Tribute to William Soutar 1898-1943
A Perthshire Lad William Soutar
William S* showed a poetic voice
the quatrain form,his choice
he named a whigmaleerie
became a lasting legacy
Wiliam Soutar famed for his 119 American cinquains(which he labelled epigrams) also wrote whigmaleeries for children .
In dialect and lyric William’s
poetry soon found fame.
Whims and fanciful notions
these whigmaleerie were known.
Less popular yet, equally unique
verse in English, oh so terse. This
genre , American cinquain consolidated
a reputation,once again.
Grew to manhood on the river Tay,
Writing poems ,most every day;
Cinquains,epigrams, whigmaleerie-
& His diary of a dying man,left
Telling observations, for all to see.
Hanging almost angelically.
Praying for a breeze at the perfect pace.
Too soft, and it risks being exposed for being too fragile.
Too hard, and it risks being labelled too harsh and too cold.
The wind chime is singing so softly today.
It has mastered the art of veiling grief.
A bird on the blue bush tilting a beak is listening closely.
A brief reprieve from its nest of ever-hungry beaks.
Here comes that hurricane again, tangling the wood and strings.
Whisking sanity away. Strays gather in clusters of desperation,
Where children are told not to play, they rarely listen.
Then comes that prolonged lull.
Jagged thoughts gather themselves in spectacular futility.
The stillness is framed in a rugged mud,
An endless procession of pallbearers' deep gray.
Cherubs are trained to wade into hopelessness,
At the risk of getting graffitied. They always listen.
Then bumble home with wings sprayed in blood and a harsh lesson.
Yesterday everybody quietly slipped away.
Searching for a fresh melody of optimism.
Nobody fancies being swallowed up by the gray.
Nothing is salvaged from a wind chime after a hurricane
A goodbye happened before hello,
in some twisted loves, you just know.
I knew it was over before it even began,
suffocated by the calloused hands of a man.
I only saw your eyes in passing,
only one glimpse, and I knew they were worth having.
A goodbye was the very start,
the kind that ruins you in its poetic art.
I didn’t need to know your story.
I watched, noted the places you like to hang out,
you in all your glory.
I stalked for months, had all kinds of fun.
It’s a pity you didn’t when I told you to run.
I liked your bubbly charisma.
I played into it with charm.
You didn’t know all I wanted was to cause you harm.
I tricked you, said I knew your friend,
but when the lights went out, limp and alone,
you knew by the end.
I’m a psycho, a natural-born killer.
I’ve added you to my collection,
in which I’ve labelled thriller.
I said goodbye before hello.
You were pretty, a blonde,
and you didn’t even know.
He (or She) who shares the most
Shall be praised as the host of hosts
Those who share over, above and beyond
Will be sung as heroes in the song of songs
If money was slippery and runny
And not rightfully labelled the wrong of wrongs
Give honey instead of paper or coin bits
Give poo if that is all that will do
For everyone to get a clue
Let go of the green goblin that eats us alive
Empty our pockets of all government goo
That's been stuck there for centuries
Trapping our bodies, minds and souls
Like flies in invisible glue
Weed all laugh that once there was thought
Peoples with halves and have nots
Giggle at hording what everyone's got
Freed from greed when no ones in need
When codependency on money is gone
When everyone shares, everyone cares
Everyone everywhere stops
Locking their doors anymore
Ony then,
Will there be no more need
For lawyers or laws
Applauding because
Enlightenment's come to us all
Ha!
i dunno why
but have you ever come across a Somersetshire mob?
i'm talking squalls and screams in the night
sister of Satan stuff
i'm looking for people with a reputation for learning
and sobriety
will i find them?
i look through other alarms on my phone to see what they are called.
one reads, 'pretend to celebrate St. Crispian's Day'
i was intending to get in tons of balloons and pie
i saw the F1 movie and have recreated the press conference scene
in the kitchen. i am getting cheekier by the day.
scattered dust by light enabled
transmits intent in heart tabled
to lower mind which then distorts
flavour of bliss in words labelled
i'm tired of people asking me how many friends do i have
i'm always at loss for words
i truly cannot tell anymore what is my perception on truth is
at a point where i stand now, i truly can't recall
when was the last time i had an ally i could trust?
some people are good and they don't need to be labelled
while the bad ones always got themselves a tag
for me it used to be an honor to have many friends
but right now i truly feel alive
paradox my situation is
where i feel good to be as a single fish in the lake
i won't have any predators to worry about and will face natural death
i don't have someone who could befriend me and poison my brain
See me labelled by facial features, by skin
By my nation whatever it costs
As my whole life’s derived from original sin
I could easily be so much worse
That you won’t even notice me in the crowd
And subsequently I wouldn’t you
We’d be wasting our time each on different cloud
Watching life slowly passing us through
Then one day, as it usually happens at day
We come closer like never before
While our clouds dissolve in the clean sky of May
We can stay for a little bit more.
Hollow morning,
unsweetened coffee,
words with
a meaningless cord
hanging in an empty room.
Monotonous days where
hope is thinning
leading joy to depart
to create a loner
who lives in a crowd.
Running,
becoming a machine
as a reader of palms
forecasted
doomsday early.
A smile is here
hiding the rage,
not belonging
still imprinted
on every cage.
Life is hard
for a bad actor,
masks if removed,
own reflection
will be frightened.
In broad daylight
a facade is going on,
a genuine picture
if captured
must be dusk hours.
Insomniac at night
to recover fully,
some moments to cherish
after a whole day
walking like dead.
Birds chirping,
their lies
are therapy,
an owl sits in silence
labelled inauspicious.
Music is playing
with all wrong chords
one who is
blessed with ignorance
dancing still.
In oblivion
become omniscient,
to understand is
bringing a slow death
and remembered as 'a retard'.
The longer you run, the more they chase.
At least, that’s what they told me.
And I complied.
Because that’s what women like me do.
When your own heart seems to fade, you run.
You run, so the heart remembers its own existence.
You run, so the heart remembers to beat.
And I ran.
I ran until my lungs threatened to ghost me.
How ironic.
I ran until my limbs dragged on like lead in the ruins of my own angst.
I ran until my bones shook with the force of my sheer will to outrun my very own shadow.
And suddenly,
Attention.
The men piled up like bedsheets on a laundry day.
Each one treating me like a conquest for their own egos.
But I seem to have forgotten how to stop.
I run and I push.
I run and I slam doors.
I run and I’m labelled.
Untouchable.
Yet at the end of the day, all I am is untranslatable.
Unreachable.
Unattainable.
I was told the more you run, the more they chase.
When all it does is amplify your bone-rotting solitude.
The ‘angry black woman’,
Is me -
We can agree to agree,
Because u see,
I am proud to be - a black woman who is angry
When I see me, I see a fiery spirit,
A passionate girl with nothing to lose -
Except my sanity,
To be happy,
I must be -
The black woman who is angry
Everyday is a battle of strength,
And by the end of the day there is nothing left to give ,
Because to be black is to exist - not live ,
To hide your emotions -
To clench your fist -
To resist,
The urge to scream, to cause havoc
So yes i’m angry - and no i’m not ignorant,
I am just sick and tired of holding it in -
Of pleading my case,
Giving evidence,
And yet after all this -
Still be treated like a mental patient,
Labelled as the ‘angry black woman’
The stereotype -
They label as a disease -
One that takes our right to speak -
To have free speech,
So yes i’m an angry black woman -
And no,
That doesn’t make me crazy
To be an angry black woman,
Is to -
Reclaim the narrative,
Of the right to speak -
On the issues,
You claim -
To be -
Non existent,
I am an angry black woman -
Because I care about my people
“The Self transcends all, is indivisible and all-pervading. It is free from stain of attachment, immovable and all-pervading. It is without day and night and all-pervading. Why dost thou, who art the identity in all, grieve in thy heart?”
Words as symbols are not the thing,
which appears and then disappears,
whilst also failing to depict,
the source wherefrom vital force spears.
Metaphors are our sole resource,
which point out to but don’t portray,
that homogeneous consciousness,
to which egos kneel down to pray.
We, here and now, capsuled in form,
may be then labelled as God’s spark,
a statement literally true,
though it still leaves mind in the dark.
Suffice to say we’re living light,
one with oneness and bliss replete,
as awareness beyond space-time,
free from attributes yet complete.
There’s in truth nothing to attain,
for we’re he we set out to seek,
which we learn when heart’s free from stain,
dancing with all souls, cheek to cheek.
She dreamt of being a fairy,
yet she was unaware that reality would be cruel and scary.
When she stands for herself and raises her voice,
it becomes nothing but an unheard noise.
If she dares to raise an objection,
it is labelled as a disrespectful action.
She is forced to speak softly,
yet ends up losing her voice silently.
Are her dreams the problem,
or the boundaries she is forced to live in?
Bullied in School
People thought of me being a fool
My name called out not being my name
Tears often fell
Felt like a loser
Because of being labelled
My life had fear
Growing up I didn’t want anybody near
Life wasn’t easy
As life went on, I began to look at myself as a “Doer and Achiever”
Believing more into myself
Still get the criticism
Let the haters be haters
Every negative alpha letter and sentence made me stronger and stronger being better than before
Confidence for sure
Negativity I just ignore
There is no stopping me
Haters now see
I am the sun bringing warmth
Footsteps track where I am fulfilling
Today, Tomorrow and everlasting is my time to shine.
231.
My 39th Leaf
Obtained thee from branch
Broken from its trunk
Fallen on the land
From a sturdy tree
“Indian Mango” leaf!
Owned by our neighbor
Gabo family
Doministo too
I'm with our neighbors
Watching vestiges
At three-thirty five
Of dark afternoon
Just after the storm
Weaker winds blowing
Fewer rains dropping
In front of the house
Of Dudoy Etic
Other side road
On way to river
From a branch fallen
Great devastation
Brought by a typhoon
A super typhoon
Labelled “Yolanda”
Marked in history!
-11/08/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
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