Best Métier Poems
Law, English, business, and so on—
alas, are tiresome!
All the professors here go on
with a prime axiom.
A moldy, college campus where
knowledge and books abound,
freshmen and co-eds are clueless
and confused all around.
Mid-terms and finals I so dread
as the semester wends;
the pressure's on me to study
as my freshmen year ends.
School's oppressive this semester,
I'll see my old provost
and leave 'ere I rot and fester
to try a better post.
William & Mary's M.B.A.'s
are just worthless BS
(degrees from the home of “The Tribe,”
dross that just obsolesce).
I'll trill as “The Lithium-Laced Lyrist”—
as rhymes are my forté,
not tomes or stuffy scholastics:
for poesy's my métier!
TWO WORLDS MANIPULATED
During this stage of development, I seek élan vital.
The creative principle that provides métier and impulse.
In that, the essence of the soul pursues her life choice.
Recourse is palpable.
*****
The breeze was so relaxing that I felt like falling asleep outside.
Lying in my gazebo with the branches of my deciduous trees stretched vast and wide.
Yet my mind did not want to disengaged with the thoughts that preoccupied.
(Maybe this is because I live life in a focus in that all aspects may manifest a takeover).
But oh, immanently I know that a bottle of emotions can explode.
So I took a deep breath and said all things that are possible can be known and achieved.
In meaning, I have to accept those things that must be depleted.
As I yawn, I experienced an aura and my eyes recede into stupor and a dream.
I am walking amidst the trees.
|_______________________________|__________________________________|
Written March 2, 2016!
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XX
IF you pull a long-haughty face
Some would not your game play
What irks you most is not their voice
But runs they chalk up during volley
If you then pull this long face
With those in the same métier
Beware some might your castle raze
Out of a need to debunk the phoney
Yet if you pull that self-same long face
Know it's your own face you sadistic flay
Whoever for whatever reason takes offence
Stretches his face beyond the Milky Way
Now if you keep pulling that long-ridiculed face
Despite what others do to keep us down I'd say
Go on keep pulling that by now long irate face
There's no better lesson you could give or take Olé
So if you must pull your long-inured face
For ages whipping on slave-ship galley
Go on live in bliss with Moon-mirror face
The Sun darkens skin with un-ending ray
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 19, 2019
Proyecto de tren instantaneo entre Santiago y Puerto Montt by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan
(Homage to Nicanor PARRA, 1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the "Cervantes Prize" (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish), four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University), Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes "Anti-Poems" - a fresh
chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris, 2016.)
The Anatomy of the Instantaneous Train (plying) between Santiago and Puerto Montt
The engine of the instantaneous train
occupies the place of the destination (Pto Montt)
while the last coach
straddles the station of departure (Stgo)
This type of train affords the passenger
the advantage of arriving instantaneously at Puerto Montt
at the very moment he boards the last coach
in Santiago
The rub is in order to continue voyaging
the traveller has to keep moving with his luggage
through the train
until he gains the first coach
Once the passage has been realized
the passenger may proceed to exit
the instantaneous train
which has remained stationary
during the entire voyage.
• Observation: This type of (direct) train serves only the uni-directional journey.
Source: Poem read by Nicanor Parra as invitee to the International Poetry Festival in the Netherands in 1989 (?)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
20 February 2010
An Attempt
By: Noel N. Villarosa
I thought I will never propel on -------------------------------------- THIS
But perseverance jocundly push me to join what they called------- IS
HGarvey and Dane Ann new poetry is some ------------------------ WHAT
Meticulous and métier that never ------------------------------------- I’VE
Done before, but my mind hardly ------------------------------------ TRIED
Squeezing concepts to form what is needed ------------------------- TO
Satisfy the judge and outflank competitors on ---------------------- THIS
But I am sure everything must --------------------------------------- END
Not with a period but in a single -------------------------------------- LINE
Of congratulations to all who joined this contest of End line ------- WORD
1762 Catherine the Great:
"Moi, je serai autocrate: c'est mon métier.
Et le bon Dieu me pardonnera:
c'est son métier."
2017 Donald John Trump:
"Me, I will be an autocrat
That is my job
And God will forgive me
That is His job!"
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Manifestation of métier write
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha rolling stone dishabille poet,
who views challenge of writing analogous
to begetting an heir or heiress,
which former includes
gestation of an emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for prime time
and beak combs devious, industrious,
overconscientious (hopefully), victorious...
though, as swollen womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile Buddha baby
(unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort), the proud
pro-creator bounteous, glorious, riotous
which unexpected success inspires
brassy, ironic, steely wordsmith
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift manorial man cave
the grateful dead foo fighters quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper water nymph sprung from fen
or when the quick brown
(sneaky, leery, and fiery) fox
jumps over the lazy dog
slips into the house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
the end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take a furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation a mugwump,
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
Manifestation of métier write
finds yours truly sitting today
December 24th at 2:41 P.M. with slight
hunched over mien as edge of night
quite some hours away when height
of Santa Claus appearance bright
rosy cheeks glow insync with
Rudolph the reindeer red nose.
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha dishabille poet,
I view the challenge of writing analogous
to betting an heir or heiress
which includes gestation of an, emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for
prime time and beak comb devious
though, as swollen
womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile baby (unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort, the proud
pro-creator bounteous
which success inspires this scrivener
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift basement den
the dead quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper a water nymph sprung from a fen
or when a sneaky fiery fox
slips into the crowded house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
The end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
analogous to uglies that bump
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad
to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky trump
petting, the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation -
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit
weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
A plethora of attention
focused on twentieth anniversary
regarding terrorist attacks
upon American soil nine eleven
two thousand and one,
thus Schwenksville poet
opted for his best métier write.
While riding atop a yak
both feet went wickety wack
trudging beast of burden a throwback
to the brainchild
of John Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert
devised Electronic Numerical
Integrator and Computer
otherwise dubbed ENIAC
cumbersome invention
programing machine no easy knack
also impossible mission or fit in pocket
book versus handy to tote
laptop perfect fit inside day pack.
As an aging long haired
pencil neck geek baby boomer
who reckons himself
as schleppy (snoop doggy dog) self groomer
cannot escape scornful passersby
sneering, snickering and snorting
at me, an utter embarrassment to humanity,
who also sports sophomoric humor.
Unfair for yours truly
to saddle anonymous readers
which travails of mine
analogous overburdening
an old decrepit ass,
hence lumpenproletariat
marxist (brother) fellow,
whose insensitivity
could be interpreted as crass
subsequently aiming figurative sights
upon fresh fields,
where leaves of grass
harvested by me one
Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe
ofttimes dashes off to Lake Woebegone
to escape madding crowds who harass
him, cuz he accentuates whole foods
with plenty of fiber to avoid
experiencing lower gastrointestinal impasse
acquiring moniker windbag
courtesy humongous formed rectal mass
necessitating the expertise of Nass
(another name for Nishga -
a member of a branch
of Tsimshian people
of British Columbia inhabiting Nass
River basin and/or dialect of Tsimshian
spoken by Nishga)
homeopathic remedies outclass
those of 21st century medicine,
said indigenous people
interpret objection toward their
age old medicinal practice as sass
even consider disagreement violation,
a figurative criminal mind to trespass
and the subject in question
a veritable, (albeit harmless) wiseass.
The haunted train of Schwenksville
After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).
However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.
The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.
The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.
It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.
For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.
An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.
The Bumblebee
He grew up in a poor household, thought
sofa-beds were the norm, but his mother
an eager reader had many books that were
given and sometimes stolen, often from
those who thought books were decorations
beside a blue vase of flowers.
like many from, poor families, his mother was
A communist, at the time, the only party who
defended the working class.
This was the case until the labor party with
money (possibly dollars) and relentless
propaganda ended the communists' power
When his schooling ended after seven years
was offered a job as a trainee cobbler
refused and joined the merchant marine
The school board shook heads, they
had offered this younger laborer a solid
future, he said no!
as for religion, at bible classes in his school
were only interesting when teachers spoke
about the Old Testament, the new version
was for sizzies suitable for girls.
In Liverpool, he met a fine woman, married
her and got a loan in a back to buy a tiny home
an artless house with blank walls.
A bumblebee can live underwater for two
weeks, it took him seven years to see he
lived in a society where a worker with a small
house, vote for the Tory party, and no one
read anything but the newspapers.
He packed his suitcase, gave the house to
his wife and began a second career learning
how to become a counsellor in Norway
Hard life had taken its toll, with ill health
they gave him a sick pension, enough to
go to Portugal, where he bought a tiny cabin
and began writing poetry
He wrote and published in India several
poetry books never sold any, which didn't
bother him, he had at last found his métier