Long Hier Poems
Long Hier Poems. Below are the most popular long Hier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hier poems by poem length and keyword.
It was yesterday, the illustrious Battle of Vertières
Where our Ancestors busted the gates of the cemetery
And the windows of hell to find their freedom
They fought heroically with boldness and pride
The struggle continues, the struggle must continue
Despite the gains, despite the ups and downs, and the dangers
Yesterday, the great and last Battle of Vertières took place
More than two centuries ago in the history of Humanity
Our brave and valiant Ancestors defied the impossible
The racist and criminal colonists, the pirates, the buccaneers
The bandits, the filibusters, and the odious maggots of the Earth
Skin color is the result of zones, regions, and climates
Every Human Being is equal despite the false debates
And the foolish speeches. November 18, 1803, the Battle of Vertières
Is unforgettable. It is rooted in our hearts and in our veins
It is the blood of our Ancestors that lives within certain
People, certain militants, and certain brothers and sisters
This decisive struggle, this last battle of yesteryear, is our joy
Our pride, our glory. It is a fire that will burn brightly for a long time
In our sacred tabernacle. Long live freedom! Long live time!
Live free or die like our Ancestors, our brave Parents of yesterday
Long live the wind that proudly hums the songs of yesterday
The ‘lambis’ and trumpets have not ceased to pierce our eardrums
To strengthen us and to energize the cells of our blood.
P.S. The decisive battle of Vertières took place on November 18, 1803.
This is the translation of ‘Hier, La Bataille De Vertières’ by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © November 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
It was the sign that stopped us
And then we saw the stone
Dedicated to an escapee
Who had died there alone.
We read the inscription
All the time being aware
Guards in the tower watched
Every move we made there
Halte Hier Grenze!
(Stop this is the Border)
The sign displayed
To avoid any possible disorder.
Behind the wire were the mines
Then the strip, totally bare of green,
Raked and swept twice a day
So new foot prints can be seen.
In full view of all
The observation towers
Directly in line with the stone
And commemoration flowers.
He is standing there watching us
Bins lens reflecting glare of the sun,
Slung over his shoulder
His loaded automatic gun.
Is he the one who shot the man to
Stop the attempted freedom bid;
If it wasn’t him for certain
One of his colleagues did.
Halte Hier Grenze
What was it all about
Not to stop people going in
But to stop them getting out.
Such a state of desparation
That so many did their best,
And so many failed and died
Just to live in the West.
We took the mandatory photo
And then we didn’t linger,
Just turned our backs and walked
After giving him the finger.
Ek was gevra om ietsie oor Pa te sê
Maar waar begin ek nou
Wanneer daar eintlik net een ding is wat ek nou wil doen
Om steeds my arms om Pa te vou
Maar nou is Pa weg
Na ‘n plek waar Pa tog graag wou wees
Bo by Liewe Jesus
Maar bly steeds hier by ons in gees
‘n Man met ‘n hart van goud
Wie slegs goeie dinge oor mense kon sê
‘n Bonatuurlike liefde vir ons
En wie slegs die beste vir sy kinders wou hê
Streng het ons grootgeword
Maar dit was oor Pa lief was vir ons
En alles wat ek as Pa se dogter wou hê
Was dat ek Pa se hart van trotsheid laat bons
Nou is ons Pa en Ma se maatjie weg
Ons belowe om mekaar te ondersteun
En aan die herinneringe te hou van ‘n besonderse man
Wat God slegs vir ons kon leen
‘n Man met ‘n Hart van goud
Dit is hoe ek Pa altyd sal onthou
En nou is dit tyd om totsiens te sê
Al wens ek, ek kon steeds my arms om Pa vou
*Dear PoetrySoup Members. I apologise to those of you who does not understand Afrikaans, but this poem is dedicated to a dear friend of mine who is Afrikaans. She told me a little bit about her father who recently passed on and I decided to put it together in a poem for her. I hope you guys do not mind. TS poetry was an absolute gem and translated what I wrote in my poem in his comment below. Thank you TS Poetry*
[Poet’s Note : This is an Afrikaans Poem with its English Translation : Form : I don’t know : It could be classified as Metaphysical since it voices direct communion with Divine & visions. This form is not listed on this Site ]
N.P. van Wyk Louw : foremost Afrikaans Poet, Playwright & Scholar
Sara Baartman : the San woman exhibited as a freak in 19th century Europe, labelled & ridiculed as “Hottentot Venus”. Hottentot is regarded as a highly derogatory term in South Africa, similar to calling someone an Unbeliever. Her body was later returned to her birthplace for burial, with much unholy drama (these two personalities sometimes appear to self in dream or meditation state.)
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Sondag middag en die koue wind
waai die wasgoed droeg
Ouma slaap, Oupa kyk sokker
yogurt en piesang vir poeding
N.P. van Wyk Louw en Sara Baartman
kom kuier nie vandag nie
Ek haal asem in
‘n yskoue see van Italia of Griekeland
vloei oor my skewe bene
“Waar drentel jy rond in die winter
as ek hier van jou laggie dink
terwyl my arms bewe?”
God se vir my
“Ek ALLEEN is jou Liefde”
in die stilte veg Hy vir Siel
die yskoue see draai in ‘n oomblik
en weg skuil jy op ‘n klein boot
Sy Son soen my lippies op ‘n
Winter Sondag in die middag
________________
English Translation
Sunday afternoon and a cold wind
dries washing
Grandma sleeps, Grandpa watches soccer
yogurt and banana for pudding
N.P. van Wyk Louw and Sara Baartman
visits not today
I breathe an ice cold sea from Italy or Greece
it flows over crooked legs
“Where do you wander in winter
as I think about your giggle
whilst my arms shiver ?”
God utters
“I ALONE am your Love.”
in the silence He struggles for Soul
the ice-cold sea swerves in a moment
away you skulk on a small boat
His Sun kisses my lips on a
Winter’s Sunday afternoon
Form:
I don’t like cats, really,
They scare away birds, pretty ****,
The robin, the blackbird so smart,
They think only of eating weaker than them,
That to jump the balls of innocent wool,
My garden had a sweet music yesterday,
Today it is quieter than a grave,
Cats scare away, nice birds,
They don’t see much further than their pretty nose,
Oh the caresses they expect, what false money,
Turn your back; they devour all your friends.
Je n’aime pas les chats, vraiment,
Ils font fuir les oiseaux, les jolies mésanges,
Les rouges gorges, les merles si intelligents,
Ils ne pensent qu’à manger plus faibles qu’eux,
Qu’à sauter les pelotes de laine innocentes,
Mon jardin avait hier une douce musique,
Aujourd’hui il est plus silencieux qu’une tombe,
Les chats font fuir, les gentils oiseaux,
Ils ne voient pas beaucoup plus loin que leur joli nez,
Ah les caresses qu’ils attendent, quelle fausse monnaie,
Tournez le dos, ils dévorent tous vos amis.
Yesterday, who knows where I was, lost in my thoughts.
Yesterday, a morning when you wake up in Moscow or Budapest.
Yesterday, a day when the light caresses other horizons.
Yesterday, a night when the darkness of a sky resembles yours.
Yesterday, I am already far away, my body carries my melancholy.
Yesterday is the memory of a living breath that left me.
Yesterday, I whirl in the four winds and drift away from tomorrow.
Yesterday, images build the memory of small moments.
Yesterday, awaited messages that warm our hearts.
Yesterday, sufferings that broke you and left you like an orphan.
Yesterday, a flight of swallows leaving an electric wire.
Yesterday, the warmth of your gaze lost in mine.
Yesterday, my words that play, trying to find yours again.
Yesterday, the beginning of an end, or at least a road fading away.
Yesterday, I wish you had never existed so I wouldn’t have to mourn you.
Yesterday, I beg you, stay today or become the day before yesterday.
Joel Charvillat .
Critic is a Singer
__________________________
Vocal nonsence yodeling,mumbling, laughing, growling and humming!
Voices that replace instrumnets and sung to an improvised melody. Simular to vocalese a soothing sound or a loud brassness. Incorparated into other genres a fusing compliment to the temperment of the artist to allow fans to apprecate the artistic value of collaberations. Soobing on a recording and getting paid for it.
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The show
the show
come see the show
we'll laugh and mingle
Love song to make you tinhle
and smile with your signifcate other
it might be the night
your female freind becomes your
lover
a groove to make you move
some sounds to make you dance
romantis lyquistic to make you
stop for some romance
holding hands and dancing
we all together
we as people
permition from the weather
come to the show
have a good ole time
some rendisons
some one of a kinds
come on heree have ah real goodtime
the choose is your's
the show is miine!
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Hier Encore"---performed by Riens Doux
used with permission by Madam Equipe de Putes LLC
A Sernading Collabertive Music Co.
York and Essex Connection Inc.
Yorkshire Music Firm
A Pigeon Carrier Publishing Co.
New Bruswick Music Sounds
Women of Newfoundland
and "Lined Pockets" appear
courtsey of
Shine On Music Co.
Dressed to Trill
Veiw from the Better Position
God wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkeyGod wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkey
To dazzle the curious populace
That might wonder if now its the time and place
To shed the over familiar embrace
Of a pale, stale, overripe monarchy
The media's wet dream fantasy
Filling front pages with hyper hysteria,
'Did Andrew deflower a teenager under the wisteria...?'
What will it take for everyone to see,
He's no emperor and, without clothes on
He's as naked as you and me....
(On 28 June 1914, in the Balkan town of Sarajevo,
an attempt to assassinate a royal Austrian duke
failed miserably ... or did it? Gabriel Princips, one
of the plotters, stopped for a coffee and by chance
saw the duke, sitting in a stalled car, and shot him
dead. This triggered the First World War. Here,
the cafe owner fails to grasp the significance of
what is unfolding.)
Komm hier, Nannerl. Put down that tray. Observe.
It's thus we take the skin off warmed-up milk,
just so. But where's that little fellow gone?
The one stood there. This is his coffee. Look.
The small one, dark and oval in the face,
with piercing eyes ... I know - but will he pay?
One coffee and a madeleine he had,
and looked the type to linger for an hour.
How strange! Go, look. He might be on the street.
Some twenty years, a feeble black moustache.
No, not the corner door - look out the side.
A Slav, of course a Slav! No manly Teuton
would leave by side-street exit. Go and see!
It's typical of them. I know them well.
My name's not Moritz Schiller if I lie.
They're children - so impulsive, petulant -
incapable of seeing anything through.
That's why they need us. Isn't it obvious?
We're like the English, it's our Ireland,
we're here to civilize them. At what cost?
I'd rather train a cat. They're sulky, dull,
perpetually ungrateful ... what was that?
Good God, such noise! You'd think a war was starting,
or the crack of Judgement Day. Nannerl, was gibt?
Wie ein Wirbelwind irren meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken. Würd so gern wachsen, betrachtet werden oder mich einfach zur Ruhe begeben, doch in meinem Kopf sind andere Dinge die mich bewegen.
Immerzu kreisen meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken. Die Hand, die mich von hinten umfasst, meinen Körper entlangstreicht und mich zu sich zieht, bis mein Gehirn sich keinen Ausweg mehr sieht. Mein Herz und mein Kopf sehnen sich nach Liebe und Geborgenheit, wie eine ungegossene Pflanze, die um Hilfe schreit. Die Tulpe, die sich nach nichts mehr sehnt als Zuwendung und doch wird sie als selbstverständlich angesehen und erfährt nur Schändung. Ja, so kreisen meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken und ich wünsche dich zu mir, doch du bist nicht hier. Wo ich dich doch bräucht, wie die Tulpe die Sonne um zu entfalten ihre ganze Wonne.