Best Suspired Poems
The twittering of the birds singsonged by
As the mum night kissed the new spousal dawn
The daybreak entity by the beadsmen allegiance
Pour forth by the holy water along the river adorn.
Thrown by the kid, the pebble found by the street
To the river, that splashed water
Few drops dripped numbly by the curls so formed
The kid whispered to his ingenuity and smiled by his quiesce voice.
The aroma morning breeze by the garden of blossoms
Felt by the awaken passers, suspired softly by the fresh air
The late city woke up by the quotidian alarm
Tuning the frequency modulation to a baritone cohere.
Rushed along by the streets, horns hooted at the crossing
By the foot, the beggar sang for his solicitation
There by the stoplight the cop whistled to control the traffic
The politician in the ambassador with the siren went by.
Two teenagers spotted to fight on a fallacious note
And the one who passed over, enjoyed with a sarcastic tone
There a group of bunked educatees forgather with a guitar
And played a melodic line that absorbed the whole inclusion.
Lost in the city, the traveler acquainted with strangers
But when asked for his destination, he propelled to be familiar
There by the midst he heard his yell unheard by all
He rhymed his own verse through his journey sung by his own voice.
The twittering of the birds singsonged by
As the midday coerce felt sorry by the sunset jollity
The twilight entity by the soul mate hug and kiss
Enclosed by the memories with the birds nested by the eventide.
Felt by the kid, the numbness of the darkness
To the sound of beetles, that phantomed his thoughts
Few spoke with the silence as they heard the cozy tone
The kid then slumbered by the alloy felt rhythmically to his own.
A fresh aroma of the winter roses bore upon
The break of the day light, the first ray hold upon
By the droplets beaded over the floral leaf
Mulled over by the sight so mimetic
The life glazed over the mist filled by the charismatic.
An ecstatic jubilation bided by the Christmas carol
The gala affair of the sunset, the last ray hold upon
By the beloved savored over the time cajole
Relived over by the chorus so balmy
The rendezvous solemnization blended by the carmine patty.
A warm welcome of the edging resolutions blessed upon
The solemnity of Mary, the first greet hold upon
By the wishes ordained over the coming élan
Pleased over by the time so worth
The time of the year met with the springtime growth.
Anew Sun brought upon the garden, bore upon
The green of the array, the first ray hold upon
By the moving moraine over the frost melted -
Drifted over by the season so pledged
The aroma suspired over the blue air, warmth blended.
Pooled by affections over the day choired by love, relived upon
Betrothals belonged forever, the first kiss hold upon
By the destiny manana over the time so limn -
Touched by the amity so dear
The warmth over the ardor met with sweetness so fair.
They held back for the bathe in the colour so motleyed, poured upon
The meme prevailed over decades across the east, the last ray hold upon
By the field blazed over the harvests so sear
Turned over by the air so brut
The time of the year met with the season so hot.
Note: Continued from Fragrance - II
Truth, Falsehood, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Verdad, Mentira
Note: I've tried in vain to upload, since November 2, 2013, the following poem: "Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Palabras dichas en voz baja para formar una dedicatoria", so if Soupers wish to check on it, go to ZCommunications.org; OccupyPoetry.net, PoemHunter.com or PoemsAbout.com. Many thanks. T. Wignesan
(Quotation : « …sino esencia real que al tacto obliga », excerpted from Lope de Vega’s sonnet, « A un secreto muy secreto », 1634 in Bousono’s collection : Invasion de la realidad. Madrid : Espasa-Calpe, 1962. I’m not quite sure who the persona addresses : Lope de Vega, the most prolific playwright and sonneteer the world has known, some one else, the poet himself or the persona unto itself. Not that it matters, really ! T. Wignesan)
With your truth, with your falsehood, left alone,
with your incredible reality experienced,
your invented reason, your consumed
yet inexhaustible faith you raise high in the open ;
with the sadness in which you perhaps roll on
towards a haven you never felt attracted
with those enormous hopes destroyed,
the re-constructed like the sea its waves mend ;
with your dreams of love which never become
so really true like the sea suspired
with your over-charged heart which is born
dies and is re-born, resuscitates and dies, look
at the immensity of reality because there lies open
the source of all your truth and of all your falsehood.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
December susurrations mingle
in this lissome isthmus
and our wispy Vespers,
these suspired planets
gossip along misty vistas
of silvery insinuations
and hushed hints.
The fractured lisps
of elusive revelations
curl in the breeze,
a gypsy veil
between shivering lips
in the cusp
of our trysting breaths.
Ascending daystars converse
in this lexis of secrets
and draw us a scroll to Venus
with each breathless ellipsis
between whispers.
I.
I am devastated by the fire and frost
of these seasons between separation and divorce.
No vindictive act quite cures the phantom pain
that exists only in the emptiness.
II.
Dim capsules pad my senses
and brittle fruits amuse my tongue
rx inhibitions sewn into the folds
of small hours; a temporary vaccination
against the moments in life
that challenge my will to live.
III.
Wishing stars and a thick weeping moon
curl up beneath animated skin
like a thousand tumors
anticipating the feeling
of some strange
Knowing
III.
Eyes eavesdrop, Midnight disciples
bear witness to my streams
of misunderstood whispers
as if they might interpret my lexis
of suspired scrolls;
those vanishing ellipses that curl from lips
in the gestation of a moment.
III.
This restlessness; it germinates
into a blooming sub-species of fire,
aches of famine and fullness
always alternate
a layer of sun
over a layer of sin.
IV.
The consequences of containing fire
blossom in my mouth,
uncurling one petal of fire after another
until some great
demon-flower crawled from between my lips
an anonymous hunger,
that constantly folds self into self
and manipulates
the occult within
V.
I was someone with you and I will be
someone without you.
Thine was the glory -
When the sun rose one winter morning,
To love me, I relished myself and basked with my esteem,
I was abided by the greeting rays -
And I followed it, till my eyes seized me...
Thine was the glory -
I saw her at a glance and it seemed I lived the moment -
It seemed I lived a life.
Thine was the glory -
When the moon gleamed one winter evening,
To hug me, I enchanted myself and suspired the fondness,
I was maneuvered by the adorning rays -
And I winked it, till my arms hemmed in...
Thine was the glory -
I hugged her for once and it seemed I lived the moment -
It seemed I lived a life.
Thine was the glory -
When the spring got hold of time and allayed the daylight,
To verse me, I sensed myself and pleased the warmth,
I was sedated by the soulful met -
And I graced it, till the flushing time...
Thine was the glory -
I assured her for once and it seemd I lived the moment -
It seemed I lived a life.
Thine was the glory -
When the summer flamed up and brightened the liaison,
To bless me, I devoted myself and assured the consequence,
I was honored by the moral dignity -
And I adored it, till my endurance evinced the realisms...
Thine was the glory -
I valued her for once and it seemed I lived the moment -
It seemed I lived a life.
Thine was the glory -
When the sun doomed behind the roaring clouds,
To lust me, I drenched myself and coused along with the mizzle,
I was lipped by the wishful drops -
And I sheltered it, till my love stormed with the illusion...
Thine was the glory -
I endured the roarings and it seemed I was only living those moments -
As it only seemed I was living a life but not a realism.
I linger beyond
the rigid dormitories
where wise, winter diplomats
speculate over my weaknesses
and vernal rites
(as if I have no rights).
Still I can hear the arguments
staged as soliloquies
by ancient wooden tongues
and even though I bow,
a humble green sprig,
a burden on their branch,
I cannot translate the chatter
of knotted knuckles
and settling sap.
I know their eyes eavesdrop
upon my Sinai
and bear witness to my streams
of misunderstood whispers
as if they might interpret my lexis
of suspired scrolls;
those vanishing ellipses
that curl from lips and condense
into youth's defiant veil
that can’t be rent by reasoning
I’ve never experienced.
If I close my eyes will I find meaning
in this cusp of Spring,
in their incessant dialogue
of dried arms signing
strange arborous proverbs?
Redolent
moon bath
evaporates
force from my skin
Rejuvenated
closed eyes
bubbly beam suspired.
lasting beauty is the suspired, odorous spring like the winged brook..