The Challenge by Herman Charles Bosman

Written on 29 September 1927

Sometimes I hear, from dreaming awoken,

A faint sound which the night wind blows;

It brings me, what I’ve often heard spoken,

The Challenge – “Halt! Who goes!”

Nor knowing how, our hearts beat fleeter,

Our blood with fiercer fervor flows,

When on the way we chance to meet her,

And Life says, “Halt! Who goes!”

Nor knowing why, there softly lingers,

The fragrance of the perfumed rose,

When first we glimpse her beckoning fingers,

And Love says, “Halt! Who goes!”

But that dread hour – how will we take it?

When stripped of panoplies and shows,

We tongueless face him coldly naked,

And Death says, “Halt! Who goes!”

By Herman Charles Bosman

About Herman Charles Bosman

Herman Charles Bosman (February 3, 1905–October 14, 1951) was born at Kuilsrivier, near Cape Town, and is considered the greatest short story writer from South Africa. Although he wrote in English, he became famous for capturing the rhythms of backveld Afrikaans speech, as evidenced in his Oom Schalk Lourens (oom means “uncle” in Afrikaans) stories and the Voorkamer sketches. Only three of his books were published during his lifetime: Mafeking Road, inspired by his trips to London; Jacaranda in the Night; and Cold Stone Jug, based on his years spent in jail for shooting his stepbrother during an argument.

This is a fun YouTube video I found about Herman Charles Bosman’s famous peach brandy or Mampoer as it is called locally:

Here is an extract from one of Herman Charles Bosman’s short stories: Starlight on the Veld:

“IT WAS A COLD NIGHT (Oom Schalk Lourens said), the stars shone with that frosty sort of light that you see on the wet grass some mornings, when you forget that it is winter, and you get up early, by mistake. The wind was like a girl sobbing out her story of betrayal to the stars.

Jan Ockerse and I had been to Derdepoort by donkey-cart. We came back in the evening. And Jan Ockerse told me of a road round the foot of a koppie that would be a short cut back to Drogevlei. Thus it was that we were sitting on the veld, close to the fire, waiting for the morning. We would then be able to ask a [passerby] to tell us a short cut back to the foot of that koppie.

“But I know that it was the right road,” Jan Ockerse insisted, flinging another armful of wood on the fire.

“Then it must have been the wrong koppie,” I answered, “or the wrong donkey-cart. Unless you also want me to believe that I am at this moment sitting at home, in my voorkamer.”

The light from the flames danced frostily on the spokes of a cartwheel, and I was glad to think that Jan Ockerse must be feeling as cold as I was.

“It is a funny sort of night,” Jan Ockerse said, “and I am very miserable and hungry.”

I was glad of that, too. I had begun to fear that he was enjoying himself.

“Do you know how high up the stars are?” Jan asked me next.

“No, not from here,” I said, “but I worked it all out once, when I had a pencil. That was on the Highveld, though. But from where we are now, in the Lowveld, the stars are further away. You can see that they look smaller, too.”

“Yes, I expect so,” Jan Ockerse answered, “but a school-teacher told me a different thing in the bar at Zeerust. He said that the stargazers work out how far away a star is by the number of years that it takes them to find it in their telescopes. This school-teacher dipped his finger in the brandy and drew a lot of pictures and things on the bar counter, to show me how it was done. But one part of his drawings always dried up on the counter before he had finished doing the other part with his finger. He said that was the worst of that dry sort of brandy. Yet he didn’t finish his explanations, because the barmaid came and wiped it all off with a rag. Then the school-teacher told me to come with him and he would use the blackboard in the other classroom. But the barmaid wouldn’t allow us to take our glasses into the private bar, and the school-teacher fell down just about then, too.”

“He seems to be one of that new kind of school-teacher,” I said, “the kind that teaches the children that the earth turns round the sun. I am surprised they didn’t sack him.”

“Yes,” Jan Ockerse answered, “they did.”

I was glad to hear that also.

It seemed that there was a waterhole near where we were out-spanned. For a couple of jackals started howling mournfully. Jan Ockerse jumped up and piled more wood on the fire.”

I have read and enjoyed many of this authors short stories.

Welcome to Thursday Doors, a weekly feature allowing door lovers to come together to admire and share their favorite door photos from around the world. Feel free to join in on the fun by creating your own Thursday Doors post each week and then sharing your link in the comments below, anytime between 12:01 am Thursday morning and Saturday noon (North American eastern time).

For some reason or other, my wedding was on my mind this week. I thought about it so much that I pulled out my wedding album and looked through it for the first time in quite a while. There were no digital photographs in 2001 so our pictures were the traditional kind with negatives. The photographer never gave us the negatives so we only have the pictures and album we purchased at the time.

I took pictures of the pictures for this post and didn’t think they came out to badly. Terence and I got married at a wedding venue called Toadbury Hall. It was very pretty and the name reminded me of my favourite book, Wind in the Willows. We got married on a Friday because it was a lot cheaper and we paid for our own wedding.

There are two lovely pictures with doors that I thought I would share today.

This is me coming out of the front door of my parent’s home.

This is Terence and I outside the church after the service.

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We had sunflowers against a dark blue background. I spend three months talking Terence into sunflowers and dark blue. I then waivered a bit and that was when I discovered that once I’d talked hubby into something, I would never change his mind again.

Our menu and seating plan. I actually forgot to do one and had to be asked for it by the venue. Haha, this was the first event I ever organised in my life.

This was our wedding cake. A basket of sunflowers. I still love it!

This last picture shows the main doors of the venue.

You can join in Thursday Doors here: https://nofacilities.com/2021/08/12/to-the-north-shore/

This poem, The child is not dead, by South African poet, Ingrid Jonker, is deeply moving. Reading the About Ingrid Jonker section below before reading the poem will give context to the poet and this poem.

The child is not dead

The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa.

About Ingrid Jonker

From SA History Organisation

On 19 July 1965, Ingrid Jonker, a South African poet, committed suicide by walking into the sea. Jonker was 31 Years old.

The advanced ideas inherent in Ingrid Jonker’s poems have made her a recognized literary figure internationally, with her poems being studied, translated and published in many languages including English, German, French, Dutch, Polish, Hindi and Zulu.

The collected works of Jonker, including several short stories and a play, were published in 1975 and re-issued in 1983 and 1994. Much of Jonker’s early writing related to the episodes and trauma of her early life. Yet as a mature poet, Jonker never failed to express compassion for her fellow human beings, reflecting a refreshing innocence devoid of pernicious social prejudice and hatred.

This seminal Afrikaans language poet sensitively engaged with the cause of the poor and the lot of black South Africans from the position of a common humanity.

Jonker’s work was condemned by her father, then a leading member of the National Party and the chairperson of the parliamentary committee responsible for the apartheid system of censorship.

In April 2004, Jonker was posthumously awarded the Order of Ikhamanga by the South African government for “her excellent contribution to literature and a commitment to the struggle for human rights and democracy in South Africa”.

On 24 May 1994, in his State of the Nation Address to Parliament in Cape Town, President Nelson Mandela read this poem by Ingrid Jonker.

You can listen to Nelson Mandela reading this poem here:

You can read more about Ingrid Jonker here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ingrid_Jonker

Welcome to Thursday Doors, a weekly feature allowing door lovers to come together to admire and share their favorite door photos from around the world. Feel free to join in on the fun by creating your own Thursday Doors post each week and then sharing your link in the comments below, anytime between 12:01 am Thursday morning and Saturday noon (North American eastern time).

Pashley Manor is a Grade 1 listed house in East Sussex, England. It is known for its wonderful English country garden and craft market. My mom and I visited it specifically to tour the 11 acres of beautiful gardens.

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You can join in Thursday doors here: https://nofacilities.com/2021/08/05/random-pittsburgh-doors/

What Amazon says

Sam thinks his problems are over when finds his fishing bucket filled with gold coins. There’s a problem though. The gold burns the fingers of anyone who touches it. His unlikely find coincides with the appearance of a mythical sea creature on the headland overlooking the town and the resumption of quarrying up in the mountains that is poisoning the streams and contaminating the town’s water supply.

Determined to keep his coins hidden, Sam goes up-river to bury them. There he encounters a beguiling young woman called Shasa, who lives by one of the tainted springs and just happens to have a fish’s tail.

As the blasting continues, the discovery of a series of recently-made drawings in the cave under the headland, reveals a terrifying prophesy that will result in the earth spilling apart. Fearing for Shasa’s safety, Sam sets out find her again, only to meet the danger head on, as nature takes its revenge for the damage being wrought by humankind.

Will Sam and Shasa survive?

Set in a fictional location on the West Coast of South Africa, this moving story blends the charm of small town life with the threat of ecological disaster at the hands of a powerful force beyond human understanding.

My review

This is the first book I’ve read by Chris Hall. This story is a humorous fantasy story set in South Africa, but with a serious message about industrialisation and water pollution at its heart. I loved the author’s take on the melting pot of colourful and multicultural personalities that make life in a small town in South Africa so distinctly different to anywhere else in the world.

The two elderly aunties who spend their days gossiping about life in their small town, drinking cups of rooibos tea, and making samosas (A samosa is a South Asian fried or baked pastry with a savory filling like spiced potatoes, onions, peas, chicken and other meats, or lentils) reminded me a little of Miss Marple but with a typically South African small town elderly lady overlay. Their kind heartedness in giving Albertina a home and a job as well as allowing her the freedom to raise some chickens and explore other money-making ideas is delightful.

Albertina is a wonderful character, full of ideas, life and inspiration. In her bright pink shoes and second best wig, nothing gets Albertina down and she makes the best of everything that comes her way in life. The hint of a possible romance between Albertina and Abdu, the polite and empathetic shop keeper across the road from the aunties house, is lovely.

Abdu is kindly and helpful, but he is also clever and adventurous. He discovers a secret that changes his life and proves to be life saving for Jannie. To find out more, you’ll have to read the book.

Jannie is an ex-convict who has discovered the errors of his ways and allowed his better nature to reassert itself. He is a lover of animals and the stray dog featured in the story, and Toti, the monkey, both love him. I always enjoy human interactions with animals as part of a good story.

Sam is on the run for a gang which he became embroiled with, resulting in harm to his sister. He is hiding out in the town and has managed to fix up an old fishing boat and is trying to earn a living as a fisherman. He is the character who kicks off the story and has the initial encounter with two talking octopuses’ who present him with a bucket of gold in exchange for their lives. Unfortunately, neither Sam or his mate, Jannie, can touch the gold. It burns them.

There are other great supporting characters, including the Professor, the Greek cafe owner, and a few others, as well as a number of mythical creatures including a water maiden, Shasa, a Sea Goddess who’s out to teach mankind a lesson because of the pollution and damage to her waterways, flying whales, and others.

I enjoyed this entertaining and imaginative read and recommend it to lovers of fantasy and a good humorous story. Chris Hall certainly has a talent for creating flavourful characters.

Purchase Song of the Sea Goddess by Chris Hall

Amazon US

Chris Hall Amazon Author Page

About Chris Hall

Chris describes herself as a compulsive story-teller, cat slave and hen keeper. Originally from the UK, she now resides in the Western Cape of South Africa.

Her latest novel, ‘Song of the Sea Goddess’ set in her adopted country of South Africa has just been released.

Other novels:
‘You’ll Never Walk Alone – Thrills and Spills in 1980s Liverpool’
‘Following the Green Rabbit – a fantastical adventure’
‘The Silver Locket’ (published under pen name, Holly Atkins)

A selection of her poetry is included in ‘Creation and the Cosmos – a poetic anthology’, published by Raw Earth Ink in 2021.

She has also published a tiny taster of her work in a short story collection, ‘A Sextet of Shorts’.

More of her short fiction has appeared in ‘Adler’s Writing’ and ‘One Minute Wit’. Her work also appears in the ‘Writing My City’ anthology, published in Cape Town in 2019.

Visit Chris’s website at www.lunasonline.wordpress.com to read her short fiction, fan fiction, mini-series, poetry and more.

Hugh Lewin was an anti-apartheid activist in South Africa. I recommend you read his biography below before reading this poem.

Touch

When I get out
I’m going to ask someone
to touch me
very gently please
and slowly,
touch me
I want
to learn again
how life feels.

I’ve not been touched
for seven years
for seven years
I’ve been untouched
out of touch
and I’ve learnt
to know now
the meaning of
untouchable.

Untouched – not quite
I can count the tings
that have touched me

One: fists
At the beginning
fierce mad fists
beating beating
till I remember
screaming
Don’t touch me
please don’t touch me.

Two: paws
The first four years of paws
every day
patting paws, searching
– arms up, shoes off
legs apart –
prodding paws, systematic
heavy, indifferent
probing away
all privacy.

I don’t want fists and paws
I want
to want to be touched
again
and to touch,
I want to feel alive
again
I want to say
when I get out

Here I am
please touch me.

What is the poem Touch about?

Extracted from: http://www.knowledge4africa.co.za/english/poetry/touch-a.jsp

The poem “Touch” is an attempt to capture his feelings during those horrific years in gaol. Upon being released from prison in 1971, Lewin chose to leave the country on what was known as a “permanent departure permit”. In other words, he could never return to the place of his birth.

About Hugh Lewin

Hugh Lewin grew up during South Africa’s apartheid years. Upon leaving school, he became a journalist, working for Pietermaritzburg’s Natal Witness, Drum and Golden City Post.

His observation of the repressive South African regime eventually became too much for him and he resorted to fighting vehemently to bring about its downfall. In 1965 he was sentenced to seven years imprisonment for sabotage. The poem “Touch” is an attempt to capture his feelings during those horrific years in gaol.

Upon being released from prison in 1971, Lewin chose to leave the country on what was known as a “permanent departure permit”. In other words, he could never return to the place of his birth. He would spend ten years in exile in London, followed by a further ten years in Zimbabwe.

He returned to South Africa in 1992 upon the cessation of the apartheid system and thereupon became the Director of the Institute for the Advancement of Journalism in Johannesburg. Today he is a freelance media trainer.

Lewin has written several books and poems, and he has been the recipient of several literary awards.

The poet says the following of this poem: “It’s very emotional because the poem reminds me of so many aspects of what it was like being in prison: the violence, cruelty and brutality. Reading it remains an intense experience for me because the memories it evokes are still very strong.”

“Prison remains a touchstone for me,” he says, “and is still very much part of my life, even though I was released in 1971. I still refer back to the experience, whether I want to or not. It was a terribly cataclysmic but important part of my life.”

Lewin wishes that readers of this poem would arrive at a deeper understanding of their own emotions and the world in which they live, as well as an appreciation for the power of poetry, and how useful and important it can be when it comes to describing emotions and feelings.

“If the poem also helps them to appreciate what was happening in this country before they were born,” he says, “and the sacrifices made in the run up to the 1994 elections, I’d be very pleased.”

“Of course, it would also be great,” he added, “if the poem encourages students to write poems themselves and to explore the role of literature in society.”

Note: Excerpts from an interview of the poet are taken from:
The English Experience

In my Thursday Doors post last week, I said that my family had travelled to Dumfries to meet blogger and author, Mary Smith. Mary took us on a short tour of this fascinating town.

Dumfries Museum

A few interesting artifacts from the Dumfries Museum:

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The story of the Siller Gun

James VI of Scotland and I of England presented the Seven Trades with a trophy – the Siller Gun – to be awarded in its annual shooting competition.  At a time when tradesmen had to be prepared to defend the town, the King’s intention was to encourage their shooting skill.

It is believed that the gun originally took the form of a miniature cannon mounted on a wheeled carriage.  It was remodelled to resemble a flintlock musket by David Gray after it was broken in 1808.  The individual responsible for the damage was fined £3. 6s. 8d. (£3.34p) for his act, and banished from associating with his trade for twenty-one years.

You can learn more about the Siller Gun and other Dumfries artifacts in Secret Dumfries written by Mary Smith and with pictures by Keith Kirk.

Seven Trades punch bowl

Robert Burns

A selection of pictures from Robert Burns’ house in Dumfries

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St Michael’s Church

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St Michael’s is the oldest church in Dumfries. The churchyard contains the elaborate Burns’ Mausoleum, and many other noteworthy memorials, including a Covenanters memorial and a mass grave to those who died in a cholera epidemic.

You can read more about St Michael’s Church here: https://stmichaels-and-south-parish-church.co.uk/history-of-the-church/

My review of Secret Dumfries by Mary Smith and Keith Kirk

Secret Dumfries is a non-fiction book depicting the fascinating history of Dumfries, a small town situated on the River Nith in Scotland. Dumfries is also known as the “Queen of the South”, a name bestowed on the town by local poet David Dunbar.

The book is divided into ten chapters each dealing with different aspects of the town, its inhabitants and its history.

Chapter 1: History provides a lot of background to the development and establishment of the town. One particularly interesting historical event was the stabbing of “The Red” Comyn by Robert the Bruce which changed the course of Scottish history.

Chapter 2 deals with Crime and Punishment and one of the titbits of information disclosed in this chapter is that in sixteenth-century Dumfries, anyone caught stealing his neighbour’s peat was branded on the cheek with the towns clock key, heated in a fire made of the stolen peats. 

Chapter 3: Health, shares facts and information about the history of disease and illness in the town including outbreaks of the plague, famine and cholera.

Chapter 4 entitled Industrial Dumfries tells the stories about the development of industry in Dumfries. One of the industries discussed is the quarrying for sandstone at Locharbriggs Quarry. This sandstone is a lovely pink to red colour and is clearly detectable as the building material for most of the historical buildings in the town.

Chapter 5 deals with Wartime Dumfries and tells of the backgrounds of famous Doonhammers during times of warfare, including Joseph Brown who fought in the Crimea War and the Indian Mutiny.

Chapter 6: Outdoor Art Gallery describes the lovely outdoor artworks found throughout the town including a collection of unusual finials on the railings along the Whitesands beside the Nith. There are thirty-eight of these finials which were created by Natalie Vardey and designed to link to past and present trades in Dumfries.

Chapter 7: Remarable Doonhammers includes details on a number of interesting residents of the town, the most renown being Robert Burns and his wife, Jean Armour. Interestingly enough, the book discloses that Robert Burns body was dug up twice before it was finally laid to rest in its current mausoleum.

Chapter 8 advises visitors to remember to look up and provides information on all the artworks and historical artifacts above eye level including some facts about the fire marks on selected buildings.

Chapter 9: Recreation provides the history of, inter alia, the Dumfries football team, the name of which is Queen of the South. It also tells of the history of the Dumfries cinemas and even the circus.

Chapter 10: Curiosities, Mysteries and a Sad Story ends with a poignant tale about Tinker, or Derek Styles, a promising young man who was psychologically ruined by the horrors he witnessed during the battle for Goose green in May 1982. 

Secret Dumfries is a well written and interesting non-fiction book and I would recommend it to anyone interested in Scottish history.

Mary Smith’s Amazon author page

What Amazon says

The titular dead of Winter begin this Journey in a collection of vignettes. The Veil separating the world of the living and the Realm of the Dead has indeed become thin. As feared the dead begin to enter the Realm of the Living. Small outbreaks of chaos are scattered across the world as spirits try to resume their old lives.

My review

Journey 5 starts with some insights by Haldis, the Watcher, into the events that are gradually unfolding. Haldis is aware of the breaks in the veil between this world and the afterlife and that spirits are moving between the two dimensions. She is watching the elusive silvery-haired young man who can move between the worlds without using a break in the veil, but she does not reveal how he is doing this.

In the world of humans, spirits are infiltrating life in numerous places. A Deae Martres, Mairead, is rescued from a near-death situation by a dead king. She finally remembers who he is and his name strikes fear into her heart. Her thoughts reveal a little more of Zasha and Tajin’s backstory.

Emlyn’s group of Deae Martres are forced to split up to avoid a confrontation with the Un’Naf under Elder Pwyll. They are still looking for Emlyn and Osabide. Emlyn’s mettle is tested when she has to ride a horse for miles and trust in Boabhan’s ability to lead their group to safety. A lot more of Boabhan’s back story is revealed in this journey.

Emlyn becomes more and more aware of the evil being, Arawn, who seems to be tracking her and her friends.

A well written and exciting episode that shared interesting information about some of the characters while moving the plot along nicely.

If you prefer, you can listen to my review on YouTube here:

Purchase Dead of Winter, Journey 5 – Llyn Pistyll Falls

Amazon US

The Woman at the Till by Tatamkhulu Afrika

She had a plain, hard face,

A head thrusted forward like a hawk’s.

Impossible brass triangles,

Improbable steel manacles

Cluttered her thin arms.

Clearly, she had little love for the world:

She had learned, though,

That she would not win,

So she did not throw your change at you,

Nor did she press it in your palm,

But placed it, sullenly,

On the counter in between.

She would wrap your purchase languidly,

Yet fast enough to cut off an complaint,

And when she had her punch-up with the till,

It was an exercise in ferocity,

Delicately restrained.

She was what we call “Maboer”,

A low white trash,

AWB most probably,

Slouching barefoot in Boksburg or Mayfair West.

I did not feel any particular hate for her,

Perhaps because I was what

She would call a low black trash,

Which made us quits.

And then I noticed that

She did not look at or thank

Anyone, black or white,

And such indiscriminating unsociability

Won her my respect!

But then one day a brazen clash

Of colours drew my eyes

From their customary casting down,

The ritual bartering of cash for cloth,

The careful I-do-not-see-you stale pretence-

She had bought herself a brand-new blouse,

A rioting of palms and psychedelic birds,

A raw extravagant, revolutionary thing,

As African as I.

I exclaimed in wonderment I could not hold in-

“What?’’ she barked,

Looking at my hands.

“I said your blouse is beautiful.”

For the first time ever she looked into

My eyes, and time stood still:

Her universe turned on an axis thin as a pin.

Then a strange and lovely tenderness touched her mouth,

A faint blush tinged her dead-white skin:

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled.

About Tatamkhulu Afrika

Novelist and prize-winning poet, Tatamkhulu Afrika (Xhosa for Grandfather Africa) was born in Egypt in 1920 and came to South Africa as a young child. He was a veteran of World War 2 and, as a member of Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of the Nation), was active in the South African freedom struggle.

His first novel, Broken Earth was published when he was seventeen (under his “Methodist name”), but it was over fifty years until his next publication, a collection of verse entitled Nine Lives.

He won numerous literary awards including the gold Molteno Award for lifetime services to South African literature, and in 1996 his works were translated into French. His autobiography, Mr Chameleon, was published posthumously in 2005.

You can read more about Tatamkhulu Afrika here: https://www.sahistory.org.za/people/ismail-tatamkhulu-afrika-joubert

The Zulu Girl by Roy Campbell

When in the sun the hot red acres smoulder,
Down where the sweating gang its labour plies,
A girl flings down her hoe, and from her shoulder
Unslings her child tormented by the flies.

She takes him to a ring of shadow pooled
By thorn-trees: purpled with the blood of ticks,
While her sharp nails, in slow caresses ruled,
Prowl through his hair with sharp electric clicks.

His sleepy mouth plugged by the heavy nipple,
Tugs like a puppy, grunting as he feeds:
Through his frail nerves her own deep languors ripple
Like a broad river sighing through its reeds.

Yet in that drowsy stream his flesh imbibes
An old unquenched unsmotherable heat –
The curbed ferocity of beaten tribes,
The sullen dignity of their defeat.

Her body looms above him like a hill
Within whose shade a village lies at rest,
Or the first cloud so terrible and still
That bears the coming harvest in its breast.

About Roy Campbell

Durban born, South African poet, Roy Campbell was considered by T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas and Edith Sitwell to have been one of the best poets of the period between the First and Second World Wars, and is recognized in South Africa today as one of the best poets the country has ever produced. Fellow South African poet Uys Krige described him as “the most poetic of poets” and believed him to be a perfect example of how the true artist could, ignoring all obstacles, dedicate his life to his art. He was a swashbuckling adventurer and a dreamer of dreams, as well as an individualist who attracted controversy. His vocal attacks on Marxism and Freudianism, popular among the British Intelligentsia, and his stance in the Spanish Civil War, along with his satire of colonial life in Natal, isolated him from many would-be supporters of his work at the time.

You can read more about Roy Campbell here: Roy Campbell (poet) – Wikipedia

What did you think of these two poems? Which one did you prefer? Let me know in the comments.