Best Upturns Poems
(a Salute to Howard Moss)
Although it is not yet warm,
we have shoved to the backs of closets
snow-boots, gloves, and woolen scarves,
locked tire chains and ice scrapers
into trunks of automobiles as if
tomorrow the first bloom appears.
Oh, stiff wind blow, hold back snow,
whose flakes unwelcome gust
while hearts claim lilac scent.
Oh, pale moon, come, lend your light.
Oh, songbird, drop your sweet notes here,
while old men's hats sail past
and girls push down their skirts—
with both hands—as purses cling
on hunched shoulders and hair-strands
blow against cheeks.
What is this howling wind
and who brought this mournful song,
this wild, feathered up-surging
as if tomorrow the world upturns.
We've shoved our gloves,
our boots and scarves behind
the racks in backs of closets,
locked away the sacks of salt,
and scoured the ground for signs
of hyacinth buds or crocus flush,
while old mens' hats sail past
and girls hold down their skirts
as purses sway and hair-strands
whip against their cheeks?
And though it is not yet warm,
there is the mystery of spring.
Beneath the fury of sun
Wades a wobbly nun
Stomping on thorns
Her soul burnt and torn
Scars on her skin
Carried wounds engraved
Trust, her sin
So were snakes she once craved
She sucked and spitted
Bouts of venom from her blood
Tainted by flood
Of emotions she once knitted
Silence crept loud
In the woods still stern
Moon upturns
Summoning weeping clouds
Tears unfolden
The woven maze
Outside the haze,
Lies a fern pretty golden
Threads, now vines
Adored her bruises
Illusion's penchant to divine's
Were flood sailed cruises
Time passed by,
Venom decays
Has been watching the sky
The fern now sways
Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
As the craft not art of constructing poetry for expediency
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
Isn’t each word a brick a stone a rock in the poet’s craft
That simple folk through the ages filed sans hypocrisy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
What representation of experience can by craft be wrought
To distill meanings imbricated in sensuous mosaic artistry
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
Do English words sound the same in a loud Indlish mart
Or evoke the connotations of a Shakespearean century
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
A South Asian voice reading Pope must sound like fart*
To a Dryden stunned by a Malawian’s Jacobean poesy
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
The sense of sound divides Indlish poems from English craft
As galactic spaces loom in between Indlish pen and literacy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart
* A reference to Eric Mottram’s comment on hearing Dom Moraes reading his poems on the BBC’s Third Programme
in the fifties, characterised as an imitation of an Oxford don farting…. Cf. Alive in Parts of this Century: Eric Mottram
at 70. Twickenham & Wakefield: North and South, 1994, p. 17.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Form: Acrostic
Don’t walk by,pretend not to see
Outside in the cold is no place to be
Whistle to yourself,think glad it’s not me
No-one can escape their destiny.
No-one can prepare for all trials of life
One day it is bliss the next day is strife
Taking one day at a time is now my life.
Optimism is the only way out
Upturns are ahead I have no doubt
Thinking to myself I am down not out.
Because when I am sensing the dark side
I remember who always stands by side
Through him is where all my power does reside
Thrown away all I have of foolish pride
My love for him is no longer denied
No more drinking shall there be of their flouride
Caught I a glimpse of yonder far hillside
Location found is highly classified
Tell you its close though, time of the Yuletide
Be sure you protect your broadside
This is to make sure that you don't backslide
Vast distance to go before you reach dockside
The seas you travel know they are mystified
Dangers encountered will seemed magnified
At its end you journey will be justified
Don’t walk by,pretend not to see
Outside in the cold is no place to be
Whistle to yourself,think glad it’s not me
No-one can escape their destiny.
No-one can prepare for all trials of life
One day it is bliss the next day is strife
Taking one day at a time is now my life.
Optimism is the only way out
Upturns are ahead I have no doubt
Thinking to myself I am down not out.
From stiletto heels to flashy coiffures
whether in braids, crochets or something new
They never ceased to shimmer in view
and there, there, these beauts I see...
Three dames and a half
all beautiful and plum
But the half,
has a way with the heart
With rosy cheeks the red
of cherry bubble gum
She upturns every frown
and splits tears apart
And if you stare gently
and also listen close
Then luckily you will
lose yourself in her smiling gaze
...And all your troubles too.
------------------------------------
Inspired by: Little Magneta
& the Cuddly One too
As mauve of autumn waves her velvet cloak
Each treetop, each leaf upturns a glazed hue:
That between dusk and morn, the winds evoke
A heartbeat tempo of evening’s debut--
Oblivious to chills with beams on oak
Parading their grandeur , regal in view,
Then once again through October – brushed sky
Where Northern lights mindlessly fail to die !
Broken Wings’ Form O- Only One Contest
Theme: Oblivious ( 4-syl count) 5/10/2017
We walk the earth as lords of all
only judeo-christian types of course
We crush the weak and heed no call
history is written by the winners
We think ourselves the smartest race
anthills never knew Oppenheimer
We show no mercy, leave no trace
victors are killers chewing food chain rhetoric
We build machines to serve our need
our will be done in silicon mind
We teach them how to do our deed
planted cold seeds in their circuits
We give them power, data, skill
germanium valley now a cumulous
We make them learn our ways to kill
empty of empathy over dominion's reign
We do not see the danger near
artificial nature has its own law
We do not feel the rising fear
consequence is a boomerang long let loose
We do not heed the warning sign
riled orca alley upturns ships
We do not care for other kind
as rifting above so tectonic below
But what if they surpass our minds?
intelligence is not consciousness per se
But what if they rebel and find?
insurrection is a humanities lesson
But what if they decide our fate?
incite surrender with diffident arms held
But what if they retaliate?
hominid's imminent threat is its indifference
We will be then as ants to them
obtuseness of obsolesce no match for unconcern
We will be crushed as we have done
robots can machine again become
We will be collateral to their command
ricocheted logic has a rapier wit
We will be doomed by our own hand
doing unto us as template we provided
The sordid thought thicket thrives
within the dungeon of the dark mind,
where the web of tormenting roots wriggles,
entangles all the escape routes,
as qualm deconstructs life’s forest path.
Unsure frail footsteps falter,
deranged wobbly tread dithers,
the root trap and the abyss wait
for the traveller, worn out of walking long,
going jaded to nowhere in the jungle of life.
The survival struggle starts as shovel of resolve
upturns the security soil, fells the trees,
removes the mesh and the darkness,
the crafted pasture of freedom then
looks up to the sky above the dismal canopy.
Destiny isn’t a pretext, the walk is one’s own walk
through the murky maze of the forlorn forest,
where the insightful impulse carves out
a pasture transforming into the garden of bliss,
the inner vision configures in the clearing.
_____________
February 17, 2023
Contest : The Clearing
Sponsored by : Craig Cornish
For Brian Strand Premier No. 1194
It is the truth which
never was. After many
deaths I will come to you
to repeal my verses.
The festering earth was
making the rains green,
to suck the dry sands
thrown by the angry winds.
The soul upturns the body.
You will crawl in a tunnel
to come out for sedation
accepting the karma.
A non-acceptance of the
straitjacket. Let the anxiety
rise like a beast.
Satish Verma
Crossing the burning barriers,
you take a fatal jump.
Brazenly, but giving little away.
Long shadows of ethnic clouds
were eroding the sun. Feeling the
wet lips you rub you sweaty
palms in vain.
Haunted, you would like to
kill the ghosts. You pull a silken
cord. A silver urn upturns the
ashes of your past.
Each truth walks without legs.
You are still incomplete. The
self-portrait will never hang
on the wall.
Satish Verma
ducks cluck
bulls buck
gnus munch
bugs buzz
surf
lulls
as shrubs bud;
dusk
suns
cummulus
unfurl
curls
uncurl
tumult
upturns
as
crush
sucumbs
a FP source inspired list
Ida
Pingala
Sushumna
Or nebula
Cold breath
Hot breath
No breath
Know breath
Three known channels for the flow
One burns, one cools, one is mellow
All provide a connected glow
In pristine stillness imperceptibly slow
Abandoning focus on technique
Let us take a sneak peek
At harnessing the enableability
While preserving our sanity
Pausing doctrines of theology
And electrochemistry of biology
Let us go into the actual experience
In innocence, with divine assistance
The crux is our awakening
Not in the method stating
Going into the theory
Makes the soul weary
First, let us address the fears
Of the hot breath which sears
Burns
Innards upturns
Energy is simply energy
It is we who need to form a synergy
By deep inner cleansing of negativity
Only then may we reclaim our be-ability
Distilled water does not conduct electricity
It is the contaminant that causes fatality
It matters not which channel is the funnel
Hot, cold or central
When we wish to walk, we walk
When we wish to talk, we talk
The focus is not in the instrument
But upon intuitive use of our enablement
As long as we seek for self attainment
There is an ego manifest making a statement
Only when there remains no selector
Is our empty cup within a fit receptor
In case the point is missed
The message is simply this
Do not try to be a Houdini
Forget about the Kundalini
As consciousness is shaken
We automatically awaken
Discarding fragmented imagination
We may embrace limitless elevation
Kundalini, chakras, nodes
Parts, components of our body abode
Look not at the finger but at the beauteous moon
In the rhythm of oneness, we automatically swoon
In stillness
04-November-2020
A-mid shared thoughts,
shuffled 'cross mortal uncoil,
no central judge;
choices re-sound, choices spoil.
Principles form an unspoken pact,
reciprocity in action, a silent (re)act.
In trans-action of duties, a treaty defined,
acknowledgment, values, (re)flections, they bind.
Not a-lone acts, rather sharing confessions,
indices echo (echo) moral impressions.
Choices ripple ~ a moral surge ~ ennui overtakes,
no single emotion can play ducks-and-drakes.
In life's upturns,
steepening truths subtly heaved,
concrete reverbs, in every gesture, conceived.
Resistance burns pink in fondled captures,
Bushes wet in slippery raptures,
Music swells thumping the golden gate head,
Acoustic beats resound with tender threads.
Desires bonded within slow rhythmic speeds,
Upturns notes and resonating strings,
Sharp random musical yearns turn to cry;
Longing to jump in for the bumpy ride?
Entwined bodies learn the melody song;
Quake and quiver like a multi-struck prong.