

Being a father, ambitious, just like you …

This is a free country …But not for my two.

 17.10.67

              Poet’s Punches

Comments in this column on flower pickers who break the law have brought me a couple of verses from Constantia. Take your choice of this:

This I have learnt – a knowledge that I prize-

That beauty gathered by the hands soon dies.

But not the beauty gathered by the eyes.

Or this:

If you are wise, you know you own the earth,

And all the beauty under heaven’s dome,

For everything you see is yours from birth,

As long as you don’t try to

Take it home.

           Point of No Dimensions

The whole of each man's world is all contained within

A single point, could he but find the pin

To prick it. All of space and time can be confined

Within a point of consciousness possessing no dimensions,

A single point beyond psychology's most plausible inventions.

For one brief breath upon that point I hung

Suspended in a spaceless time and timeless space

A formless spider at the centre of a vast invisible web

Whose silken threads were thrown

And anchored far beyond circumferences unknown,

Recording  and  transmitting  constant messages. Could I have caught

Each swift significance. translated into finite thought

Each infinite impetus. instead of only sensing the immense intangibility of touch

That could convey so little . . . or so much.

Had I the mortal mechanism to embrace

Immortal truth, delineate the unfathom­able beauty of that face

I might have carried thence

Some  mortal  intimation of that vast omnipotence.

Dorothea Spears.

             Point of No Return

We pass the point of no return today.

Those who remain, if any,

Will look back and say

“This was the point of no return”, here,

At the final fork of the way:

We called the army out to burn our bridges

And barricade forever

The road that led to integration.

And it was here

We finally discredited the men

Who taught non-violence

Two thousand years ago and now

And centuries before.

(I do not think

The mob will listen to them anymore.)

We chose the road to forceful domination…

The final decision was here.

No doubt we’ll dominate today.

Tomorrow…?

Will history look back and say

We saved, or doomed, our Western civilisation?

“Veritas” Constantia, C.P.

           Point of Opportunity

The passing of a year –

A pause…

There is no magic in December, nor

In January. Every day

Begins another year. And yet –

There is this pause, this open door

That we can choose to use

Or pass and throw the chance away.

I should not say

This is a time for merry-making, to forget:

But more re recollection…

And evaluation…

For happiness, yes,

And even for regret

 A little, but most of all

To check up our direction

By the Eternal Compass’s true North

Before we venture forth

Upon another day.

It is so easy to lose our way.

             Poor Mister Rain

Listen to poor Mister Rain –

He knocks and knocks on the window pane,

But it wouldn’t matter how loud he cried,

He would never be asked to come inside!

He looks in the window and what does he see?

Four hungry children having their tea,

And a fire in the grate, and a cat curled snug

In front of the fire on the old hearth rug,

And the dog asleep in the basket chair,

And warmth and happiness everywhere.

That’s what he sees, Poor Mister Rain,

And he knocks and knocks on the window pane.

                 Poplars

Behold the Gothic poplar trees

Of Lombardy and Chile

Tapering heavenward their slender spires.

Yet bending ear to every nomad breeze

That loiters down the valley

Laden with desires.

The oak and Eucalyptus trees

And proud unbending pines stand

In dignified aloneness when the pale

And ghostly zephyrs steal across the land.

And when the dark-browed gale

Storms angrily across the hill

The pines resist: the oaks trees fight and fill

The troubled air with clamour

The poplars bow their heads until the storm is past.

Words tremble in the air, silently spoken −

They who bend before the blast

After the storm rise up again unbroken

Dorothea Spears

Port Jackson

There’s a gold and green bird singing

In a green and golden tree,

Where the sweet freight weighs the branches

Down against the heart of me.

There the sweet scent of the blossom

Throbs against the amorous air

And the downy balls of amber

Dust their pollen on my hair.

There’s a green and golden carpet

Spread beneath my laggard feet,

Spread to tempt a lazy mortal

Where Spring and Summer meet.

I will salt and drown my longing

In this flood of ecstasy

Where a sugar bird is singing

In a gold Port Jackson tree!

                           Pot Pourri

You just touch the “t”

With your tongue,

You said,

As you asked me

To make pot pourri

And I – who had never

Been able to touch flower petals

Without a shudder –

Picked up the fallen bounty

From stone flags

Shook two blowsy heads

Into a white bowl

And looked in an old herbal

For a recipe for pot pourri.

No recipe,

Only instructions for distilling

The essence of the rose

To make cordial

For the relief of vomittings,

A powerful remedy

Against the flux.

I can understand

That for you

It may be the essence

Of God’s goodness

That he spare you

The burden of infinity,

But for me

It is the distillation of divinity

That there should be

Roses beyond time

And time for pot pourri.

              Potential Nudist?

Sometimes I think that I am neither that

Nor this, that I am neither here nor there ...

I find it difficult to buy a hat

To fit my wit, a coat I care to wear

The fashionable creeds, they do not fit

The figure of the individual mind

That, growing; splits the garment made for it

And feels the draught before it and behind.

Even the shoes of science pinch and bind

The spirit's feet, that fly unshod and free.

Time's spectacles distort the view, and blind

The innate vision of eternity.

The narrow patriot's corset is a curse

That hampers breathing in the universe.

                   Poverty

I am poor indeed if I have nothing to offer you,

No quality of soul from my particular store

That you would care and I would dare to share.

The friendship that I proffer you,

The keys that can command my heart's high door,

Are futile should there be no treasure there

Beyond what you can purchase, or pick up anywhere.

If you are not the richer for having stayed

Beneath my roof, or worked or played

Beside me on the path that we have trod

Together, then I have betrayed

Humanity and God.

If I have stocked no inner store to supplement your need,

Then I am poor indeed.

Dorothea Spears

                 Praise

Lord, I am full of singing

       As a flower’s chalice of dew

When the night is heavy with mist

       Ere the dawn breaks through.

My heart is throbbing with music

       As the throat of the nightingale

When the woods are rich with shadow

       Ere the star pale.

Oh, gather the song of my spirit

       As the river is caught by the sea

To swell the mighty torrent

       Of praise to Thee!

               Prayer at Christmas

Give us The Star to lead us to the manger.

Give − us the wisdom to follow day and night

By earth and air and water through all danger

The guiding of Its never-failing light,

Until Its radiance lives within our being

Guiding our consciousness to this new Birth

That we may sense the glory of the seeing,

And hear the harmony of Peace on earth.

Aye, and beyond. to Jordan and The Mount −

Aye, to The Garden and the Lonely Hill −

(The distance is beyond all mortal count)

Aye, to Arimathea . . . and further still. . .

Give us, oh Lord, the gift of Thine Own Star

That we may travel wisely, travel far.

Dorothea Spears

           Prayer for South Africa

God this is Thy country, this beautiful land.

If, in my arrogance I’ve called it mine

And sought to fashion it to my design,

This rich, rough-hewn creation 0 Hand,

unmindful what Thy Sovereign Will had planned.

If I’ve usurped decisions that were Thine

Forgetting Thy authority divine,

Forgive me that I did not understand.

If I be brown or yellow, black or white,

Who dare to call this Africa my own

And claim it for my dominance alone

Forgive me my presumption, Lord of Light.

I wait in silence . . .  let Thy Plan be known

And all Thy children in that Plan unite.

Dorothea Spears

          Prayer of a Water-Bearer

There is water in the fountain for us all…

And many are faint with thirst yet know not how to reach it.

Lord of the fountain, let me be

A cup to reach Thy water to dry lips…

And keep me colourless and pure, lest I

Contaminate their drink unwittingly.

              Present Happiness

This is here and now, this present moment in time

Is happiness.

Live it reverently.

Do not try to barter with it:

Hoard it not, nor waste it.

Taste it, like a connoisseur.

Do not, fearful, look behind the door

Or under the bed, or in the larder:

It will disappear while you are looking.

Do not try to open tomorrow’s gate

Of Fate until tomorrow comes;

Or drown this moment of peace

With tomorrow’s drums.

This happiness that is today’s –

Accept with thanks and let your prayer be praise.

Airlie Close

Constantia C.P.

           Presentiment

Change is in the air.

What, I know not

Nor from where,

Nor if it be

For me

Or all humanity.

Only I sense it hovering there –

The shadow of a hawk’s wing

That flutters my uneasy thoughts

To silence, that would sing.

“Oaklands”

Newlands Ave

Newlands C.P

           Priorities

I remember my gardener saying to me

“I think that Madam cares more about trees

Than people.” Perhaps he was right. You see,

It takes so long to grow a tree!

              Progress

How much does it cost to make this bit of road

So that the tense hag-ridden motorist

Forever driven by old Saturn's goad

Need never see the beauties that exist?

In pounds and pence (or rands) I wouldn't know,

But many a lovely thing has had to fall;

The flaming aloe hedge has had to go,

And glossy flowering lengths of living wall.

The stately old stone pines that used to spread

Above prodigious boles their gracious shade,

My ancient friends, are now forever dead

Because another speedway must be made.

Alas for men who have the sort of mind

That likes an unimportant road to wind!

Dorothea Spears

        Prologue – Mr. Everyman and the Muses

See you friends who will be true

For better, or worse, your whole life through?

See you friends to share your play

From dawn to sunset of life’s day,

To share the long, long thoughts of youth,

The age-old search for God and truth,

To hymn your heart and breathe your sigh

When gallant love comes riding by;

To show you beauty earthbound eyes

Would pass unseeing otherwise;

To teach you what the linnet sings

And give your straining spirit wings?

Seek you voice to word your woe

When days are dark and lights are low,

When one who has walked through life with you come to the gate and passes through

Alone… and the world is suddenly bare –

Seek you friends your grief to share?

Seek you friends to hold your hand

And always, always understand,

Yet never intrude, nor be offended

When you need them is ended?

In joy, temptation, loneliness,

In hours of calm and hours of stress?

Here’s Poetry and her sister, Song –

They will go with you all life long.

         Prometheus Meant Well

Prometheus meant well, who stole a coal

From the Olympian hearth: but was he wise?

Let men be sane, and think, and dare to confess

The fate of any individual nation,

Whatever size or state or station, is less

Important than the fate of civilisation.

When fire breaks out in the forest do not stay

To say, “Who started this dangerous conflagration?”

Confine it first, if you can: none knows the way

The winds of fate, the currents of desire

May sweep the flames which, out of man’s control,

May set the whole of his little world on fire

And take an unimaginable toll

In which his boasted civilisation dies.

Airlie Close

Willow Road

Constantia C.P.

                  PROOF.

If you would know, when I have closed my eyes
The last long time, if I am really dead.

Trust not the doctor standing at the bed.

For sometimes he mistakes: his dead arise
From out their coma, to the soul’s surprise,

The soul held back from blessing by a thread,
    And I am holden of a hidden dread
That earth may cover me before life dies.

So this perform for me, if mayhap Death
Should beckon while the violets are blue,

    Put here a bunch, fresh-gathered, on my breast
And let them wither there, and if their breath
Awake no answering tender smile, then you
Will know indeed that I have found my rest.

                     Punished

                    (A Portrait)

Little laddie with great blue eyes

Wet-lashed, wise with mute surprise,

Quivering lips and mien so meek;

A lone tear lost on a chubby cheek:

Holding a little dog very tight –

Poor little lonely, punished mite!

Yes, one begins to learn at three

How misunderstanding a world can be.