Best Artistes Poems
[Poem read at Sekoto’s inhumation ceremony at the Neuilly-sur-Marne-93 Cemetery, near Paris. Channel 4 in London recorded the reading as they did the funeral rites in the presence of his close relatives come from afar for the nonce and based their documentary - as far as I can tell - on my lead cover article on the South African self-taught painter and musician Gérard SEKOTO, published in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. 2 (Paris), 1993. Both the article and the poem were re-published in my book on “poietics/la poïétique”, entitled: Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008, 214p. There ensued a general scramble for his canvasses at the Maison des Artistes where he was lodged in his declining years, and even the sketches he gave me for publication disappeared from my studio.]
III
Long are the years you have lain your easel down
Longer still the sun at Botshebelo burnishing your skin
In the soft autumnal retreat of your heart
You could still hear children playing in the mission station
You saw with what glee they jigged in Sophiatown
And bled for your brothers enchained in District Six
Away in the quiet slumber of a land you loved
You wrought the blazing colours of a secret rage
of man's will thriving in his limbs
of an enduring passion for hope
in the dance of stoic joyousness
in the embrace of a Mandela
Not a shaft of light escaped your hunt for
traces of your childhood
nor
were lost the spare airs that filtered through shanty-towns
Your world was a world of people
simple people
going about their chores with premeditated caution
oppressed people
endowed by need with the guile for survival
People for whom you lived
People who live on in your veins
uninterred in your carved canvasses
(Poem read by the author at Sekoto's funeral in Neuilly-sur-Marne, France)
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris - 1993. (Pub. in the Journal of Comparative Poietics , Vol. 2 & 3 (Paris), 1993 & in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.Net, 2008.)
I would like to share a tale with you
About an ongoing Spud feud
Between two potato families
And the shenanigans and antics pursued
We have the Tater Family
An extremely large family indeed
Round , robust, varied , versatile,
Availability always guaranteed
The Sweeties are the other family
Long, oval, tapered , also versatile
Orange and a little softer on the inside
Availability, sometimes quite the trial
Now, the Sweeties think the Taters common
Often heard yelling ‘You are rotund and quite frankly cheap and crass ’
Many of you are a shade of ugly unripe green
AND~
You are always getting smashed!
Well… ‘HALLO’ , responded the Taters
Have you looked in the mirror of late?
You are certainly no oil painting
AND~
Whats that weird hairy bit at the end of you mate?
The Sweeties retaliate with fervour
Well, at least, we are healthy, special and sweet
Popular, sought after and make a delicious pie
Known as POET-ATO …..a favourite with artistes!
‘Yeah right’ ….reply the Taters
Did you know we ARE known as the people’s spud?
Always available and at hand to help
AND~
To be quite frank Sweeties
When the male spuds wear their jackets….they are considered quite the Stud!’
Now, this feud may always continue
Their differences may always be their fuel
HOWEVER~
There is one thing they will always agree on
SPUDS RULE!!
Arriving home
I’m all alone
And feeling rather low
For as I open up my door
Feelings of loneliness
Permeate my soul
All around me this and that
Though I don’t take it in
But wait now
what on earth is that
Upon my ‘Welcome’ mat
A package from abroad
Sent from you
To me with love
All negativity gone
As I open up your package
My soul begins to sing a song
For inside there is love
Wrapped up inside a book
I open it so gently
As I take the longest look
At such exquisite images
Borne from your artistes eye
And as I read the words
From your poetic quill
Turning each page slowly
Gives me a wondrous thrill
This darling little book
From my newly found soul sister
Even though we’ve never met
I feel
that I
already know her
Was it from another life
Or on another planet
Did you have a different name
As angels sing
we meet again...
Written 28th February 2020
Dedicated to a special friend…
Contest Strand Choice D
Sponsor Brian Strand
3rd Place
KP: With embellishment aborted,
sidewalk and street talk wail from paper.
Tears vividly seen because cursive one's don't wipe away.
An intrinsic institution allergic to plagiarized allegiance,
we're born and bred to bleed blue from womb, and the wound.
Traits of our soul incarcerated in a pen case
presenting selfies that speak volume without an impediment.
Lingual masseuses with mischief marinating, depending on
which taste of epic we prefer.
We write to pulverize color barriers because underneath the shell
tethered laughter is majority. Lumen repair technicians
dimming differences, a cultural mend from cultured men
adjoined through their pen.
Siamese artistes with an umbilical transporting manna from our
third eye to feed the famine.
Brother of mine, break bread with your pen
RL: I too do not wish to embellish
So I place my ear upon the sidewalk of discovery
For I wish to hear the colour of your steps
Our souls are meant to breathe upon paper
The fibres of the papyrus bleed into our convoluted minds
as we give of our panicked moments
Ours is a calmed darkness
A mimicking hope
Yesterday flows over tomorrowed possibilities
as we attempt to rewrite answers to those questions never asked
Differences float above our commonality
So we choose to dive below the surface
For beneath our papered skin resides the hearts of free men
Paper converted by pen becomes flesh
The bond of brotherhood
Tethered between minds
Transported beyond societies perceived differences
For we choose to anoint our spirits in blue ink!
Thanks Keith for joining me in this creative adventure.
It is a pleasure to write with such a talented writer.
Written by: Keith Papyrus & Richard Lamoureux
September 25, 2015
She was an abstract woman in a clinical world
theoretically reasoning her notions were perfectly
discerning midst-chaotic sensibilities,
whilst her inane whimsicality kept semblances of
insanity eye-leveled twixt reconfigurable ideologies'
over-share & objectionably designated delicacies of
exothermic exposures pseudo-psychic phenomenons,
therefrom she found divinities were misaligned
with governmental expansions as an alternative to
spirituality and hypotheses of butterfly hurricane frolics,
'twas indubitably manifestations of poetically piddled
calculating escapism artistes & scoffing con-conspirators
People sing in praise of a lead performer;
And the person playing the second fiddle
Often goes unsung and unhonoured.
That is the fate of all such auxiliary artistes, say,
A guitarist strumming the chords—
To keep up the rhythm
Or, as typically in India,
The tambura player,
providing the continuous harmonic drone,
Which no electronic substitute
Can possibly offer—
Not to the entire satisfaction of the audience,
As it would be lacking in timbre and temper.
Yet, comparatively speaking,
There may not be much money in it.
Percussion artistes, on the drums,
The Mrudangam or Tabala,
Are all worse off,
Though they often perform multiple tasks.
Now striking, for instance, a cymbal,
Now a triangle or a xylaphone.
Even the famous Sivamani has got to do it.
They all, however, go about their tasks on the stage
With as much zest as the lead performer—
Yet a Sivamani or a Zakir Hussein
Hitting the headlines, is very rare.
Their presence is hardly noticed,
Though their absence may surely be felt.
Their role is comparable
To that of the squirrel—in the Ramayana,
Which helped Rama,
In its own humble way,
To put up the bridge
(preparatory to his encounter with Ravana)
Across the Palk Strait to Sri Lanka,
And yet did its best.
Such artistes do exemplify team spirit.
They also serve who stand (or sit)
On the stage and do auxiliary work!
***
I have been blessed to come across many inspiring women in my life. From the women in my family and friends to the women in my office and my students. And the women who are my colleagues, fellow writers, and artistes!
This poem of mine titled "You are Fire" is dedicated to all the Inspiring girls and women in our world:
"You are Fire!"
Don’t believe these mere mortals.
They want to put you on a pedestal
and sing paeans to you;
later they would burn you
in the altar of that same fire!
Stand away and stand alone!
You are limitless!
But these mortals can only limit your sky!
You are the Universe!
But they will only give you a little space!
Break free! It’s a trap!
They want to cage you!
Because, they are afraid of your real power!
You are a woman.
You are the fire!
You are all conquering.
You are all powerful!
You are Supreme!
You were not born to be a mere beauty queen!!
- Avijeet Das
Circus Clown
Roll up! Roll up!
The circus is in town,
"Damn the weird and wonderful,
we've come to see the clown".
First, ladies and gentlemen
An amazing double-act to see,
Two fat ladies codgitating
Psychedelic Imagery.
Bearded children flying,
On a razor sharp trapeze,
Just an awesome spectacle,
As screams can only please.
For your delictation
Escape artistes tied tight,
Immersed in boiling liquid,
Horrors to delight.
Unicyclists stacked
Maybe seventeen tall,
The crowds secretly wishing
Chrome and flesh would fall.
Screams and gasps levitate
Stilted jugglers on high-wire,
Kaleidoscopic wizardry
As they breathe out rainbow fire.
Feast your eyes on the impossible,
A conjurer with no sleeves,
The audience vanishes
And still no-one believes.
A menagerie in formation,
Performing whips crack loud,
Tumbling through rings of fire,
To the delight of the beying crowd.
Midgets packed in suitcases,
Wrapped in chains and locks,
Boing! burst on laughing springs
Like a hundred Jacks in a box.
Acrobatic mystics,
Tiddly-um-tum-tum the band,
Narrow minds appreciate
The greatest show in the land.
A hush befalls the bigtop,
Then drumrolls, the shouts of more,
The spectacle isn't over;
"This is what we've been waiting for!"
Into the ring Mr. Ridicule,
The funniest man you'll see,
Comedy and tragedy,
How sad.......they think he's me.
His painted smile's a grimace,
The humiliation is cruel,
The taunts he wears with gratitude
For always being the fool.
Children sit in the audience
Laughing at what they fear most
Dressed in their Sunday best,
Their faces white as a ghost.
Applause, applause, applause
How hilarious his disguise,
To all the world the joker,
Inside........his heart has died.
Slapstick and squirty flowers
Are all just pies in the face,
He exits in a puff of smoke
Yet leaves no worldly trace.
The show is winding down,
Soon to be leaving town,
Memories of extravaganza
But not for the circus clown.
The flattened, browning grass
Where the big-top stood so proud,
The tombstone of a broken man,
Safe from the madding crowd.
Our world is such a ludicrous stage
artistes perform a pantomime
For blind folks comfortably seated
Anxious to to have a good time
Written on 27/08/2014
for Dr Ram Mehta's contest, Chastuska Me .
POETS ARE POOR
Omawumi birthed venom yesterday
She won't marry me again because
I am a poet, she said poets are poor
Is my pen not worthy to buy her make up?
If poetry gives no money I will still be one.
When the arrow of folly is carved
Wisdom back off to the gallaxy of stars
Poetry can't be broken easily like sticks
Poets live beyond the rivers of warlords
Poverty is not in the secret of lexicon of poets.
Mother sent me out of the house
Because I told her I want to be a poet,
She cursed my generation to come
Then wrote a note to my future never
to favour me in my desperate journey.
When the eyes of stupidity is begotten,
When the mouth stand taller than the nose,
When the scent of a madman becomes pleasant,
Check the nose that picks the aroma well
Poets are the million airplanes in the sky.
"Poets are poor" my teacher screamed at me
"Can't you be a doctor or lawyer than a poet?
You will sing without song in your mouth soon,
There won't be bread on your table to eat
And you will measure yam before you eat it"
Let the perceptive of a saint be kept,
Musical artistes are not idols to worship
I can also be praised in my own corner
Please your eyes with your sinful thought
Poets are the lust in the eyes of the saints.
"How many houses do Wole Soyinka have?
How much does Chinua Achebe have?
You will just die and perish without worth,
Nothing but a bitter tears and sorrowful blood"
My sister barked at me this morning!
It is not my tale to tell of a house and money!
Not my business to know those in their covens
All fingers are not the same as all men are not
My tomorrow have been written favourably,
I only water it through the idea of the gods.
"Go get a life, poets are sick with words!
Poets are poor! Poetry is no treasure to keep
Go and join Ekene in his business at Onitsha
That would keep bread on your table not poetry"
Father buttered my ears last breeding night.
What is my business with business
Poetry will keep food on my table soon
Poor poets are not my cup of tea to drink
Everyone have a different mindset and vision
Soon, poetry will be commercialized and we earn
Much more than Dangote and Mike Adenuga.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
They ply themselves to sculpting,
designer gowns, Delmonicos,
those crafty artistes, tasting, trimming.
Excesses to delight the senses,
silks and satins, sauces bearnaise
distinguished by their excellence.
Haute couture or haute cuisine,
they'd grace a page in any
food or fashion magazine!
Dreams
Are likened to streams
They are quiet
But well balanced in diet
Very trickish
And slippery
They come and go with ease
Raise your hopes as they please
And leave your head full of wishes
Unending wishes and a times very selfish.
Dreams
Are like films
But mostly you are the actor
With an invisible director
Dreams
They move in speed
And just like ships
They take you from this land
Across to another land
In a matter of seconds
Yet it keeps all the records
In your head
So that you don’t forget
Dreams
Are like airplanes
The fastest transport means
Its pilot is the human spirit
Which takes you places before you know it
Dreams
Can be artistes a times
They present you in different styles
Make duplicates of you at the same time
In different sizes and places
Dreams
Can be deceitful
And also truthful
They can be the most mysterious producers
But they are ways God also communicates with us
They are also means by which evil missions are achieved
We should beware of this fellow called ‘dreams’.
__Your Name__
In the verdant macrocosm of summertide
Leaves on the merry boughs palpitate hearing your golden name.
The unremetting gush of Nyera-Ama river
Hasten in glee resonating thine name to the Southron flat.
Upon the crest of serene ether
Comely nymphs and angels dance in jolly bounce with thine sweet name.
The genial breeze sigh and rustle your name to the summer world,
Hearken to the birds anthem singing in aria,
It's in the crystal blue sky thine name is well abreast.
The showering from the above firmament,
Splatter your name and send down to the subterranean .
The novel flowers in the beautiful lawn
Bear your charms and waves in revelry onto your name.
My hearts beat its drum to sing along your name,
My hearts race fast to catch your name and walk alongside.
It's in poetry and metrical that poet and minstrel writes,
Bleeding thier bliss and grief in blood in your name.
The great artistes plays its fiddles resembling to your sonorous name.
Limelighted is this entire space
Celebrated and glorified by thine name
Now mefind,its thy name,waking me every auroras
Finding a reason to live my life
It's thou,and thy name
I'm breathing and still a inherent man for thee.
Thank you.
Dawa Zangpo.
I must say you are one of those African
artistes that drive my soul to the skies
and show me what the world looks like
with the lens of legacies.
You drown my soul into the depths
of dreams and shows me the reality
of radiance in the dark.
You make my soul swirl in the
expanse of eulogistic euphoria.
I doff my heart for the cultural
colors of creativity that you lavish on
your luminous lyrics... Pass the Calabash
You make the wicked bow at the wildness
of your words and swords.
You make the skies
skew to the aura of African
art as you croon of Cowries,
Beads and Nuts.
Once again, I droll to the
ages-long Yoruba yearnings.
I yawn while singing ''Owuro Lojo''.
The spirit of our Fathers spruce up the
space as you sing 'Mo n lo jejeje'.
The moon mime the melodies
of our mother tongue and the fairest flowers flutter their
fragrance as they hear the sounds of silence.
I hear the Spirit's
speak in emollient echoes as
you sing ''Oro aye ma le''... I see
love lurking in longing lands as
your voice vibrates in... ''Ara e ba migboro kan''.
I see the white waters whirl in the winds
as they hear 'Jangbalajugbu'.
The African adrenalin
awash the air as you sing
'Seven Lives'.
Please keep the seven
spirits speaking, sparkling and
sparking, knowing that
they are the fuel of our
unquenchable fire of faith.
The words in quotes are titles of some Beatiful Nubia's songs
Dedicated to Beautiful Nubia.( Segun Akinlolu)
Who says that birds of different feathers can't live together?
God created different feathers for man to admire and understand that,
Similar feathers live in similar habitats,
They feed, fly and passionately protect each other.
Boulders from high, dry territories break down with time,
Roll downhill to reach distant resting places,
The gushing, foaming brooks and rivulets carry them along,
Sometimes pushing them, and sometimes letting them be when they are tired.
In this sojourn they smoothen their rough, crude exteriors,
To ready them before they reach the destination of their choice.
Their inviting looks in the doorways of the shallow babbling waters now,
Attracts the breeds of Michael Angelo's with their searching eyes.
They embroider red-green birds of space on soft angular stones,
The blue and lilac bewildered, round-eyed owlets perch quietly alongwith,
The crimson, yellow coloured netty-winged butterflies of the earth on oval seats,
While the rounded stones are like sequined multi-coloured catalysts under the sea.
Earth, space and water are united by the souls of these creative artistes.
With deft fingers and palette rainbow paints in their studios,
Nature is re-created on mandalas in all its delightful magnificence,
Which God Himself was not empowered with.
January 19, 2016
Contest:Theme#7 Colours
Sponsor: Skat A
Reference to artists like Sehnaz Bac who paint beautiful mandalas.