Long Ascent Poems
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We have a tendency to focus on our flaws, despite it being what makes us human; what we despise is what one desires, and what we desire is what someone despises.
I felt this way for years; I still do- the perpetuous feeling that I’m horrendous.
When I look in my mirror, I don’t see my full lips, my long lashes, or my hourglass; I see my short legs, protruding stomach, and my eyebags.
Yet people with those flaws are beautiful- so why am I not?
The answer is that I am; I am beautiful, I am worthy, and I’m not horrendous- I simply haven’t been able to process my worth yet.
It seems that each passing year, I reflect on myself, making those negative remarks, rendering myself as unattractive.
Though, next year, I’ll look back on myself and realize how gorgeous I truly was; though it’s not that simple to prevent those negative feelings from pursuing.
Does beauty even exist, though?
It’s repeatedly changed over time, and it’s quite subjective, which has caused me to believe that true beauty doesn’t exist; it’s simply a perception.
I shouldn’t waste my time trying to ease the perceptions of others; I should follow my own, because short legs, protruding stomachs, and eyebags are beautiful; they’re only viewed in a negative way because society itself is ugly.
If I abide by every standard of others, I’ll only feel regret, for my happiness shall pulverize.
If I create myself to be someone who is healthy and who I love, my happiness shall thrive.
Though these insecurities will persist, even with the most attractive individuals- they’ll always haunt you, whether or not you believe in yourself.
So I dissected myself.
…
Carving every inch of me until my insides are out; but when I do so, my organs look the same as everyone else’s.
Bathing in perplexion until I realized; we’re all the same on the inside- and as I try to stuff my organs back inside of me, I remember what people say-
See, I’ve been told before, just like anyone else, that I’m ugly.
People take advantage of others' sensitivity in order to ease their insecurities; but they’re morons who don’t know what they’re talking about.
They try ridding of their “flaws” by projecting it on others, though those rigid thoughts will always remain inside.
But truth be told, we all have the same interior- and..
You’ll truly be happy if you stop caring about the perceptions of others.
They had measured on close counts,
Before they began his dismount,
All flowers and scents were left behind,
It was only mud that came to mind,
He was a log of wood that had no use,
They were about to consign him as refuse,
They had measured on close counts,
And now had finished his dismount,
They all glumly looked at the innards of earth,
Dug apart so as to be his home and hearth,
They lowered him with care,
Some cried and other shed tears,
Such care they had never shown,
When he was alive full blown,
They left him but he could not,
In years that followed he thought,
And all thoughts were about and their's,
But he lay still there,
Not able to do much,
While lower insects ate him as such,
Twenty yards under the surface,
The earth weighed on him like a mace,
He had volumes to carry,
Every moment without delay or tarry,
In peace he had the quiet,
Under the forceful mud of his burial site,
He was largely unattended,
Only heard anniversary footsteps,
When his thought subject came tending,
There was lot of din,
As one day woke abruptly in,
He could hear the rattling and banging of hammer,
His peace was disturbed and began to stammer,
It was furious and fast,
He presumed it could not be just his nest,
But also his neighbors from first to last,
It was familiar yes very much so,
All the sound and racket on the go,
It was regular and incessant,
As if it was rain rampant,
Yes, clouds up there from above,
Were pouring over his grave,
They sounded angry and irate,
And were determined to drown all gates,
He felt secure under mud,
And there suddenly was a seeping thud,
It was really bad and water had come in tones,
His grave was all definitely drowned,
Now the water had bossed over the earth,
Pressing it hard for the inner most berth,
It was invading the twenty yards,
And approaching him fast,
And he thought will the dead also meet the flood,
The seeping thud was on the first drop,
That fell on his stomach,
He churned as eating insects scurried,
Soon train followed thud after thud,
And then it was a volley of scuds,
His cavity was being filled,
And bones getting viscid and humid,
A coolness spread through rotten carrion,
And went on to turn into a bath for the skeleton,
It bathed him till it was just soaking,
Was it he who had ascended to heaven,
Or the heavens came pouring down to meet him even.
the waning moonlight thinly enveloped
the dusky canvas obscurely sprawling
across the way from the window I looked,
I knew a park was there with slides and swing
but for the moment dark revealed nothing,
for the moment I didn’t care, either
because in darkness I felt even darker;
I was lying in bed embraced by regret
of decisions of love and time wasted,
spooning the layered sheets of doubt and fret
all thawed out from my heart into my head;
The memories of hurtful comments said
by and to me were chastising voices
of ghostly choices purposed to depress;
As dusk became the night I became lost
in whimsically strewn wishes and pleas
to gods and stars and genies alike, crossed
as eyes crying for mother drowned in seas,
I spoke to nobody but begged for keys
to unlock another time, another place
to start all over again with new space,
To unseen gods I had long since quit on
I prayed, bargained even, another chance
and I’d do everything right this season
- A jobless man needing a pay advance,
But for thirty three years nary a glance
had alpha or omega set on me
and this night I expected no divine decree;
several hours elapsed as I collapsed
in smoldering thoughts of suicide fanned,
- I had outlasted night’s concealing grasp,
and as the morning sun began its planned
ascent, I gave into Hades’ command
through my tenth floor window whispered to me
of hellish suggestions to jump and flee;
on ledge I stood and looked across the way
for one last glimpse of earth and pastel sky,
- a small souvenir of my final day,
My eyes settled on last night’s park from high
above, and that’s when I saw God’s reply,
- an unspoken answer for eyes turned blind,
His deafening promise to all mankind;
by his heavenly brushes came colors
where none had been, transforming lonely space
into one of vibrance and life renewed,
- and it was a different space,
I watched as birds celebrated morning
with songs of praise and thankfulness,
- and I felt a quick waning emptiness,
I heard the children below lining up
for the school bus all on time and ready
to live and learn in this new day granted,
- and I felt like I knew nothing at all;
but then I knew everything all at once,
and I stepped off the ledge ready to live,
ready to embrace
ready to seize life found…
in another time.
As the gatekeeper of both time and space,
surfing the bardo that lies in between
aether and form, wherefrom radiates grace,
existence reveals its throbbing bliss sheen.
Singular Self has an urge to create
a domain where ascent follows descent,
that by piercing the veil, soul shapes its fate,
requiring simply, to grant love consent.
This choiceless choice to ingrain deep learning,
that emerging from the cocoon of bliss,
soul may ascend by willingly burning,
it opts to plunge into a dark abyss.
The stage is set for the soul to forget,
that love may grow, placing on love a bet.
That love may grow, placing on love a bet,
appears on first glance, there’s nothing to do
but memory erased, caught in fear’s net,
the soul finds it difficult to break through.
Mistaken that it’s merely body-mind,
soul’s awareness becomes externalised
and bemused by illusions, it is blind
and thus truth of Self is not realised.
Having itself set life into motion,
joy of union, pangs of separation,
silence alone ends thought flow commotion,
invoking Spirit for bliss gyration.
In timeless time, the bliss energised form,
swathed in gentle currents, both cool and warm.
Swathed in gentle currents, both cool and warm,
earth life interface, the ego, recedes,
transmuted finally by this love storm,
whereupon it follows and bliss throb leads.
Cessation by kenosis is the way,
softening attention, with touch gentle,
ego cravings no longer holding sway,
that soul effusing love transcendental.
Love being the pure divine elixir,
all opposites dissolve within its womb,
causing nodes within feeble form to stir,
bringing to life thus, a bliss catacomb.
Ego takes a backseat, heart is upbeat,
light dawns when polarities meet and greet.
Light dawns when polarities meet and greet,
melding in the cauldron of agape love,
wherein heeding love’s pure endearing tweet,
head and heart conjoin, acting hand in glove.
On soul seeing that it is living light,
it begins to employ mind of the heart,
feeling bliss pulsations by day and night,
deeming all souls as one and none apart.
Separation ends when egoic will bends
and all beings on earth, with love entwine,
each soul as God’s essence, slowly ascends,
all gathering under the oneness sign.
Self knows that there are no puzzles to lace,
as the gatekeeper of both time and space.
Carlos Bousono’s poem : Recordando a pastora imperio
for Damaso Alonso
(Poem published in the collection : Metaphora del desafuero, 1988, and dedicated
to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and
patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not
read Bousono’s poems – I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first
bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago – before I began translating
them on October 16, 2013.)
I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility
of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance
is concentrated of a sudden in this posture
of an instant,
under the weight of centuries,
all of its foregoing agitation,
in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found
its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation :
the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop
onto the prey,
and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant,
like the form most refined and pure
of such an incomprehensible paradox : velocity and paralisation,
becoming more dense in the procès
between Aquiles and parsimony,
or the tortoise and despair…
No, there is no différence,
because to differentiate hère is to make a descent,
while here there is but an ascent.
And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly
that to make a move
is an intolerable imperfection
for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement,
to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond
and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between
the fresh flames,
a compromise, then,
with the truth of the highest form of living,
and so the dancer of flamenco
remained for this reason without moving
in a difficult equilibrium
to see if that position, without touching it,
in not moving any of the pièces,
without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction,
could by chance last, keep enduring there,
on the razor’s edge,
maintain itself on the head of a pin’s unlikely verticality,
balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant
succeeding the other,
on the verge of the abysm itself,
earth and boulders coming loose,
and one after another in succession, and in succession…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Return Of The Tyke
Tyke, tyke, tyke' they’d chant to bait the bairn.
But insult hurled at Yorkshire folk is water off a back.
Take it, use it, grind it through the crank
As fuel for the fire, grist to mill.
Man as boy the tyke unwraps his bike.
Ride a mile, another ten. No stopping, pumping into the blood.
Cycle, eat, drink. Eat, drink, cycle.
Life’s biggest problem, darkest mood, cured in the turn of a pedal.
Through God’s own country
A yellow jersey pulls a golden thread.
Up fell down dale, through Yorkshire’s warp and weft,
It’s cruelest contours purled,
A bright new yarn weaves into the fabric of the hills.
Past mill, past gate, past pit-head dead, history’s milestones marked.
The ride is metaphor, the towns tell out my story.
Otley, Ilkley, Asgarth, Hawes.
Mum at factory, Grandma, The Black Bull - still standing.
The first sip of warm beer.
Mallerstang, Fleet Moss, Tan Hill.
Simonstone, that teacher, my Dad, Wensleydale and Granddad Thompson.
The Scar, the Cove, the Stang – part of us in every crevice, crook and corner.
Muker, Reeth, Masham, over cattle-grid, up the switch-back,
Buttertubs - Buttertubs - Buttertubs.
Suck at the air, tramp on the pain, tyres spit rubber, spit grit.
It’s all about the climb. Locked in battle against the gradient.
She’s out to hurt us, here to make us suffer.
In sickening waves her sweet call comes to quit, to quit,
To quit this spiritual ascent.
Up ahead, on the tarmac one by one, the giants of the fells swing into sight.
Robinson ‘55, Hoban ’68, doff your cap to Tommy Simpson
And Beryl Burton, she showed the lads a clean pair of heels.
I close the gap and hear them urge: “We too were once like you.
Ordinary.”
My own story is forced out,
Spat through bleeding gums and panted breaths it comes
“I’ll catch you, catch you, catch you.”
In Oxenhope and through Cragg Vale
Spirit generations line the streets “Make us proud son, make us
proud.”
We race by in a flash. As lives lived, as lives past.
One evening,
When final stage is done and life turns back to dust,
Take us back to the mountain top. Pause a moment as the weather turns,
Then set us free in the teeth of a gale.
I’ll call them on, those that struggle through the sleet and hale, soft and
strong.
As I myself, one morning, was called.
© Ben Hodgson 2014
On a mountain top,
In a distant land,
Lived a fierce dragon
With talons sharper
Than the great butcher’s knife
And a breath
Hotter than a million suns.
His sole purpose for being
Was to protect a chalice.
This chalice was no ordinary goblet,
It was cast in gold
And encrusted with diamonds,
Emeralds, rubies and pearls,
But what it was made of
Paled in comparison
With what it held within.
Legend has it
That within the chalice
Was an elixir of courage.
An endless supply of
Pure Courage,
But no one had ever
Ventured to the mountain top
To sip from said chalice.
In a village
Not too far from the mountain
Lived the son of a farmer
Named Leonid.
Leonid had one desire,
A burning desire
To become a warrior,
To become a great warrior,
To fight for his village,
To protect his home.
Unfortunately,
Leonid did not believe
He possessed the courage
To make his dream a reality,
But while as the local market
He overheard some talking
About the chalice
Guarded by a dragon
On a nearby mountain.
The answer to a problem
That had been plaguing him.
When Leonid came of age,
He packed a few belongings
And started his journey
To becoming a warrior.
He made his way
To the mountain top,
To the chalice.
It was a journey
That took five days,
Leonid rested only when he need to
And drank and ate
What the earth provided.
The water from springs,
The berries and fruits form trees,
The meat from animals he caught.
Every now and then,
He would come upon a village,
And he would stop for ale
And conversation.
When people heard
Where Leonid was headed,
They would try to discourage him,
Telling him stories of
How fierce the dragon was.
Leonid would patiently listen,
But when he left the village,
He went in the direction
Of the mountain top.
His ascent of the mountain
Started on the fourth day.
This, surely, was the hardest part
Of the journey.
At some points the only way up
Was to scale a wall of rock
With barely a foot hold.
Lesser men would have given up,
Leonid would have given up,
But his desired pushed him on,
And within two days,
Leonid reached the top.
After resting for a few hours,
Leonid walked to the dragon’s cave.
He was rested and prepared
To confront the dragon
And claim the Chalice of Courage.
Form:
Verse 1
Yo, in the heart of the concrete where dreams collide,
I was born in a struggle, learned to thrive and survive,
From the south, but my hustle got that east coast flair,
Faded jeans and old kicks, but I’m still rare,
Lurking in the shadows, they doubt what I’m about,
Impossible they said, but I’m breaking every route,
Like a plain yellow pumpkin turned golden carriage,
From the block to the penthouse, I’m living like a marriage,
Between ambition and hunger, yeah, that’s my reflection,
Navigating through these streets, I’m the intersection,
Dodging all the envy like I’m Neo in the matrix,
Climbing to the top while they stay in the basics,
Plotting my ascent, got the crown in my sights,
With my heart on my sleeve, I’m igniting the nights,
Chorus
It's impossible, they said, but I’m breaking that mold,
A plain country bumpkin with a story to be told,
Got a slipper made of dreams, fitting snug on my goals,
I’m the prince in this game, while the world unfolds,
Verse 2
Rolling through the city, feeling like a king,
With every bar I spit, man, I’m claiming my bling,
From the dirt roads to the bright city lights,
I flipped the script, now my future’s looking bright,
Yeah, they see me grind, they see me elevate,
But they don’t see the late nights or the fears I contemplate,
Used to dream in silence, now I’m loud with my truth,
The proof’s in the hustle, and I’m out here uncouth,
Street symphony, composing every note with finesse,
From the struggles in the gutter to the lavishness I possess,
Impossible for a bumpkin? Nah, I’m redefining the game,
With a vision in my heart, I’m igniting the flame,
So every doubter can witness the rise from the ground,
I’m the fairy tale hero, no need for a crown,
Chorus
It's impossible, they said, but I’m breaking that mold,
A plain country bumpkin with a story to be told,
Got a slipper made of dreams, fitting snug on my goals,
I’m the prince in this game, while the world unfolds,
Outro
So here’s to the dreamers, the ones who don’t fit,
The pumpkins turning carriages, yeah, we’re lit,
From the streets to the stage, we’re claiming our space,
In this world of impossible, we’re winning the race,
They thought it was impossible, but we’re rewriting fate,
A plain country bumpkin? Nah, I’m ready to elevate.
How are you, dear village, my golden cradle?
Your children are growing, as strong as they’re able.
Are the elders still well, sharing wisdom and care,
Always speaking of home, the land that we share?
Oh, the elders, they guide with a look, wise and stern,
They’ll call out the leaders, make sure they discern.
Are my mothers still thriving, with kindness so clear,
In buttermilk’s richness, their blessings appear?
My mother’s pure dairy, a source of our grace,
Uniting the people, in this cherished place.
That harmony’s woven deep into my veins,
Giving me strength that forever remains.
Are my brothers still joyful, with laughter and cheer,
And the sisters beside them, their spirits so near?
Are my kin, my dear family, thriving and bright,
Each neighbor a treasure, a glimmering light?
At ninety anniversary I penned this, my tribute, my song,
A dream of my youth, where my heart feels so strong.
Forgive me, dear friend, for not coming this way,
I promise I coming to you next time anyway.
Is it time for new journeys, a different school,
In a world so distinct, with its own set of rules?
The dorm by the school has been turned into a hall,
A museum of memories, cherished by all.
With faces all smiling, like flowers in bloom,
Children enter the space, filling it with their room.
With voices in chorus, greeting with glee,
It’s clear they’ve been waiting, it’s joyful to see.
As I witness this scene, my heart fills with grace,
Nostalgia for school days, the warmth of this place.
We’ve grown old with the seasons, that much is true,
But those days won’t return, yet memories renew.
Like a film in my mind, the frames quickly pass,
Each moment a treasure, each laugh like fine glass.
From your faces, I glimpse, as if we’re intertwined,
Each one a familiar, in my heart’s gentle bind.
I proclaim, “My village, my cradle of gold,”
I want to lift your spirit, let your story be told.
With wisdom’s ascent, all grievances cease,
The burdens of heartache dissolve into peace.
I’ve written this letter, your name in my heart,
Next time I will visit, it’s a brand new start.
I share my existence, in verses I weave,
May the village remember, as I too believe.
To the people of the earth, we convey this greeting.
We are quite anxious for this long-awaited meeting.
Coming in peace, we are your cousins, as once before.
In a few hours, we’ll be reunited once more.
You will recognize us; our appearance you will know.
We see the sun we once shared ten million years ago.
The planet’s orbit remains between Venus and Mars.
History is forgotten, but we remember ours.
Our first arrival was with the great reptiles roaming.
Something happened, and we could not save them from dying.
Your entire world was completely warm and tropical.
This appeared to be the ideal place for our people.
Our interstellar travel made us masters of space.
However, we knew nothing of climate in this place,
or evolution and genetics within our race.
Your planet is in a section of isolation.
It takes many years to reach your civilization.
Our starships would be bringing news from the galaxy.
They would land three or four times in every century.
Your earth was once a constant tropical paradise.
However, climactic changes covered it with ice.
A strange phenomenon caused some harmless mutations.
Some of us were immune. There were no alterations.
This did not kill, or cause destructive physical harm.
It did start to arouse inevitable alarm.
Two separate groups arose over thousands of years.
Suspicion was perpetuated and caused great fears.
Those who did not leave earth sank into barbarism.
Envy, discord, and conflict were caused by the schism.
We had thought the end came for your civilization.
Your first radio signals gave us indication
that your culture has survived all these millennia.
This discovery has given us euphoria.
We see you have made your long ascent from savagery.
We are here to restore the long-lost fraternity.
We have uncovered much since we abandoned the earth.
Now that you are re-discovered, there will be much mirth.
Perpetual tropical climate, we will restore.
You won’t have to withstand freezing winters anymore.
With genetic mutation, there’s no need to endure.
For your offensive, yet harmless plague, we have a cure.
For what is now wrong, we have the power to make right.
Only let us know how many of you are still white.
Based on the short story "Reunion" by the late Arthur C. Clarke