The golden road of Oz, sunny beachfront dossier from the calling of the sordid mask, did the mask of Dante peer, into the crump and dough with breadcrumbs in the sunlight bog, for the death of sorrowful faces, the mask does not befog, into the intern when not Hansel, but he bet on the witch, or did Gretel from which gather, that neither pervaded but one was accursed, the morning benumbing of footfalls and sparrows.
"Hallowed be her name, who's art is Earth".
She stood sheltered, a companion
to Maple, Alder and Willow.
A busy brook flowed
in accompaniment
to the chorus of bird song
perfect in her presence.
The patron had fulfilled her will
for a magical and protected place.
A peaceful tranquility
that celebrated her coming as a completion.
As though nature knew an absence
without her.
Through the sculptor's wielding
of her chisel and hammer
she conveyed the features, the stance
that would become her persona.
Her enkindling presence illuminating
the rough studio of her origin.
Where the vision that furrowed the brow;
informed the craft and art to reveal,
hands compliant, what slept within the stone.
Distraught by a midnight's harrowing
I come to her, seeking solace
from my existential crisis.
By sliver of silver moonlight.
My hand against her chest
her chill and my warmth flow.
Until languid, I lay upon the pedestal.
A reverent supplicant
in Pre-Raphaelite pose.
The brooks rhythmic gurgle and splash
benumbing my anguish, till words surface
intuitively, of blasphemy and beauty.
A benumbing, beams forth
What but serves best
To gild, unblest
Late and lone, a dead look;
A death-wish hides.
Or what as soft, o'erspread
The snow reflects:
Tender respects.
Man, with the Earth consoled.
Heart-stilled, abides.
A silent storm is brewing within my chest
A benumbing chill sets my soul aflame
A warm welcome sets alarm bell ringing,
In the realm of hush at the dawn of dusk
do you hear the swooshing
of the waves on the sandy shore?
Do you hear the shush of the wind
as it sweeps low and hisses like
the slithering snake winding through
a graveyard in the dead of darkness?
This fear that reverberates
like the rolling thunder
with each thump of my heart—
Do you hear its deafening echoes
in the quiet of night?
A forlorn sullen moon
with its eerie silvery glow
spawns what a frightful folklore?
Beneath a disdain firmament
with its myriad peering eyes
and in this ever engulfing shadows,
Where would one find a sliver of hope?
The deception of religion
The inefficacy of prayers
The malice in man and
his galore of gods…
Why does my soul head straight
towards an all-consuming flame
like a moth from a self-imposed cocoon?
Don't ask too much or ask for much!
You'll be a nuisance if you do.
Yet, don't forget to ask anyway!
It'll be mere nonsense if you don't.
Dare to take risks, you, foolish friend!
You'll thrive way more if you do.
But avoid great risks by the way!
Nobody can stay safe if they don't.
And there you go!
On and on without respite,
coldly bombarded with do's and don'ts.
"It's that we care, ungrateful clay,"
you'll hear them sing all day long.
Shielded by benumbing praise,
they will, by all means,
enforce their self-proclaimed rights
to be the bearers of universal truth
the only ones
endowed with clear foresight
and blessed by wisdom's light
the elect of life's ironies
who must school and rule
without request
without consent
with if and can,
and cant and rant
Straying back to the dreams,
I stand here glancing at the flirting butterflies,
crooning hummingbirds,
grasslands, trees, and floral beds.
Air brimming with a fiery glance,
Kissing her beloved, the distant horizon.
The mesmeric pearls of teardrop of the earth gently sway,
with the halo of colors sprayed on her by her beloved, the sky.
Blessed I am with the lucid rejuvenation bestowed onto me by my mother nature, benumbing my senses in an anesthetic bliss,
I stand here witnessing the love-hate affair of the stream and the sky,
with untangled dreams washed clean.
The unknown begins,
the wind whispers to the dancing trees about a thousand secrets.
The rain cleanses the stained earth and makes it sacred.
The night had played its quiet music,
life is born,
man, and nature,
nature and creation bonding in the final synthesis!
© Chitra Arun
My grieving heart is powerless to quell
the rigors of life in this world that I dwell
haunted by hate for having loved too well,
I don’t know what this journey will foretell.
And now I suffer a fate worse than hell
To love passionately and dare not to tell,
While my damned demons howl and yell
these benumbing fears my voice curtail.
Pursued by spirits of darkest night may impel
before long my poor soul will be hauled to hell
that no harrowing abyss on earth can parallel
and no wizard can break this most awful spell.
Did I turn my eyes away from God that I fell
into this accursed abyss, this bottomless well?
Henceforth, with a heavy heart I bid farewell
to find a higher plane for my soul to dwell.
~Contest: Pick a Title Vol. 2 Rhyme
~Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXV
IF you pull a long face
Neither side in tug-of-war giving way
Pull in the name of the Populace
Neither side will lose face e'ven if they bray
But if you pull a long surly face
In fear your own clan might fall prey
To the Squinting-Lady with the tilted balance
Beware of saving face at the expense of the Lay
If then you would pull a long-assured face
Founding Fathers pull with me on my side today
Tomorrow might usher in a benumbing sense of daze
If you flout in the face the Law's mainstay : Egalité
If you insist on pulling a long smug face
House soul-White clean the House on the Hill guilt-grey
Might Chosen Few bow to Ol' troubled Abe's wizened gaze
Or scowl at the Capital Dome the Bill of Rights to flay
So if you must the long face pull with grace
Turn a deaf ear to those who at Wall Street pray
The streets crawl with people losing ev'ryday a bit of face
Futile efforts at making ends meet for their progeny at bay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 26, 2019
Pain
Tightened cardiac
Pressing excruciating benumbing
Confusion hospital cardiologists nurses
Trusting settling tweeting
Reassured confident
Constance
___________________________________________
June16, 2017
When night crawls upon me everyday
I seek shelter sometimes
Under the soft feathery breast of a mother bird
Who has returned to her nest, and eager
To enfold all tiredness under her wings
The night settles down
The dusty road of countryside
Gradually loses itself amidst darkness
As I look up the stars smile contentedly
The swift blow of the early spring wind
Embraces me like a long lost friend
The moon shines above philosophically
The benumbing song of crickets, and
The apparently menacing presence of the ancient tree
The me inside me suddenly comes out
And looks up at me to smile a soft soothing blessing
Una or Death, Life : 1, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Una ou la mort, la vie by T. Wignesan
Sometimes he wonders what good a poem can be
Of course in his case doubting is blasphemy
An absurd benumbing of life
In truth, what good can a poem serve
Where all the overpopulated deaf people despite noises
Make believe that they listen in to him
The only thing which matters is the heart beating against
The ear-drums and becomes the organ of hearing
The heart which spreads in a stellar network
The beat maintained in the finest capillaries
Infinitely infinitesimally
The ubiquitous unit of life : Poetry.
* According to Anne-Sophie Constant, Una ou la mort, la vie (first book in Livre de l’homme et de la femme, just as the other two books in the trilogy : Duel and L’Autre, all in twelve lines), the poems are untitled, but numbered.
(Una ou la mort, la vie, O. C. t. II, p. 733)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
When she left the room, the door slammed.
Gradually I was lulled into a slumber
I smelt of her, her favourite perfume
Her soft hands balming my forehead
The presence was electrifying
The exquisite valley, I tiptoed to the crevice
A fountain suddenly leapt up, it drenched me through and through
I heard a benumbing call; I dived into the bottomless gorge
My entirely devastated corpse mingled with the undergrowth
But I felt no pain, only dizziness
Probably someone was looking at me intently
And I felt, sure as a glass of scotch
It was you; your perfumed breath cascaded upon me
My outstretched arms tried to grab you, pull you towards my breast
The door slammed again, this time it was a gale…
She walks away.
Girlish and glorious
laughter
floats
through air
like a kite on a string
that pulls
tautly slipping through tightened fingers,
burning a little,
and slicing through
if ever left unattended,
so preciously tensioned
against the cold
benumbing
wind.
Tears begin to flow
but I do not know . . .
my heart?
or the wind?
If my heart, then am I sad
to be here on the ground
or joyful
to be watching the kite
fly?
In answer, a quivering.
A wisp.
"She will not fall or float away while I hold her thus.
She will be beautiful for me."
Wondrous.
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