Best Burnishing 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.)
flames into flames
flesh sizzling flesh
cores consuming cores
pips crinkling into load-shedding
emotions into grains of salt
light across spacetime
heat melting
h e a t
street strength simmering
sweating scalding
sensation has no
crystal drops
rooibos tea faraway
nothing to drink except
our own fluid feuding
hot waves raging roaring
consummating
burning consumables
dissipating veins with
our own veins
burnishing flesh...black dust
past
present
f u t u r e
waves upon waves of
electric light electronic wires
our Light liquidates
iron steel
from infinity
rumbling inferno
black charcoal transmutes
into blackberries
to suck
like nipples nurturing
eradicating fleeing
fumbles
fleecing fear fast
red organs rise
in spirals of voiceless
words fathoming
wrath is
over
or perhaps to come
last few steps of
licking flames orange purple
all is feedback
flammable
surrounded by raven rain
red reducing
red oil
blood blessing blood
in a BloodMoon of vanities
smelling of
vanilla and poppies
waving in war winds
containing OverSouls
overall is overall
forms
fathering
dripping salt
in an unsung faith
unknown spaces seen as Beloved
Deep as defeat as conspicuous
As the influx of presentiment
Passion is aimless humility
Panic is native to injury
Reasoning divulging odium
Sparkles unchosen but chemical
Puritans' speechless delivery
Idles in syllables neutral to
Carpet biology tapestries
Woven in Persian but personal
Surfaced in diamonds and sodium
Burnishing flavorful scaffolding
Sauntering over the savagery
Blanketing social impurity
Witnesses! Silence the speechlessness!
Caution the ignorant eagerly!
Woe as the end of the suffering
Millions of eyes as the visual.
The sun has lifted
the weight of my day,
and sweeps gloom away,
burnishing each cloud
with bright golden rays
A dreary day,
and weary me,
finds glory in
divine display
Gold unfolds,
over the
horizon...
where I
see the
light
____________________________________________________
Inspired By Dr. Ram's Contest: "Hope" Diminished Hexaverse
1/8/15
Early winter sun; low in the sky
Warm light burnishing the yellow leaves that stubbornly cling to the birches
Silver trunks contrast with their own dark shadows
Russet browns of the larches beyond add a touch of fire
And the lattice of twigs and branches from the oaks and ashes
In harmonious concert, complete the sylvan scene
Texture is added by the gritstone crags here and there
And by the heather and grasses of the moorland foreground
A babbling brook tumbles over rocks and falls
Separating the open bleakness of the moor
From the closed impenetrability of the woodland beyond
The trees cloak the hillside, giving rise
To an amazing palette of colour
As layer upon layer of species and pattern
Weave an intricate canvas painted in unbelievable hues
Of ochre, burnt sienna, and umber
An ancient stone path
Worn deep by two centuries of feet and their untold histories
Winds its way down to the packhorse bridge
And into the woods, airy now in winter, but dense in summer
A dipper walks impossibly under the water before hopping out onto a rock
The pungent smell of mushrooms, making me hungry
Affords the excuse to dally a little longer
I rest against a dry stone wall with my lunch and flask
And bask in the human solitude
As I commune with the abundance of life that surrounds me
Shortly I will have to leave this place
For I have a few miles yet to go
The days are short now and the light will fade fast
But, although I will have to leave this place
This place will never leave me
Morning sunrise breathed light in filagree
burnishing colorful waves across the sea
It delicately wove golden threads of lace
in dawn's sky while it warmed my face
I smiled at the sea's luminous shimmers
as it moved in rhythmic dappled glimmers
The sun's brilliant shades of topaz and maize
seemed to set the sea aflame in a fiery blaze
I watched my footsteps stolen from the sand
by frothy fingers smuggled as contraband
A flock arrived; their squawks heard as a cheer
The avian's call to breakfast I could plainly hear
Seagulls sang together in a raucous symphony
as dawn in glorious beauty, revealed her litany
They kept watch for light appearing in the East
as the signal it was time for the day's first feast
It was such a wondrous morning upon the cape
as sunlight artfully painted a stunning seascape
Minimal involvement with extracurricular activity at Methacton
limited to playing Baritone Horny within the band
though marginal interest existed to maintain constancy
feigning noteworthy interest second to none
eventually Mister O'Donnell
(I remember without mental exertion - surmising that tubby name
of bandleader) synonymous with attitude ill suited,
thus loss being banned haint grand
loss, and subsequent loss did not stun,
nor disheartenment arose to forego hearing
future applauding hand, or standing ovation
and felt reprieve, relieve, when refused further sharing of any awards won
yet the greatest joy arose to even the score for decision
foisted upon me to play Baritone Horn now a choice I manned
in tandem with with late afternoon rehearsals
necessitating this boy not much bigger than the baritone horn
to make a mad dash with truckload of academic material
plus encased “mini tuba,” which constantly banged upper right thigh,
and nearly tripped me to go flailing head over heals.
Exhaustion (a welcome relief with sprinting the distance –
possibly even setting a world record) getting linkedin
(half heartedly envisioning myself whizzing
across the mountains viz tour de France
measuring a winning distance – quite an expanse
whereby giving the strong armed cyclist brandishing his lance
a run...er rather pedal for his money,
yet this flight of fancy fragile as a séance
vanished without a trace, although this trance
figurative shifted gears burnishing via sans deus sol invictus
and didst witness glory, where ignominy, humility, and disharmony
Mister McDonald (supposed namesake) from looming maestro,
whose countenance evinced
countless cartoonish, distorted expressive facial grotesqueries
earning apropos sobriquets
who jabbed the air with each illusory add vance.
When are we gonna leave this mood
You keep dreaming under the roof of imagination that you are with this person
And for how long are we gonna keep snaping in our head
The sounds alone keep making it real and steady active
We are now busy with imaginariness
When is this fiction transform to non fiction
We have the master plan and we haven’t taken a step into action and we keep wallowing.
Al Quran is the manual, a roadmap to follow
but it is not easy to see these treasures, we only saw them once and since then we ve been in imaginary.
The birds are pilot, they are nimble they go boundlessly and they are kings in the air
who create creat them if not ALLAH SWT
We are left with the option to consult the birds if they could help
We are now objects of mockery and ridicule in the eyes of birds
Because they are full of actions and we are the shyest of creature
They tagged us “Existing but inactive”
And they said
Hope you aren’t jaded of this your unsure awaiting love
We would avail and we hope your unreal burnishing love will not reverse to waning love.
Truly love is found but it must be followed Islamically
"Autumn Splendor Serenade"
Autumn drapes green trees with golden leaves array
Lacing meadows in halos of wonder
Sidewalks scintillate in colored carpeting display
Crisp chilly air infiltrates in splendor.
Burnishing pastels fascinate in exquisite imagery
Cascading leaves decend in confetti decor'
Swaying branches bask beneath amber tapestry
As Earth embraces view of Autumn's sweet rapport'.
Soft Seasonal canvas mesmerizes charmed coverlet of land
A masterpiece creation breathes, painted by God's Almighty Hand.
*For Janette Fisher's Contest..
clouds drift through halos
burnishing sienna cliffs --
shady dale cups rain
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, August 1, 2012
Good night to the smiling
moon asia land burnishing the
seascapes of you and me,
strokes of soapy filled waves
washing the shore brandishing
white sand, gleaming.
I was here before, with you and
you and you.
Twisting and scraping our way
like crustaceans lifting ourselves
parts one over the other till we no
longer were the sea but the limbs
on trees dropping seeds back through
the crusts of time.
Here by the green glades and the babbling brook
Waters cascading bright like silver foam
The breeze rustling through pages of my book
Bring memories flooding of my sweet home
Where the sun reflects on the silent pool
Waters falling on rocks like silver spray
Trees resplendent in green, shady and cool
Skies darkening, turning a sullen gray
The setting sun burnishing gold, the trees
Sending bright shafts of golden glitter sprays
Sweet blooms dancing so gaily in the breeze
Like through a prism forming rainbow rays
Skies painted in range of hues bright and bold
Violet, pink, purple, orange, red and gold.
he palms the mountains
burnishing the pointed peaks
she groans with desire
Thoughts of paradise
Swiftly diminish
Into melancholy memories…
Each gripping steadfastly
Romantic eyes of then and someday
Burnishing our hushed moments of fantasy…
Letting us elude our todays
Which initially, divine in desire
Converts into yearning soon enough…
Thoughts juggle aspect of your character
Defining your perfections
Spotlights burnishing on curves
I dare to turn my attention
As your love walks a tight rope
While balancing a gorgeous smile on the index
And the wit of charisma on the ring finger
My heart gasps to see your charm do precarious acrobatics
Till realization reminds me your beauty skin deep,
origins of the soul
You are my circus