Best Loincloth Poems
Death disrobes the body of our fancy garments,
And clothes us with more common fashion:
A mere loincloth of sky blue silk,
So that we may feel the warm passion,
Of resurrection’s gorgeous spring
And the spiritual blessings it will bring.
So sleep on calmly with Jesus,
Beneath your coverlet of blue skies,
And know that the summer garden of ease
Will be there when you arise,
Like a lovely blossom given birth
From a shriveled seed in the earth.
Part Two
To have written is to leave but a mark
nothing stands for the proud rhyming syllables
more than his acquired business acumen
a Vaishya karmic hope
Now we stand aghast before this edifying monument
and verily wonder at some man
who may have in gusting wind and blasting brine
clung to his loincloth on the scaffolding
his knotted hair thick with the chimes of the Colamandala tide
the bells from Mahabalipuram to Chidamparam tolling in his veins
his sinewy rhyming muscles pulsing to the chiselling of reliefs
in memory of Kannaki and Matavi
and the liana apsara Manimekalai
in her forbidding expunging of her caste courtesan rôle
the lethal unmaking of an infatuated prince
Tied then to the creaking wooden framework
left by Ilango Adigal's epic-making epic
his stomach heaving
the low burning wicker lamp stinging his nostrils
in the stilled small hours
his eyes hardly following the olai leaf of his beaten memory
night after sleepless night
his merchant's paunch and eyes sagging
wife and mistresses in unrequited rut
while in tryst forlorn
one thought lingering under the tree in Bodhgaya
lamenting for the disciple's offering of trichinosis
he lets the dawn creep into his ears
with the kuyil's ironically teasing call
the fingertips charred with lampblack
till loaded cartwheels grind on the gravel of his spent dreams
It is easy for us now to quibble over him
and make much of when he may have conceived his poem
for at least in so doing he comes alive
only to be killed
revived
chided
praised
drowned in words
more than he has bequeathed us
© T. Wignesan- April 7, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: Words for a lost sub-continent). Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature & Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies, 2006.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXVIII
IF you pull a long perplexed face
You could be watching SUMO in Tokyo Bay
Or reading this without a NIHONG-GUO dictionary in front of face
Rather I'd say you were the victim of WATENAGE
If you gasp at me pulling - pardon me - long dude face
Most probably you landed on your head due to ****ANAGE
Little use then pulling that long RISHIKISHI enigmatic poker face
Even if you were a 400-pound local HEBI-KYU god YOKOZUNA
Yet if you insist on pulling your long-slapped face
It's your own funeral living stabled in a SUMOBEYA
When all around GEISHA fans dream behind rice-paint face
Of what use then 30,000 YEN KENSHOKIN PRIZE nets you each day
If you can't help pulling that long-repressed face
Think you can gouge eyes out kick grab groin pull hair
Think again you had better throw salt to purify SHINTO DOHYO ring space
Or else find your MAWASHI loincloth ripped-off your shame hair rare
So if you must pull that 1500-year long SUMO face
Make certain you perform KAMI salt-throwing ceremony
First of all at TOKYO MEIJI SHRINE like all RISHIKISHIS
Before you digest 5000 to 7000 calories of fried diabetic chow each thumping day
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 3, 2019
LAS NAVES DE MEDERA (Wooden Ships)
They wanted ships. What they got
was wooden shells
not a farthing from the Crown
for these floating buckets.
Six thousand corks, hastily riveted
into the keel planking, kept them afloat.
Nina. Santa Maria. Pinta.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained said Isabella.
Ah, muchacho, would she ever cash in.
The navigater shot the course
over the main, visions of tapestry and lace
and all sorts of spices in his head.
Gold? Well--Sí, oro.
But he never dreamed.
The natives appeared naked and restless.
In scatted shades of blues and reds,
artists painted skirts on the girls,
long shirts on the old women,
loincloth on the men,
and a pearl studded gilded robe on the king.
Which Chris promptly stole.
His mistake was trying to hide it
from Isabella.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
With apologies to Albert Camus
I once was a circus strongman,
Sovereign of midway spectacles.
I wore a leopard-skin loincloth
And a lion-claw necklace.
My club was seasoned hardwood.
I proudly dragged my knuckles
Through the sawdust and straw.
I wrestled the orangutan
And boxed the kangaroo.
I tore phone books in half
With my teeth.
I became a star promotion
With elevation from sideshow freak
To a main ring attraction.
My charisma was marketed
By carnival barkers and snake oil shills.
My future in show biz seemed bright.
My manner was summertime light,
And then came the fall.
Harry West was an Aboriginal stone age hunter,
on the Kokoda trail Second World War in New Guinea in 1942...
HARRY WEST of KOKODA...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYFVC072rJk
One man from Goodooga, black,
yes a "Murray" so true ...blue.
He carried a sugar bag on his back,
filled with grenades, primed too....
He left camp wearing a loincloth new,
went native I'll relate...
Went behind the lines to a Jap H.Q.,
fed them hand grenades old mate. ...
The Japs did, the natives brutalise,
worked them hard as mules as well. ...
When a " Fuzzy " fell and couldn't rise,
hamstrung him where he fell....
{and there he died so slow}
'Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels' bore our friends,
mortally wounded down the track...
Our Goodooga boy he made amends,
with Jap carrier parties black....
He killed the Samurai swordsmen, mean,
set Jap slaves many, free to run,..
Sent them back to the hills so very green,
this fight for them he'd won...
by Don Johnson. ..
After three months of killing Japanese by stealth,
he was near to our side of the fight an fell breaking his leg.
He crawled a few mile to the Aussie lines. He developed "Scrub Typus"
and died in the Port Moresby Hospital,
Harry was now buried with his mates in the Bomana cemetry.
Harry could track and hunt with the silent stealth and homing
instinct of the true stone age hunter, there was no one better at jungle warfare.
This Aboriginal Stone Age man could move from point to point by instinct,
no need for moonlight, overcast or raining made no difference! Never lost!
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
I see them everywhere I go,
Folks who just do not seem to know,
What life is really all about,
They just go on their prescribed route.
Life to these indecisive sloth's,
May as well be wearing loincloth.
Don't question them about the news,
They spout others jargon as true.
Original thought unlikely,
Its like talking to a TV.
They give a blank look and discuss,
The high fares of the city bus.
"What about Iraq" you might ask,
He says, we should finish the task.
"But what about all the dead," we pose,
Oh, yes, that part I do oppose.
"Is America still racist?"
Oh, sure, it is an ugly cyst.
"But we have made so much progress,"
Yes, now racism is much less.
"Katrina, was it Bush's flaw?"
Sure, didn't you see what you saw?
"But doesn't the state share some blame?"
You damn right I think it’s a shame.
"What about the high price of gas?"
Price gauging from the ruling class.
"It isn't supply and demand?"
Oh, yes sure, now I understand.
"How is your job, doing all right?"
I am scaling corporate heights.
"Didn't I hear they will downsize?"
That's supposed to be a surprise.
"How are the wife and the children?"
They are all good even the twins.
"Someone said you got a divorce."
But everyone does in due course.
This man goes through life on the dull,
He has no gift to think and mull.
What he hears he thinks it is true,
He, like so many have no clue.
An ambivalent clown this man,
Everything he hears is his plan.
He is like a pale, docile weed,
From an obtuse egg and dull seed.
Raised by apes as a
feral child in the wild,
was as a young man
discovered by a rich American
anthropologist hiker who was retired,
taken back by plane
to his new homeland,
he started assimilating
by wearing regular attire,
they tutored him how to
read and write, and
after several years he
finally got to graduate,
landed a job at the local zoo,
he had to feed and pick
up after the animals
which was his job rule,
talking to the animals
like Dr. Doolittle,
he didn't mind their
smelly feces or pond like piddle,
sometimes impulsively letting
out his Tarzan bellow,
as a Simon Cowell zoo
guest was passing by,
hearing Tarzan's strong voice
he couldn't help but smile,
thought he'd be great
at the opera house,
next thing Tarzan knew
he was dressed in a tux
and singing for an audience,
becoming a singing sensation
almost overnight,
one night on stage had to
do an opera version of
his feral life,
so he swung around the stage
in his old loincloth,
when a Hollywood talent scout
sat up and took notice,
wanting Tarzan for his next movie,
so after the show became
Tarzans new boss man,
Tarzan doing all kinds of leaps,
swings and jumps from tall buildings,
he was now known as the best stuntman,
becoming so much in demand
at the zoo, opera and movies,
he tried to schedule his time
so he could cram in all three careers,
becoming rich but feeling quite tired,
lonely and miserable,
he flew back to his old Africa,
where he could feel happy, free and original,
doing what he loved and was best at,
helping all his animal friends out,
helping them to get rid of all the poachers,
his animal friends started repopulating
the jungle especially the endangered ones.
And at last Tarzan finally married someone
who was like him and loved animals
and singing and being out in the rain,
he married his sweetheart...
the one by the name of Jane!
Siddharta worked hard for the middle way to appear in silent meditation
Above him a lotus flower shone pure radiance from an indigo moon
Ebb and flow levitated cast in nothingness and droplets of wild motion
Antecedent prologues merged with moments of reflection and hindsight
Waters had risen and he sat cross legged on a fig leaf of sunken Atlantis
Ruins of the belligerent future chanted a story of unconditional forgiveness
The river swelled and delivered a choice between waterfalls and cascades
His ragged loincloth drenched in tears submerged in rapids of colourful Karma
His let go of his begging bowl for he seemed alone with himself and the World
It bobbed up and down before it joined an underworld of reclusive sorrow
Maybe rice grains would find a shallow paddy somewhere in kindness
And seed in the knowledge that the Universe holds hunger and passion
He found an ocean of love so powerful it brought him back to the Source
Of all beginnings and ends of surrender and suffering of Four Noble Truths
Empty Coke bottles plastic bags hindered Nirvana but sealed the path
And with his last worldly touch he freed an octopus onto his Eightfold Path
Praise honour and devotion resurfaced as a dolphin clinging on to a sign post
In the wilderness of destruction greed devious currents and harmony drowned
Circled around a polar bear lost on one last ice floe like a prophet of doom
The Buddha never lost hope though and offered his emaciated body to extinction
08th June 2019
jewel of Jesus
oh my God what on earth has become of you
the cross you bore and those days in the cave
torment and anguish all up in the clouds
diffusion dilution of promise and hope
you were to be the miraculous jewel in the crown
devoid of thorns that pierce our conscience
they tore the brilliance and cast it in alchemy
to thunderous applause of greed and contempt
gold myrrh and frankincense gone up in smoke
while divinity kinship humanity now burn in hell
warfare and anger instead of glorious peace
avarice material idols and rapacious destruction
hand me a loincloth point me back to the basics
guide me towards love kindness compassion
relieve me from fear and show me your beauty
you are way more than a historical artefact
Loincloth was his dress;
Truth was his address.
Nonviolence was his armor;
A warrior and a perfect charmer.
A man of progress,
And an epitome of success.
He is the ‘Father of our Nation’;
He is our Mahatma!
Note: My tributes to M. K. Gandhi on the occasion of India’s Diamond Jubilee
Independence Day Celebrations
Second Place
To Honor My Hero Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Date: 12-08-2022
a cure for the chill winter blues....jason momoa in
a loincloth
The iroko tree,
Wise in the growth
Faithful in its development -
The seer!
Sees good and evil
Brings death to those who deserve
Showers blessing on those who reckon
With Its absolute power.
Oluwere
Effigies from you are always beautiful
Glorious that death envies you
Oluwere stands above the envy of others
Oluwere
Do not strike the erring child with death, yet,
Bless generations with unending filth.
That gives joy to the swarms of bees!
Oluwere
Shall we thrive and rejoice?
Shall we drink the red milk of grief and be seen as
The quantum of solace?
The father's loincloth is gone
Torn, stolen, we know not of.
Yet, the cry of Oluwere hampers
the serenity of the forest!
With cusped hands the Buddha sits silently under a fig tree
His thoughts are flooded but drought has shriveled the fruit
He owns nothing but a ragged loincloth in absolute modesty
Scratches his dry skin and impermanence in the infinite sun
Does not set out to be a hero simply searches for a kind way
To lead by example in a world that does not seem to care
‘Look at the old man he is a hobo a beggar and petty outcast’
But deep inside he forgives and waits for complete surrender
His faith carries the burden of seeking for truth and resilience
He has carved out a begging bowl crafted from generous nature
Mind open for kind alms and the belief in eternal benevolence
He puts his belief into a few grains of rice and handful of verity
Absorbed in floating meditation and prayer he begins to rise
Levitates on credence and lets go of distractions and wealth
Other than trust and the knowledge that he is never alone
A scorpion settles on his lap and challenges the conviction
Not to hurt any sentient being however dangerous it may be
He embraces the creature for all life on earth has its place
Is he hallucinating because of thirst fueled by dehydration
Scorched existence or direct effects of self-chosen humility
Has complete outcome detachment taken a toll on his soul
What are the merits of being a lone hermit and ascetic recluse
Is he not a far Eastern solitudinarian totally out of his depth
Yet we may come to think of Jesus who also rose from the planet
Miracles happen if we work our dreams and solid convictions
I sit on a cushion of comfort in the safe surrounds of my home
Close my eyes and light flickering candles of sandalwood scent
Imagine a chanting chorus of chakras merging into one essence
Float on a canvas of hope kindness love and inescapable compassion
Relinquish irrational need for perfection and escape for a moment
Calm in certainty that there is merit in quietude and ceding control
03rd May 2020
light weight lamps outweigh surrounding darkness
float on wavy strings of lucid reason and emotion
translucent Christmas decorations are up to cheer
but ill-humoured disbelief has tripped the fuse box
remember there was a halo but just one single candle
close to the manger to minimize the risk of burning
the crowded inn sheltering hope and weary migrants
displaced marginalized and exhausted from pregnancy
Mary cast a passionate glimpse on her naked offspring
immaculate in her faith and her belief in human love
spreading like a wild fire into shadows of hardship
as the sun of politics and false religion already cast
the image of crucifixion at the cross roads of Jerusalem
and yet she nursed the baby in strong arms and mind
shepherds flocked around radiance of a guardian angel
scented spices took away the foul stench of the barn
cast away in safety of frankincense myrrh and gold
but alchemists already waited to secure a silver shilling
so heavy that it was difficult to turn the temple’s table
fixed upon the burden of dogma false shine and crusades
Joseph reminded doubters of glow and lustre to prevail
Mary took a thread from the loincloth of her baby boy
braided a bit of cotton into wicks and gave them freely
to those who knocked helplessly upon the stable door
the homeless often share more than those who can afford
but only give generous amounts of self-righteousness to
further their mercurial almost satanical inequitable quest
they fear that the little saviour undermined their wealth
some say the story is a historical myth and fabrication
with Christianity a deceiving invention to distract from
monopoly of market trading and the heavy price of shares
and bright light only resides in vaults while safe boxes are
the key to happiness and the miracle of being able to buy
one hundred chandeliers to illuminate opulent housing
but in my own heart I prefer the message of good will
07th December 2020
The Light Contest
Sponsor Regina McIntosh