Long Auxiliary Poems
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I'll never forget the date, the nineteenth of November
It's etched firmly in my mind, and I'll always remember
It was the day that I had my spinal decompression surgery
And hopefully it would put an end to over a year of misery.
I was struggling to walk, and it was depressing for me
And it was especially frustrating for all my close family
I couldn't go cycling or for walks in the countryside
I just wanted to stay at home and from the world hide.
My journey started with physio, but exercise caused me pain
And I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever be the same again
My MRI scan showed trapped nerves at the base of my spine
I opted for surgery and the surgeon reassured me I'd be fine.
I arrived at the hospital and was under the care of a surgeon
A renowned Consultant Spinal Neurosurgeon, Mr Faizul Hassan
They put surgical socks on me, along with a hospital gown
Then a porter arrived at nine o'clock to take me down.
They put a mask on my face and then I went to sleep
And it was a quarter to one when I was woken by a beep
A nurse then asked me if I wanted a drink of water
And I thought I'm having an op, maybe I'll have it later.
But I'd had my operation, and I didn't feel any leg or back pain
I was so relieved I'd had it done and I could live normally again
The porter took me back to ward one and the nurses were there
It is their kindness I'll never forget and their excellent care.
And all the surgeons too who performed my operation
They've given me my life back; for them I'm full of admiration
And all the porters, admin staff and auxiliary nurses too
They all play a vital part in making dreams come true.
I'm recovering at home now and post op I've got slight pain
I'm so glad to have had it done; I have plenty to gain
My three daughters and my wife are now looking after me
And I consider myself lucky to have such a caring family.
In a fortnight I've got to have staples removed from my back
Then my back won't feel so stiff, and I'll soon be back on track
And I've got to take it easy for a few months and watch what I do
No heavy lifting of any kind and in six weeks return for a review.
Written on the 23rd November 2023
Dedicated to all the staff at the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital in Birmingham. UK.
“Tamam Shud”
Handsome comes
as handsome goes
forgotten
not missed
lies waiting
intestate
a code
undeciphered
Mystery in the end -
far more interesting
answers calling
something whispers:
"Death -
open gate ...
Come in"
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Spin Spin Sugar" / Sneaker Pimps
https://youtu.be/uGPdpWbg5bU
"Police found a book nearby
from which,
the piece of paper was torn -
the works of a 12th century poet -
and on the inside cover
found some sort of code,
and a local telephone number."
1. Tamam Shud Case
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamam_Shud_case
2. "The man, fully dressed in a business suit, was found propped against the seawall at Somerton Park Beach, in southern Adelaide, on December 1, 1948."
https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-10-08/new-animation-shows-face-of-mystery-somerton-man/12717590
3. Somerton Man/Blog
https://tomsbytwo.com/2021/02/02/two-definable-patterns-in-the-tamam-shud-code/
4. Somerton Man/CasoCriminal
https://casocriminal.org/en/unsolved-cases/mystery-of-the-somerton-man-taman-shud-case/
5. Tamam Shud / translate.
"In Persian "tamam" is a noun that simply means "the end" and it can also be used in the sense when something is finished or completed. The "shud" bit on the end is an auxiliary verb that puts it into the past tense, so "tamam shud" means "ended" or "finished".
6. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam
7. Edward Fitzgerald (poet)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_FitzGerald_(poet)
8. ASIO
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_Security_Intelligence_Organisation
9.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RAAF_Woomera_Range_Complex
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radium_Hill
Psychological Science/Criminology,
double major.
LYRICS/ "Spin Spin Sugar", Sneaker Pimps
https://genius.com/Sneaker-pimps-spin-spin-sugar-lyrics
Defecation clogged toilet bowl courtesy metamucil..
and found (me) zee papa pooped out
**** eyes zing thee
nightly dump for yesterday
July 8th, 2020 - whereby
plunger helped obstruction give way
I nearly lost me life and limb oy vey
oh my dog, the same asinine outcome
which spurred poet to get underway
matter of fact, a replay
of excretion almost occurred today
and thus an attempt to describe
a tragicomic scenario
regarding bowel movement size of subway
overflowing potty nearly
found yours truly quay
king, yet impossible mission
arises to portray
unsightly situation, the
juvenile elements of style
I hate to overplay
odoriferous subject matter
nsync with constipation
since laxative delineates,
expedites, facilitates,... née
posits heavy load emanating out rectum
quite amazing what smelly waste
exits out me
necessitating captain my captain
to signal mayday
posterior end, a dime size orifice,
which malfunctioning sphincter muscles
one moost never be lackaday
'though kids and adults
laughed back in the day,
if and/or when Danny Kaye
tactfully poked fun
at such critical bodily phenomenon
equally important as a jackstay
to keep afloat body electric
'curse with auxiliary
linkedin kickstarting jazzmatazz interplay
analogously precise as
Swiss made timepiece
said system responsible
to expel bodily toxins
upon which sitting on porcelain throne
one can softly utter hooray
thankful to experience relative pleasure
until one becomes feeble minded,
whereat fifty plus shades of gray
matter allows, enables, and
provides enjoyably foray
into the bathroom, which entranceway
hoop fully not barred nor off limits
cuz that primitive urge one best not delay
lest one requires lower
gastrointestinal intervention
especially if blocked up
fecal matter turns to clay
unless of course one doth
cause damage and betray
respect toward well
oiled human machine
exercising and eating healthy
avoiding backside skeleton musculature issues
yes... I reckon during twilight years
control over bowels doth slip away.
pushing aside last night's clutter
from the late night burst of creative energy
open the blinds and let the warm light stream in
select the perfect playlist and crack your knuckles
time to go to work....
channeling your inner self, hoping that it is revealed through your work
orchestrating a solo tune that you and you alone know
a meditation on things past, on things to come
a way to unearth the substantial from the minimal
and breathe new life into old materials
wood set adrift, turned amber from the elements
metal oxidized a golden brown
and discarded plastic brought together in an unlikely unison
weaving together a tapestry of auxiliary parts
whether art for art's sake or treading the precarious waters of the political realm
art and its processes mean something
for earth without art is 'eh'
so continue on burning the candle at both ends creative types
throw caution to the wind and let your hair down
for the unmitigated impulse, when strong, is a difficult thing to silence
for every stop along the way brings new obstacles to overcome
new directions to tread
so be bold, be not shy in the quest for personal expression
unfurl your hopes and dreams, inject your very essence into your work
let it stand on solid ground, amongst the timid and the meek
let the firm foundation of your creation be a lightning rod for conversation
let it scream with intention and innuendo
do not sink into apathy but rise with the flare of the morning sun
let everything you touch be rejuvenated
do not waste a precious second on the ephemeral streams of the market
nor fickle collector
make art for all the RIGHT reasons
cast off and set sail for the remote local that is a true artist
this land of rarefied air where food is scarce and rent is a constant longing
do not be discouraged or disenchanted
but beware this is not for the faint of heart
blood will be spilt and tears will be shed
but it is not for nothing, do not be forlorn
for art is the prize
and that will be just fine
so push aside all of last night's clutter and get to work
You live in your own inner city, which you bought in a
silent auction.
You were again unable to cancel your debts.
Under your blackening eyelids you try to feel certain
things.
Without noticing your withdrawal from self, you leave for
distant parts
by using your ropes of thought like a ski-lift.
Your shudders increase as you touch the numberless elements.
In your screams at the moment when you feel the jolts
from the echoes
of your words crossing the threshold of your thought,
you send birds fleeing before you. As you breathe, your
roses wither.
In your moments of madness, crystals fall from your roof.
As your field of thought shrinks, your city expands. You
exhaust yourself
from running down the streets and avenues.
As the lamps of your voltage machines alight upon your
nights,
your humans robotize themselves.
The toads in your dirty waters frighten even the crocodiles.
Your inner journey makes you grow older.
Your internal cries amplify themselves.
You manifest difficulties with forty paws.
The auxiliary cells of your laboratories do not give you
the opportunity to live any pleasurable moments.
While the fear indicator inside you slackens you through
and through, you
have not
even the possibility of speaking. With each movement of
the clock,
the seasons rip themselves out of your heart.
Your solitude traverses your spirit without cease.
by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Mantes la Ville - 22.09.2002
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by F.J. Bergmann - 16.02.2003
People sing in praise of a lead performer;
And the person playing the second fiddle
Often goes unsung and unhonoured.
That is the fate of all such auxiliary artistes, say,
A guitarist strumming the chords—
To keep up the rhythm
Or, as typically in India,
The tambura player,
providing the continuous harmonic drone,
Which no electronic substitute
Can possibly offer—
Not to the entire satisfaction of the audience,
As it would be lacking in timbre and temper.
Yet, comparatively speaking,
There may not be much money in it.
Percussion artistes, on the drums,
The Mrudangam or Tabala,
Are all worse off,
Though they often perform multiple tasks.
Now striking, for instance, a cymbal,
Now a triangle or a xylaphone.
Even the famous Sivamani has got to do it.
They all, however, go about their tasks on the stage
With as much zest as the lead performer—
Yet a Sivamani or a Zakir Hussein
Hitting the headlines, is very rare.
Their presence is hardly noticed,
Though their absence may surely be felt.
Their role is comparable
To that of the squirrel—in the Ramayana,
Which helped Rama,
In its own humble way,
To put up the bridge
(preparatory to his encounter with Ravana)
Across the Palk Strait to Sri Lanka,
And yet did its best.
Such artistes do exemplify team spirit.
They also serve who stand (or sit)
On the stage and do auxiliary work!
***
the passing of time
When I left my country I first went to Liverpool, met a woman and married.
I tried my handwriting but the woman thought it was stupid, so I stopped writing opened up a café that was ok for some time.
We were both working-class I had been a seaman and used my spare time reading
world literature and had time to see and think, she was not so lucky, she had been
an auxiliary nurse and had no interest in the movies or books.
With time I come to dislike the English way the pub and occasionally a trip
to Alton Towers (entertainment centre) too banal for my taste.
I sold the café took the plane to Portugal it was like coming home, of course
she hated it and it ended in divorce.
For the first time in my life, I could write what I wanted without receiving ironic
remarks. This is how I spend my time now that I’m old writing and reading give the pleasure I need little else matter I never liked throngs of people.
My new wife never interferes with my writing
Only says if I sit doing nothing around, go write something, of course with her being
Congolese She speaks Portuguese and French but not
Much English shall I call this a blessing?
The Mystery of Hillary
The humility, oh Hillary…
What are thou good for?
As you rub shoulders with the rich, in victory,
And stomp your feet on the poor…
The conspiracy, oh Hillary…
You still want to be President!
The first lady in the White House Distillery,
Where all of our monies will be spent…
The witchery, oh Hillary…
You’ve lived all your life in politics,
Receiving many gifts from your auxiliary
And all you gave us was your bag of tricks…
The misery, oh Hillary…
The hidden world of you and Podesta,
With pizzas on special delivery,
And the authorities ready to arrest-ya…
The contradictory, oh Hillary…
What’s the deal with you and Trump?
Do you stand for all liberty?
Or do you stand up to grump?
This verse is intended for entertainment purposes ONLY! No politicians or children were harmed in the making of this poem…No names were changed to protect the guilty…If I disappear within the next two weeks…Well hopefully, you'll know who to contact...(All in good clean fun kids)
April.08.2019
A Realistic Hillary Clinton Poem
Sponsored by: Michael Wegman
Placed 5'th...Thank You
I'm more than half way to the gates
or so the statistics fancy to say.
Seen a lot but need to see a lot more
haven't suffered or laughed enough
need a few more scuffs and scars
need to grow up but I'm trending down
need to hide pain and struggle gracefully
strengthen the weaknesses-maintain the strengths.
Though I don't have enough mental mortar.
need to toss these streaks of jealousy in the pit
need to pare down that gigantic bucket list
reach a couple of goals-go for one last blitz.
but I'm running low on energy and time
where are those auxiliary tanks of fuel and time
I need to pray more?
have I done enough for family-friends
need to pray more
have I done enough for god
need to be more humble
have I done enough for myself.
I've got to do more for others
to help them reach their goals
but what about mine
i'm running low on fuel and time
I've got to stop whining.
be a man-struggle in silence
The universe is 14 billion years old
I have to iron all this mess out
in 73 years or so.
That's a lot to ask of a man
who's having short term memory lapses
I need to pray for others more-and mean it
Through invisible bars
Of his wide expansive space,
He searched far into the night sky
And settled upon a distant star,
Where the wounds she had administered
Did not resemble upheaval at all.
This bridge he had crossed
A time warp, a pathway through space
In chains of link-less shackles,
On the “SS Bounty Celest”
Stacked to the brim with earth’s forlorn,
Alas prisoners from a congested world
Where with no recognition of one’s culture
By its self-governed order without borders,
Into the melting pot one and all did fall.
Deep within this God forsaken galaxy
An outback far beyond,
Where the limit of sunlit days
Roll into moonless nights
And the hours are long.
Man, with his acute sense of superiority
Feels free to explore roam and contaminate,
And with the logic
Of digital and mechanical auxiliary,
Destroys in His name
All that had gone before.
© Harry J Horsman 2018