African Concerto
Door Frances Reynolds
MMatL: Gluren mag nu even bij Middenstreek 7A, Schiermonnikoog
Eerder zag je dit houten bord aan de Weibuorren in Ureterp
Listen to the rhythm of my country – if you will.
An unusual composition, and yet – it’s music still.
The melody of morning light, the sunrise on the sea,
The fish eagle in flight over the thorn’d acacia trees.
The majesty of mountain ranges cross’d from east to west,
The dolce sound of gentle rain with which we’re often blessed.
The solitude of desert dunes, in vast expansive space,
The glory of the golden sands that shift with easy grace.
The ochre fields of oats and wheat that rustle in the breeze,
The vineyards in the valleys, and the fruit from nurtured trees.
The vast variety of wildlife in our lands and parks,
The generous sun that lights the day, from dawn until the dark.
The benediction of the Southern Cross to guide our way,
The harmony of moon and stars to lead us back to day.
The syncopation comes in with the cities and the towns;
The rhythm interrupted with the off-beat township sounds.
Hooters, cars and voices, and a thumping taxi bass,
With energy and vibrancy, dynamics changing pace.
And so the melody adjusts, just as it always has
The musical arrangement changes; classical to jazz.
The tempo of the people’s hearts, the pulsing, steady beat
Of rhythm caught in clapping hands, and dancing, stamping feet.
Each one a different instrument, but each one has a place,
With different pitch and timbre, different gender, colour, race.
But here and there the meter’s wrong, the music’s out of time.
Discordant notes take hold, with theft, corruption, violence, crime.
From conflict to cacophony, the melody misplaced,
Our land exploited, broken down, integrity disgraced.
We look round in bewilderment, what happened to the piece?
We hear the sounds of guns and sirens, riots and police.
What happened to our great concerto, where’s the music gone?
We strain our ears to listen for a remnant of our song…
And then we hear, pianissimo, the tune is soft but there,
The pennywhistle sound of hope comes lightly through the air.
It calls, ‘Pick up your instrument, and sit down in your seat,
Forget about your differences and listen for the beat.’
It joins us and inspires us, there’s still a piece to play
The South African symphony has not yet gone away.
Frances Reynolds
Frances Reynolds volgde haar opleiding aan de Scottburgh High School, Pietermaritzburg FET College, Edgewood College of Education en Unisa. Ze was 28 jaar docent totdat ze besloot een carrière in het schrijven na te streven. Reynolds schreef lesboeken en ondersteunend materiaal voor docenten voor uitgeverij Macmillan en voor Shuter and Shooter. Voor Shuter and Shooter werkte Reynolds samen met een andere auteur om twee complete leesseries te publiceren: Duzi Bugs Phonic Books en Duzi Bugs Sight Word Books, in totaal meer dan 250 titels. Ze heeft ook andere gedichten geschreven en ondersteunend materiaal voor docenten.
Frances Reynolds is zeer betrokken bij de gemeenschap en het milieu in haar woonplaats Umkomaas, Zuid-Afrika. In haar vrije tijd fietst ze graag, schildert ze en brengt ze tijd door met haar twee katten uit het asiel.