Poem | |
Every morning after breakfast I sat down to write my
allotment of erotica. One morning I typed: "There was a Hungarian
adventurer ..." I gave him many advantages: beauty,
elegance, grace, charm, the talents of an actor, knowledge of
many tongues, a genius for intrigue, a genius for extricating
himself from difficulties, and a genius for avoiding permanence
Another telephone call: "The old man is pleased. Concentrate on
the sex. Leave out the poetry."
Delta of Venus
THE TYPESET OF ANAIS
The keys almost grip these strange, erotic fingertips,
acquiescing to each thrust of lewd composition.
This tap-tapping denies any prelude, rushes conversation
towards the climax. I’ve become a dime-a-dance girl,
my lines sway, small seductions that tease anonymous.
No poetry, no mystique, his demands undermine true desire,
reducing rapture to the merely crude and I pound out lust
as mechanical as a carriage return. The ribbon emits an O
onto the page, so white, so virginal, but receptive to the
bondage of the guide. The copulation goes on all night long,
different positions, situations, locations and my typewriter
sets the rhythm, fast and hard, strokes that seem to come
from another, a faceless lover who letterpresses propriety
into submission, long before the page is, finally, released.
*Anais Nin was one of several writers during the forties who were paid a dollar per page of erotica by a mysterious 'collector.' Her writing is provocative, sumptuous and highly literary. For a photo of Anais Nin at her typewriter, please click the about this poem link, if you are able.
Written April 18, 2013
Poem | |
Inspired by the Bridal painting of the Empress Elisabeth of the 19th century Austro-Hungarian Empire -
Elegance, strength as elegance,
elegance of spirit personified as if this extraordinary elegance
was born to be, beyond the devestation of mortals,
so far outside the boundries of the base & banal ravishings
prevelant within peoples' passions and purposes,
escaping expectations of equality,
graciousness was alive within her
like a landscape loved & leavened by a monogamous moonlight,
ebony overcome by the invigoration of ivory,
realising that genuine grace is a monument
of courage confronting chaos, crystallised composure,
she being a template and temple for hopefuls,
in all my experience I have witnessed no woman more ready for power,
more savoring for sacrafice, more able to abate avarice & acrimony,
Elisabeth, the emerald of an Empire,
Mother to minions, mistress of the misery & magnificence of the multitudes,
Master of the stout & savant,
such precocious puissance of personality, regal resilience,
my imagination renders eagles delivering sustenance to her,
bees bringing heavenscent -
Poem | |
A law firm partner living on Madison Avenue
bought a farm in the country. What a strange thing to do!
Oliver Wendell Douglas and Hungarian-born wife,
would head for Hooterville to start a new life.
Oliver and Lisa moved from their high-rise penthouse,
to a ramshackle farm with a dilapidated house.
Oliver wanted to leave New York City and Times Square,
to live in the country with chores to do, and fresh air.
To be dragged from New York, to a life that is bucolic,
became disastrous to wife Lisa, and quite tragic.
However, she held her husband Oliver very dear.
In this new life, poor Lisa had to persevere.
Douglas bought this farm from a crook named Mr. Haney.
Haney kept trying something new to get more money.
Oliver deals with the absent-minded Mr. Kimball.
He has a scatterbrained farmhand named Eb, but that’s not all.
Oliver climbs a telephone pole to make a phone call.
Neighbors Fred and Doris Ziffel have a pig named Arnold.
All except Oliver knows what Arnold has told.
Our Oliver would get himself into jams constantly.
All these things combine to make a great comedy.
Not for the contest
Poem | |
My heritage is a mixture
Of backgrounds. Let's start on
My Dad's side of the family.
My Dad's mom is Irish and English.
My Dad's dad is Irish and German.
My Mom's mom is Scottish and Irish.
My Mom's dad is blood Hungarian.
So in other words,
I'm a mutt! or as others say,
Poem | |
She is not around anymore.
For six years, she played Lisa Douglas.
Eva was a funny Hungarian-born lass.
Poem | |
Pro bono bands gradually allure the crowds
Their effort is unmatched while working unique instruments
To make people understand where they came from
Let us not forget our many predecessors as they sing
About the land beyond our own
Loud speakers tantalize throughout the day
A foreign and beautiful demonstration of national pride
Adorned in gowns and bonnets of floweresque appearance
Little girls dance about in the street displaying lessons they were taught
Cute little sensations build the fantasy and wisp so many away
To a place they never knew of others and their founding roots
A new experience teaches newcomers that their world is not the only one
Where a rich culture runs flamboyant, it is a rare chance to shine
Spices in the air fill ones nose with enchanting scents from every food station
Dishes of colbasse and saur kraut put together with loving care
The dilemma of so many is because their stomachs are only so big
But good spirits will come not from a cup but from the heart
As good people try tirelessly to share themselves with others
The museum evokes a thoughtfulness for the furniture and paintings
Century old representations that the Hungarians were always clever
Sculpted pottery of undecided interpretation warm you up for the air blown glass
These people are to envy for a world outside our own
They are bountiful and harmonious and plentiful
An inspiration to make our own contribution
We should all be as complete as them
Poem | |
Like the twelfth
juror in the play
I must say I am not
For I know a recipe
I have seen the
And I do not approve
this for Kenya
I will never approve
it, and neither
Would you, dear
friend of Kenya
If you saw what I
most clearly see,
For you, too, know a
recipe for ire
transforms into dire
Of the machinations
These are myriad,
And Africa is
Just like South
For we have
forgotten the real
And think our
enemies are they who
To free Africa, for
in our minds they
A few inches of our
land for their
And yet there were
those of Africa
To rid Africa of
These we have
forgiven and moved
For ‘tis not right
that we should be
In a time-warp or
Now we have
in the hope of
With a breed that
totally ignores the
That was written
with the blood of
For them, the
Is this deformed
limb of yesterday
Not the sixty plus
years of servitude
I shudder at the
thought, I do, I do
Brother, for I know
full well the truth
It is not to be
found in this lie,
I say, it cannot be
found here, no!
We are busy
For we know not what
the truth is
And the more we
The further we get
The more we seek
The less certain we
I can see that,
brother, I can see
And so can you,
brother, if you look
If you look inward
and seek the truth
You cannot negotiate
the truth with
You cannot seek
For, strange though
From outsiders has
an outside chance of
If it undermines the
inside view, the
I see that happening
here, my brother, I
And I’m saddened,
for I wish it were
I long for a
A permanent truce, a
And this can only
come from within
Not from without,
What have we learned
from the Middle East
What have we learned
from the Congo
What have we learned
from the Iraq
What have we learned
Nothing? And so the
Learn something and
dissolve your ire
In a locally brewed
That the communities
involved can own
And claim to have-
as the only solution
The Hague process is
a poor remedy
For a supposed
conflict that did
A swift sweep of
dirt under the
Of politics, power,
By the very
Future conflicts in
the same zone, yes,
I do not claim to
know all or even
But this I do know,
we are all watching
Our kinsmen dancing
on a volcano!
And the world will
say, as it has
That this is savage
Africa at work as
Yet I know and you
know that it is not.
It took Europe over
a hundred years
To settle down, nay,
longer, much so
For when was it that
And Bismark sought
to annex France
And Adolf Hitler
thought he was God?
In the 19th century
Twenty one revolts
And twenty six full
From the Irish
Rebellion of 1803
To the Greco-Turkish
War of 1897
The twelve year
French invasion of
The War of the
and Liberal Wars
The Tithe War, the
Revolts, the Mahtra
Revolutionary War of
The sixteen year
Wars of Italian
The Schleswig Wars,
the Crimean War
The Epirus and
The Cod (not Cold)
What kind of war did
they not fight?
Is it not by the
Grace of God
That they can claim
And play football in
the same league
Poem | |
Three cousins played a “game’ of war
A map of Europe spread across the floor
No adults there to keep the score
As each of them wanted more and more
Three of four empires lay upon that map
As they played and ‘warred’ and they did clap
For them it was so much fun
The Tsar, the King and the Kaiser Hun
Their brightly painted toy soldiers there
Horses, cannon and ships to spare
Fields of green, mountains so high
And winding rivers flowing by
They chatted, laughed - each did deride
No malice here - no need to chide
“I’ll take that while you have this”
“And you can have the rest” said with a hiss
The little prince was not too happy
Didn’t like being the youngest chappy
Scattered toys with a vicious kick
“One day, you watch, your wounds you’ll lick”
But then they laughed and had some tea
(Cakes and scones stop the fighting, see)
Then the boisterous cousins resumed once more
Horses and soldiers were flung against the door
Cannon crashed and sabres slashed
Lances lunged and bayonets flashed
Horses fell amid broken carts
These small boys played in fits and starts
The clock rolled on relentlessly
Who knew then what would come to be
These boys now grown to Emperors
Played with real life and caused real wars
No longer soldiers made of lead
These soldiers breathed and fought and bled
And now the grown children fought for real
With a rancour fuelled by their ardent zeal
The call to arms was swift and sure
Decrees brought nations to their war
Men and women joined the cause
Volunteered without let or pause
On land and sea and in the air
The raw recruits signed up everywhere
Landlord, docker, farmer, daughter
Leapt like lemmings to the slaughter
Knowing not that they were pawns
In this “family” feud, so filled with scorn
Becoming airman, sailor, soldier, wren
Many would never see their land again
Their women joined as well, of course
And filled the factories, making guns and gauze
Toiled and sweated, fabricating bombs
As the cousins watched with such detached aplomb
The First World War: “War to end all wars”
Was the Emperors’ legacy to ours and yours
They took their subjects from far-flung lands
Pulled them from forest, dale and Raj and sand.
The Emperors vied each other viciously
Ego and spat sparred ominously
It was another’s war but they refused to see
The brutal costs of this calamity
War declared and fought - millions died
While these three cousins sat on their thrones and sighed
Just like the children with the map
They battled hard but now they didn’t clap
The cost of war was a heavy one
Ypres, Verdun, Mons, the Somme
Paschendale just to name a few
The blood rivers flowed and grew and grew
Four years of war and carnage
Ravaged Europe’s lands
While those three wretched cousins
Stood and wrung their hands
One Emperor imprisoned by his very own
Would soon be killed and there no more throne
Another forced to abdicate
Death in a foreign land was his fate
The third had played a different card
Had visited men and women so battle scarred
Had he foreseen the masses plight
Had he “joined’ in their fight?
Yet not even he was spared
As the masses had seen, had felt, had heard
That no more will a king decide
Their fate, the deaths, the genocide
One of those three cousins and his family
Was cruelly murdered ignominiously
After centuries the hated, despotic Tsar
Made way to the Bolshevik commissar
The second cousin haughty, proud
Was chased away by a defeated crowd
Languished in the land of dyke and dam
Helplessly watched blitzkrieg from a sure madman
The third cousin watched this sullenly
His health was racked for all to see
Perhaps he reflected and recalled the days
When as boys those three cousins had played
Republics sprung up everywhere
The spoils of war the people’s share
Though kings were replaced by presidents
Again war would follow. Again Europe rent
In an aside, as the map was shred
Europe torn apart as the Empires bled
The fourth Empire also crumbled
Started it all – now meekly humbled
The proud Hapsburgs also dethroned
Austro-Hungarian Empire creaked and groaned
Then splintered and shattered like crystal glass
As Europe fell to the common mass
Three young cousins with the lead/tin toys
Had played and warred when they were boys
What frightful shameful fact
When, as men, they again did act
When Emperors played with human lives
Unheeded the senseless sacrifice
Aided by ruthless men of state
That threw Europe to a dreadful fate
A bygone age; a noble past
Had been replaced. The die was cast
Let’s not place on them the singular blame
When politicians and tyrants did the same
Three young cousins played a game
The map of Europe, then the same
But they would live to see the end result
For throwing the world into blind tumult
Poem | |
NEW YORK-STYLE HUNGARIAN STEW
In the darkest corner of her living room,
she waits to eat. A stone’s throw away,
her ex lives with their kids, his goulash
wafting reek into her open windows.
Through the one in her master bedroom,
the man could easily catch sight of his successor
swaddled in goose-down, identical in color
to the old comforter she could see, if she cared to,
just beyond her window, on the bed where
she’d been fed, “I’ll cherish you always.”
Abutting that room, the den with surround-
sound TV, where the vulgarian had charmed
the panties off her during commercials, turning
up his volume so she could grasp every syllable
of his accented endearments, his excuses.
Adjacent, their son and daughter’s rooms
(now, with suitcases the children bring back
and forth each weekend); and down the hall,
the state-of-the art kitchen where her louse ex
still plays chef. How she’d wished he’d played
spouse with as much know-how and gusto. Oh,
how he’d cooked and cooked their goose, served it
up every chance he got, till she got good and fed
up and fled to an old flame in a brownstone
across the way — where, at this very moment, she sits
with the stench of the dish her ex is, no doubt, cooking
to death, and the essence of her Crock-pot stew
cooking up a storm, inextricably mesh.
Poem | |
you were down with it the other day
and i bit on a bit of cracked pepper
scrubbing linoleum tiles
doing my Hungarian sadhana
anger and heat mixing with
no violins play when no one
blue and red are primary colours
that sing with ruffled feathers
and spilled milk
like children with dirty faces
and scraped knees, angels with nothing
up our sleeves
passion is a trembling shell
we put to our ears
and night rolls away the stars.....
Poem | |
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirty-Two
Late afternoon. Doldrums. The waters stood still. Was She asleep?
Lady Lake then drew her petticoat up to scratch Her shins deep.
At Embryo Islet the siesta-bound birds stirred and squawked.
Did matters of Form and Faith plague only minds of men who weep?
By the spindle Mairie tower wobbled the defiant Sea Anne-Anne fleet:
Galapago Rani of Pharoah’s Independence Square feat
Set course for Pubic Isle with her staunch camera women
But the sail stood limp while Lady Lake puffed Her exhausts down feet
Undaunted she threw rustic baguette crumbs to lasso swan cob
Then to cleave becalmed waters she enticed the cob lob by lob:
Austro-Hungarian Empire looked forward to Waterloo –
Glides and jerks moored her boat on Pubic Isle to ensure her job
From the port-holes of the Préfecture’s seaside ship liner shape
Keenly-trained eyes watched her moves with great approval for her shape:
Chief of Staff thought out loud if she could pose questions for their lot
The wooden bridge to mosque meadow looked saggingly out of shape
Yet again the Commandant strove to clear his throat Writ in hands:
“O! Wise and Learned Mullah! Would’st Thou keep Faith in these here lands!
The dire day wanes fast while this Writ stays unclosed hard and fast…”
“STOP!” cried the Imam. “Maghreb calls! I must hence to avoid bandhs!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Poem | |
...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian,
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian,
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino,
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke -
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese,
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian,
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian,
?????? - Russian, ???????? - Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish,
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh,
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian,
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.
Poem | |
Meat and tomatoes
Go well with some paprika
Then you have Chili
Use potatoes and not beans
It’s Hungarian Goulash
Poem | |
We all use them,
To weigh, to measure.
But these kind are different
A musicans best friend.
From Blues scale
To Hungarian minor.
Every life changing solo used a scale,
From Rock 'N Roll to Straight Up Metal.
Dime used Blues for almost all of Pantera's songs,
And every single one was a masterpiece.
Scales can be cute and exotic like Bebop Major,
Or darker and heavier like Minor Scales.
You can change your key.
You can change your mode.
You can change your tuning.
But Scales will always sound amazing.
Poem | |
my life's collage is packed carefully
in crumpled newspaper and old towels
does love have given values?
some things -
a small, wooden, goofy-faced Vladimir;
an angelic cow, all wings and pleading eyes;
a dancing Hungarian girl;
things that seem silly to be so loved,
but these bits of who-I-am
wander with me
if you open the boxes
will the tears drown you
or will they have dried to a salty crust
my heart is in separate pieces
cushioned by hope
some assembly required
handle with care
Poem | |
RUBIK CUBISTS AND OTHER MANIACS
Those cube zombies wreck my head.
Damn that Hungarian genius
And his puzzle so ingenious;
I can never get a single side all red.
And the sudoka zealots so persist:
They try 45 then change to seven -
If it succeeds: they’re in heaven.
Their numbers form some magic list.
I see them on the train, and snort:
How can they become so engrossed?
As if it mattered in the world the most.
. . . . To my crossword I resort.
Poem | |
levels of indifference fill my brain,
and all i need is a steno note pad
and a bit more coffee.
i feel rushed now to come up with the
right phrase or clever incantation,
but why not wait for the others to
come tumbling down, the sylabols
that fill the lines of pages and phonebooks,
and for some reason we all think of
the color yellow.
now i am trying to remember the name
of that really good thai reastaurant,
but my thoughts only come across in
subtitles and seem to be in hungarian.
oh well it does not matter now that i have
run out of room on this page and my
genius has left me. he always smoked
all of my camel lights anyways.
Poem | |
Hanks of horse tail
Slipping pegs and
Memories of these tunes
I used to play as a kid
Hadn't heard them in many years
One page each or
In this book with a blue cover -
'Thirty Violin Pieces You Love To Play' -
Like hell at the time anyway
Maybe three or four I liked
I liked tunes with flavor -
Hot goulash...Hungarian zest
Arabian stuff fast with scimitars camels -
There were two serenades
One by Drdla
One by Drigo
Mischa Elman played
On a 10 inch Victor label
I would play the brittle shellac over and over
They were in the book -
'Thirty Violin Pieces You Love To Play'
Maybe four dog-eared pages
A friend sent me this CD -
'Thirty Violin Pieces You May Have Forgot'
Played by ___________
Let's just say the guy is TREMENDOUS!
Not since Elman!
No tone like this since Elman!
Not since those threadbare serenades
He plays all the tunes were in my book
I danced around the room
I love everyone
I played the disc over and over
Contained within -
All the tunes I'd skipped over
All the tunes I was too young to grasp
AND the two serenades Ah
Song of India
Salute D'Amore of Elgar
Oh how young I feel!
Oh the sound!
Oh the images!
Oh the love!
It isn't so bad
This getting old