African Horsemen (with poem)

African-horsemen

Comes A Horseman… – Poem by John F. McCullagh

“Short is our tenure
on this beautiful Earth.
As brief as the grass
In winter’s cold breath.
Death, the implacable foe,
Bids us yield.
Faith is our Armor,
our blocker, our shield.
Denial, our method
of avoiding the shroud.
When Donne is not done,
Death be not proud.
A tenuous tenor may
Give voice to fear.
Yet, turning to face him,
No one is there.
The prize is our self
And possession is all.
All else is but vanity
To hang on a wall.”

In the Twilight Zone

Half light let me associate this Weekly Photo Challenge with Twilight.

And this is my impression after reading the poem of  African poet Unathi Slasha

Like Nxele, the Nguni cows
are never coming back
Their kraal has been
razed to the ground
As long as the royal sceptre
is clinched
in the right hand
of the adamant adanggaman,
the cows are to forever
wander, away
from the motherland.

twilight-zone

Drinking as the Gods

Mead, meadery
Bees are the ‘processors of the main ingredient of mead

Within some months a Meadery will open its doors in our village Stanford, South Africa. That’s where one can drink the Drink of the Gods. Mead is known from ancient mythology but also authors as J.R.R. Tolkien describe the use of this millenniums old ‘beverage’. Nigel Borrington is an Irish photographer who like to add Irish poems to his blog postings. Scottish people are not always happy with that, so it seems, although they have to admit that the Irish can write poems. However the Irish spelling of the word ‘Whisky’ is subject to heated discussions as the quality of the drink the Irish call ‘Whiskey’ is also a hot item between the Scotch and the Irish. But maybe they can make it up with Mead. Since the owner of the new Meadery is of Scottish descent herewith a poem from the Scott Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894).

HEATHER ALE

From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children’s
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer’s day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father –
Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink –
“I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink.”

There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
“I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.

“Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,”
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow’s,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
“I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.

“For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take HIM, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it’s I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep.”

They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; –
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.

“True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale.”

Portrait of a Hottentots God

This nice poem about the Hottentots God inspired me last week to picture one but than if you search it takes long so I took my chance and did the search like a Capetonian (very, very, laid back) and yes it worked (this time….). The insect suddenly landed on my hand and I had to hand-over to Yvonne’s hand for the picturing. After some photoshopping and adding some elements this came out of it. The featured one is with Clarissa. ‘Clarissa wants to have a ride’. Personally I go for the second one below (with bird) and the bottom one also is a nice composition. And for the rest; see for yourself. Fascinating insects; ET was modeled after it.

And yes; still practicing to master the equipment and especially the Adobe software. We’re out for a few days. See you back this Friday!!!