DECEMBER SELECTIONS:A Poet's Voice by Sylvia MaclaganI cannot stop the wind from blowing
nor still the ocean's tide;
a rose will bloom without my knowing
to adorn an Autumn bride.
Yet I can stretch a loving hand
to embrace a frightened child
by greed its rights denied.
I cannot halt empires from growing
nor make the rich provide;
a war will rage without foreknowing
to scourge fair countryside.
Yet I can join the crescent throng
refusing to abide
while innocents have died.
Let this be sculpted on my tomb:
that I did not my eyes blindfold
nor close my heart to doom,
but rather with a poet’s voice
all shameful deeds retold.
© Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2008
Shrine of the Red Hornet Queen by Walter William Schwim
In the dappled half shade of a Bhumbula tree
at the foot of a great granite hill,
lived a Wizard in rags who enchanted me
in his voice that was cracked and shrill.
Eyes agleam in the dusk as spirits grew bold
scurried soft while the smoke swirled around;
from his dry withered lips spilled stories of old
and the tales of lost battle ground.
On the sand by the camp fire glow he would kneel
with a body all broken and frail,
till a throw of the bones in the dust would reveal
to the crone what the ancients bewail.
"If you cross the five hills going east from the graves
to the land maLindzimu ignored;
follow me to the south where the bones of slaves
fed the flames when the smelt furnace roared.
Where the great bellows huffed amid smoke, sweat and blast
till the eye of the forge shimmered green,
where the spearheads birthed and the bronze shackles cast
for the guard of the Red Hornet Queen.
Sweep your eyes to the ridge as you search for a slit,
for a cleft in that grey granite wall;
through a thorn chaparral where the rock has split,
cross a bridge with its stern sentry tall.
Do you see where these boulders were rolled to the side,
hide a path to the nest of the Queen?
Now we edge past the ledge where the wasp-men would hide;
it is clear their defense was supreme."
Then as clouds swirled grey in the old man's eye
to the visions rushing out from the past
and a thousand summers or more flashed by
when the bones once again were cast.
"Over here are the pits where the slaves were restrained,
it was done so that none may oppose
that Cannibal Queen who was thus entertained,
and imbibed of the blood of her foes.
From the caravans rich there was loot for the bold
on the road to King Solomon's mine.
They would raid for the ivory, slaves and the gold
for their Queen and the Red Hornet Shrine.
As a pack on the scent chased troops of the King
while the Wasps would look down from on high.
The assault would begin and the war-cries ring
'till the death-stones rained from the sky.
Each attack was repulsed and Solomon's men
would retire to the mines for a rest.
The lieutenant chastised and threatened again
should he fail to annihilate the nest.
Well the Hornets grew rich, with their arrogant Queen
every year in their fortress of stone,
and the crew of the mines and the tribes grew lean
for the wrath of their King to atone."
iSangoma of old, with a mystical smile
stroked softly the gray granite wall,
the Ancestral spirits to coax and beguile
then he rose with his staff proud and tall.
"I can see, that at last 'twas a weakness revealed
in a cipher received by the Chief.
Betrayal for the price of a curse was concealed
by a plan that was bold and brief.
Like a beast of the night, came Solomon's curse,
past the guards as a humming of bees.
Sheer face of the rock but a simple traverse,
as it entered the sanctum with ease.
No-one said what befell, not a soul would re-tell
what became of the Red Hornet clan,
It was rumored by some they eventually fell;
the result of this treasonous plan.
They were all disemboweled, every man, woman, child
and their cruel Queen impaled on a spear,
just a Forge-Master's boy escaped to the wild
where he lived out a lifetime in fear.
If you scratch at your feet among shards in the dust
you may find a small clue or a sign
but the Ghosts of this tomb keep a secret in trust;
it's the gold in a Grey Granite Shrine."
Then a great wind rushed and the trees bowed down
while the Sun turned away in his shame,
for my blind Wizard's eyes stared up white in his death
and I fled like a buck from the flame.
The ancestral blood runs no-more in his veins
yet his story's still told at the feasts,
it is oft' whispered down from the hills to the plains;
finds a voice in the howling of beasts.
The graves of Cecil John Rhodes (maLindzimu) and other founders of Rhodesia lie on a famous sacred hill in the Matopos. The area is steeped in legend and African Myth, and many things still remain unexplained. As a child I grew up here and spent a great deal of time exploring the granite wilderness.