The basic life of Modiri "Mok'" Mokopanele told through expressions, pictures and poetry.
Thursday, 1 December 2016
Monday, 21 November 2016
Monday, 10 October 2016
I am by John Clare
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky
Sunday, 9 October 2016
Thursday, 15 September 2016
Autumn by Roy Campbell
I love to see, when leaves depart,
The clear anatomy arrive,
Winter, the paragon of art,
That kills all forms of life and feeling
Save what is pure and will survive.
Already now the clanging chains
Of geese are harnessed to the moon:
Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes:
And the dark pines, their own revealing,
Let in the needles of the noon.
Strained by gale the olives whiten
Like hoary wrestlers bent with toil
And, with the vines, their branches lighten
To brim our vats where summer lingers
In the red froth and sun-gold oil.
Soon our hearths reviving pyre
Their rotted stems will crumble up:
And like a ruby, panting red fire,
The grape will redden on your fingers
Through the lit crystal of the cup.
The clear anatomy arrive,
Winter, the paragon of art,
That kills all forms of life and feeling
Save what is pure and will survive.
Already now the clanging chains
Of geese are harnessed to the moon:
Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes:
And the dark pines, their own revealing,
Let in the needles of the noon.
Strained by gale the olives whiten
Like hoary wrestlers bent with toil
And, with the vines, their branches lighten
To brim our vats where summer lingers
In the red froth and sun-gold oil.
Soon our hearths reviving pyre
Their rotted stems will crumble up:
And like a ruby, panting red fire,
The grape will redden on your fingers
Through the lit crystal of the cup.
Sunday, 7 August 2016
Luck does not exist.
Shall we never forget that we are born into certain circumstances of which we don't have a choice but it is up to us to initiate to better our circumstances.
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