Best Les Poems
I ache for an esoteric escape ~
to relearn the unwritten rhythm,
lost in the gravity
of your gossamer gaze,
where the sun
no longer dawns
as a sinister star ~
and the dust
of monsoon skies
rains soulful sonatas,
while mellifluous mists
merge with silence,
to paint
a porcelain portrait
that feels like forever ~
not merely
a picturesque prison,
but a place that houses love,
beyond uncertainties
framed in fear…
but now we meet and muse
in the realm of garnet gravels,
a dream delicately composed
in roseate reverie
where this becomes
more than a portrait,
a poem woven with patience,
when heavy is the past
that
pushes, pulls,
presses ~
while leaves sigh and
drift through skies of
autumnal elegance…
I surrender to your balmy blues
the ocean-deep devotion.
I long to devour and remain
consumed
amidst the
boulevard of divine doves
a field of freedom
until every evening
envelops our thoughts
with tender teal ~ timelessness
and soul-prints pulse
and glimmer
tracing twilight’s melodies
like silk-laced stars
spinning through
the cashmere cadence
of everlasting Eden…
A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields,
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—
bloated and weathered,
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.
Legends of wraiths wander,
replicating whispers of infected insanity.
Laughter lingers in suspect echoes,
Rippling from pasts reborn in presents: futures to be later replaced by the past.
The smell of burnt sugar crackles with the purr of buttered kerneled corn: invading the nostrils with senses whose stimuli feign belief.
A faint humming of Entry of the Gladiators creeps in loudening crescendos, adding to the cacophony deigning dormancy in the field
Fragmented timelines intersecting by the call of the Barker
Stained cotton candy melts, reconstitutes, melts once more
Saturating replicating stands with insidiously sticky omens
Ghastly sickeningly sweet mori mementos
Resurrecting the dead from preternatural slumber.
Within fractured milliseconds, the cycle of the tormented deceased rise
From the ashes of unburnt airwaves,
Rippling through screaming minutes yet frozen in the midst.
A varicosed bearded woman floats aloft grassy overgrowth
Reanimated tigers lurk and phantasmal elephants howl,
Rings round the air in gaseous hush, like cigars puffed by moustachioed men of game,
Insufflating smoke with striped suits in candied reds and white.
The air rises to the resurrected show,
Cries confused for laughter tickle cochlea of the living.
Les Algues
I have no heart
Without a mind
I stand alone
Next to my kind.
Near rocky beds
I still survive
Dormant at night
Yet much alive.
I can hide many
Might save a few
With higher reach
A better view.
I have no sight
So cannot rave
I feel the sun
I know the waves.
With current’s flow
I lose my grip
Float upward now
On foaming spit.
Shoreward bound
My fate decreed
Les algues de mer
French for seaweed. :)
There are so many sounds
That are enjoyed by so many
But the sounds i love most
Are by plectrum or penny
Lindsey Buckingham playing "Go Your Own Way"
Even Joe Perry makes "Walk This Way" say
Eric Clapton and his solo on "Cocaine"
Don Felder with "Hotel California" listening time and time again
Peter Green strumming "Man Of The World"
David Gilmour and Pink Floyd's "Time" the best i have ever heard
Jimi Hendrix with the amazing "Hey Joe"
Alex Lifeson axing "Working Man" in Toronto flow
Pete Townsend from the Who "Won't Get Fooled Again"
Neil Young and his anthem "Like A Hurricane"
George Harrison delights with "Here Comes The Sun"
Kerry Livgren from Kansas state "Carry on Wayward Son"
Tom Scholz of Boston with their "A Man I'll Never Be"
Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin as their "Whole Lotta Love" riffs free
Neal Schon on a Journey "Who's Crying Now"
Nancy Wilson Seattle's Heart "Crazy On You" wows
The sounds you read above, are just my ones of many
Whether they are played by a plectrum, or played by a penny
I did mention above, that i loved Pink Floyd's "Time"
But second to it, is Slash's "Sweet Child of Mine"
En France, les demineurs
still search the fields
removing shells,
grenades and bombs
of two World Wars
Would that we had the same
for affairs of the human heart
to defuse munitions lurking
under a landscape of civility
I’ll forgive but canna’ forget
A dangerous occupation
more than six hundred have died
removing millions of explosives
and each year farmers die
tilling their fields.
We’ve laid the mines
of icy civility
to restrict crossing
this no-man’s land
yet your smile lights a path
through this treacherous passage
to the warmth of your embrace.
En fin, les demineurs, ne travailent pas
______________________________________________________________________My poem to remember this week. I wrote it years ago on reading an piece on Les Demineurs in the newspaper.
Les Miserable
I walked and walked down a steep ravine and came across
a village has forgotten by time by a road that evaded dwellings
A track not trodden among boulders and roofs made of canes.
skinny women with empty breasts sat on the bough of trees
waiting for someone to enter their loss of love
While telling their idiot children in the wet grass to shut up
Oh, crying stones free us from the untidy domestic wilderness
where dogs are too indifferent to muster barks.
Under flat stones, the men are hiding the emptiness of the
existence too much to bear now that the vines take no berry
On this day that has no time, but the endlessness of the gone
Cabbage patch, yellow chickens looking for worms before
the children do because they are hungry too.
Late,
the morning glories rise
passionate, royal, magenta blooms trumpeting,
helloes and goodbyes;
novice neophytes falling
into lavender blush dream states
succumbing to a mellowed change in weather
cooler days awakened by pale aging sunlight
soft, restless breezes
in the trees shedding leaves;
twilight for the foliage
a lurid golden year half-light dulcet dawns,
scarlet carmine sunsets, waning,
whispering not shouting
carnelian nights humming a lullaby,
serene, euphonious,
clouded eyes struggling to remain awake
buddings small and petite,
placid emollients of day;
shaded out of scathed hunter greens
falling to lemon camboge
limed colored oranges,
harvest time citrus afterbites
commencement to vermillion bleedings
September full blood moon phasings,
in crisp kaleidoscope etchings
of a well-painted palette
sepia rusettes, auburn,
ambered melancholia disturbances;
sanguine shortened days,
arboreal sleep, brittle and dry
les Feuilles Mortes.
Mystic Rose contest of Hello September
9/17/21
In the pale sunshine of a springtime morn,
As fresh as the dawn before it was born,
Such creamy clouds, grace a deep blue sky,
After the midnight of rain has passed by.
Plum purple blooms, leave scented traces,
As butterflies appear in unlikely places,
In hues of green, white, orange and gold,
As bees hum to the drummer in the marigold!
Baby bluebirds peep in tranquil treetops,
While the caress of breezes is felt nonstop.
Plump red strawberries and mulberries glisten,
And you can hear geese honk, if you listen,
As they swim away the hours on placid pond,
Framed by emerald rushes and trees beyond.
Pearly beads are scattered along the grass,
Where countless, fragrant snowdrops mass.
In the sunny days of innumerable births,
That cause gaiety everywhere upon the earth!
Yay, the summer’s arrived, so they say
but in England, it’s here for one day;
we roast in the sun,
go rare to well-done;
spend the rest of the year in dismay.
J'ai appris que jamais, les anges ne mentent
Car tout ce qui est faux, emprisonne nos âmes
Loin d'un ciel bien trop haut, dans un destin infame
Lié au sort mauvais, que la tristesse hante
Si tes mots s'effilochent dans de fourbes vibrations
Comme un pauvre instrument, au son désaccordé
En mon corps je ressens l'absence de vérité
Et chasse sans reproche ces affabulations
Je prie pour le pardon, que la grâce divine
Libère ainsi tes chaines et apporte la lumière
qu'au fond de toi reviennent, nobles paroles sincères
Et renoue le cordon à la paix d'origine
Et souviens toi que tricher, ralentit ton destin
Les anges ne mentent pas, ils ne pourraient pas voler
Le poids du mensonge est trop lourd à porter
Et désormais ta vie est entre tes mains.
I was my hands of it all, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Je m’en lave les mains by T. Wignesan
And what could we have done in his place
Who in this century would dare to judge him
he belongs to you and you are me-myself
A tiny cogwheel
An average individual
Someone responsible neither for evil nor for good
Who merely transmits
For others to execute
I am not to blame
Even if these things are not the makings of anyone in particular
they just happen
When such things happen I’m never around
It always takes place elsewhere
It’s not my fault I’m just a soldier
They’ll tell me Yes you’re not to blame
A command is a command
I am a soldier I obey orders I‘m given
I merely pass them down the ranks
It’s not my duty to be concerned I wash my hands of it all
All this then just drains through my fingers
There are other hands to own up to all this
Replete with a hangman who’s one of them
More cowardly than Ponce-Pilate
Who at least kept saying I wield power
Who did everything thought he could really do anything
Excepting the impossible and hence did nothing
To save him
And Jesus said You wouldn’t have had this authority
if it weren’t handed down from up on high
Everyone of us is a grain out of the stock
Each is stymied by all
One’s implacable spineless There’s nothing I can do, I’m helpless
This’s the unending wail rising from humanity
He who alone agrees to bear the burden
Of all the others which none can bear alone
Is capable of the impossible
(from Piere Emmanuel’s “Les Jours de la Passion”, July 2011)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 10, 2014
Tali Karng : le Serpent du Crépuscule – Translation of W. Les Russell’s « Tali Karng : Twilight Snake » by T. Wignesan
(W.Les Russell, b. 1949 in Melbourne, joined the Royal Australian Navy – where he received training in photography – in 1965. He soon found himself at odds with the hierarchy, and so he requested and obtained an honorable discharge in 1970. He worked for the Education Department in Victoria for ten years as a photographer, and thereafter served on many levels on various aboriginal uplift bodies in Victoria and Queensland ; in the latter state, he helped to make the Aboriginal Mining Information Centre, according to Kevin Gilbert in Inside Black Australia, 1988: « …one of the largest indigenous research bodies in the world… », and says of this poem in English that it « shows a control and imagery far beyond the parameters of the majority of Australian poets to that greater universal level beyond country, beyond life. ») T. Wignesan, Paris, December 14, 2016.
Tali Karng : the serpent du crépuscule :
Dans le cratère se trouve le lac.
L’eau brun roux : peu claire profonde ;
Le lac froid : un lit des feuilles et des écorces
Déchiqueté raide le mur du cratère
Tous couverts gris vert imposants
Plantes alpines et Cendres de Montagne
Où des oiseaux délicats de plumage éclatant cabriolent
D’une branche à l’autre en chantant d’une voix douce
Jusqu’à l’arrivée subite du soir doré
Et :
Tali Karng : le serpent du crépuscule :
Est en train de chasser près des eaux du lac.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Seemed too shy-
To articulate
In flash,
She squealed
Beyond phoning:
The business between us-
Is agonizing,
Search for bona fide,
A suitable beloved-
"Pour tous les jours"
Hang around!
Do not kill the whole toy.
Regarding these words
I will answer:
“Long time ago,
I did not think of you.
Initiatory,
I disliked this affair”
Seemed too shy-
“Pour tous les jours”
I’m not the one,
Who dare to ran
After statues,
Asking or crying before –
“You are so precious”
Has been untold -
Where were you?
Falling worthlessness!
And wasting of energy
Seemed too shy -
“Pour tous les jours”
I suppose,
This is your temperament.
You do not have a heart.
Unaware of how passion
Looks like -
…
Few words
For consideration:
“I have never cared”
If you couldn’t dig up the point,
Keep knocking at my door,
I’m going to teach,
Having much time to play –
Toujours…
Holding over
What about the dead?
What about the alive?
What about the rebirth?
Too shy to talk about
***
~By M'hamed Kanour__Email: [email protected]~
Les Souvenirs de Noël – Translation of Joy Williams’s « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan
(Joy Williams, b. 1942 in Sydney. Since she was born « fair » of skin, the authorities forcibly removed her as a baby to be placed in a children’s home, and at the age of 6 to be assimilated in a « white » institution. She later studied for a B.A. at Wollongong University in New Soth Wales.
Joy’s first born, Julie-Anne Joy, was taken from her at 10 months by the Aboriginal Protection Board. She worked for an organization called : « Link-Up » in Canberra with tentacles all over the continent whose prescribed aim was to bring together parents and children thus forcibly separated by the authorities. Joy, finally, « linked-up » with her family 42 years after enforced separation. – Info culled from K. Gilbert’s Inside Black Australia,
Penguin, 1988.) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 16, 2016.
Les Souvenirs de Noël – Translation of Joy Williams’s « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan
C’est 16 heures la veille de Noël et je pense de toi.
Je m’amuse en rappelant de ce que tu as dit : Noël est pour les
enfants –
Je pleurais car je ne jamais étais un enfant.
Je vois un arbre, tout allumé des guirlandes de Noël,
J’aperçois la réflexion des lumières dans les yeux de mes enfants tandis qu’ils dansaient autour de l’arbre avec une anticipation joyeuse.
Je me demande ce qu’elle aurait pu être la vie d’un enfant.
Est-ce que mes souvenirs auraient pu être heureux au lieu de rien ?
Est-ce que mes enfants se souviendront de leur enfance ?
C’est le matin de Noël,
J’entends des cries de joie,
On m’a réveillé d’un sommeil agité et j’ai senti deux pairs de bras autour de moi,
J’éprouve le sentiment qu’on a besoin de moi.
Dieu, comme j’aime mes enfants !
J’essaye d’apprécier le Noël à travers d’eux, mais, à l’intérieur, je pleure,
Une nonne arrive avec une boîte de vivres et je me sens maladive et vidée,
Elle comprend ce que je ressens. (Mettez la boîte là, je dis.)
C’est le soir de Noël,
Je suis fatiguée.
On m’aime.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
the sun begins to melt
from flaxen to canary~
from sangria to crimson
and blends into a warm kaleidoscope
that veils the serenity
in auburn delight
my heart hails to the prelude of
Les Colombes Du that fills the twilight air
as doves of Tenere take their flight
to search the soaring symphony
of a hundred angels humming
the melody of my heart