Long Clasping Poems
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The shifting of many corporeal hands move across this dead cell,
A vacuums vortex, a psychic sponge, charging this battery of
Energy called the spirit board.
Paranormal phenomenon striking plate to enter realities plane
Of existence, for the ethereal challenged in crisis, seeking the
Threshold for spontaneous release, unto our spiritual realm.
Witchery’s board of trickery left in a polarized stance it
So entices the living with its tempting whispering of lies,
Incantations gate keepers wait on the other side of evils
Door way.
Memorizing the human sensory functions into a false
Sense of harmless mystery of the unexplained, it lures
These victims ever closer to weaving its spell of the demonic.
These capture being lost unto the hypnotic effects are
Transfixed unable to hit their override switch that controls
Their mental powers of persuasion, disabled is there strength
Of will power, they belong to the Ouija now.
Clasping do all for sides of the curtain of reality, times
Displacement begins in earnest, without hesitations
Momentary loll this dead cell bursts to life.
Black magic key has been inserted within the wooden
Door way’s heart and soul, a bizarre power bank draws
Forth the energy of the spiritual lost, swinging hells
Kept wide open.
The pancetta spins out of control, smashing against
The barriers of humanity, darkened ebony light shines
Through this doorway of evil and the flickering candle
Turns to a shades greenish blue wavering in the odious
Breeze.
The voice of a thousand screams echo in sheer delight,
We have been freed at last, broken is the trance, the boards
Hypnotic effects are dashed by the light of the dawn.
Dazed in bewilderment the voyeurs are chilled to their
Very inward bones, shaking, staring in awes amazement,
Wondering if these events really happened at all.
Then within these tented walls a voice responds to their
Questioning, laughing, as if a jackal at a fresh kill site!
Foolish mortals you know not what you have done, this
Night, but I promise thee this, laughing once again,
In a demonic under tone, none shall leave this domicile
Alive.
The entry doors lock without the human touch, the
Curtain windows pull closed, a momentary stilled
Scream, then all is silent, what remains is left up
To my readers to visualize, as the final candle
Blows out!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Heavy and eerie silence reigned therein,
The dark rooms looking as sullen as mean,
As if they had taken serious offence
Against me who had failed in their esteem,
My heart feeling contrite was heaving tense,
To have halfway deserted my fond dream.
No one was there my inner thoughts to share,
None who so some forgiveness to me spare,
Aimless I wandered into my blank mind,
And wished I could that royal guitar find
To inveigle my heavy heart to sing:
O Fire, this poor moth that in vain wished once
To fly away, hast returned broken wing
To thee, forgive him just this one instance,
Burn away both his wings and make him lame,
Nay, consume him in thy red scorching flame.
As I wailed clue-less, my soul sinking low,
Two warm teardrops fell from above on brow.
Dark and deep clouds hung overcast on hills
That day, the gloomy woods and bare river
Awaiting in suspense with monsoon drills,
An ominous calm prevailed all over.
And soon it all shivered— land along sky,
A wild tempest blew forth O howling by,
Through pathless woods glaring its lightning teeth,
Like a raving maniac snapping chain,
Wishing to unleash hell, terrible pain
To whoso there’s on hills, whoso beneath!
And not a soul around was in the camp
To wipe dark of my heart, nor light a lamp,
I could sense: a woman lying on face—
On a carpet below the bed, clasping
Her wounded heart, and pulling hair in stress,
Blood trickling down, in utter pain, laughing
Still, bursting into a hard wringing wail,
Now, rend her bodice, now beat breasts gone frail,
And from nowhere winds roared in from windows,
The pouring rains soaked further her sorrows.
Through night the storm never did cease to rage,
Nor did my fair lady's passionate cry,
I wandered from room to room, a blind man,
Unremitting sorrows my companion,
And yet none there who could have consoled me,
As I heard the cry: ‘stay back, all is false',
Maher Ali the mad was there, no doubt,
The old tenant of this odd wailing house,
‘Tell me what’s false?' I could not help but ask,
Waiving me off was how he responded,
Repeating, ‘stay back, stay back, all is false'.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali, Kshudhaarto Paashaana.
Part Two
Do you remember your run-up to the crease
your Lindwall-delivery dragging the clasping flannel round hobbled boots
your anger
at the wicket that went on a no-ball
Do you remember your opening bat
that snicked the runs to leg and off
which dozing umpires signalled as byes from pads
Do you remember Brigitte
her perky bobtail
her boucles of prancing hair
lances on her forehead
sickles on her verti-vir-ginous temples
Where are the bridges you have crossed
and those you had planned
and those you saw grow pebble by pylon and cementing stone
where the roads you laid
up virgin forest and limestone
Where indeed the buildings you repaired
erected
re-erected and razed
and the thousands and thousands of miles
you rode the wild seladang of the primeval jungle
hand on hump
with no stars in the paly night to guide you
through venomous blukar
and the boiling green torture
seared deep into your burning entrails
these that now have run out on you
Watch now how the river glues under your fuming stare
when the monsoon torrents sweep the knock-knee-ed pylons to a side
those dry as split-bark legs of yours
itching once too often in comforting company
though a little spindly for a Pied Piper
Yet you made the puppety Peninsula run
down drains and monsoon pipes
to a purge-full sea
Who is there now who wouldn't wake to your fits of irrupting gurgly merriment
to ease the tension
amongst unlikely fellows
Who who wouldn't miss your seething whiteheat glee
at his side
You who knew how to accompany Kay and Richard
up to the closed door of your last night
a very good night on your lips
Your opening bat's duty done
the side shored-up in safekeeping
the last fast breathless ball you faced
nicking the bails off
You needn't return to the pavilion
for the standing ovation goes on
for you Bala
long after the cloddy-stumps lie slain on the tiled floor
© T.Wignesan 1993 August 8, 1993 - Paris [from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
Written: May 06, 2025 for contest by Edward Ibeh
*************************
Like kernels, the day's enigmas start to unfold,
The green folk are still waiting, eager to corrode.
The creaks of a shaky bridge echo pain and despair,
Connecting the shining heights where flows the air.
A vibrant veil of violin weaves, with fiery flares bright,
As the bus rolls by, mourners gaze at fading light.
It appears that diligence fails to become a hero
Signs may lead us to Rome, yet destiny is Nero.
Let's begin our journey to reclaim Rome,
To restore sovereignty of our cherished homes.
Everyone rallies behind me in this quest.
Yet home builders destroyed bluebird's nest.
Gather your steeds and your weapons,
Steer clear of the roots of Agropyron repens.
We engage with the tasks at hand,
Weaponless, knock on doors, striking with firm stand.
A prosperous goal feels like a distant dream.
Greed drives man, hope and desire fuel the scheme,
Until he clings to the fragile bridge suspended high,
Stretched over an abyss where destruction lies nigh.
Rome wasn’t built by mere artistry or lore,
Nor by tales sung to Babylon’s god, Marduk of yore.
Chaldean Dynasty measured the world in degrees,
While at Napoleon’s Circle, first trapeze swayed with ease.
The icy chains bind the Scythian main,
Once inhabited by barbarians on the eastern plain.
Watch as homes with cracked walls slowly decay,
In trendy townships, where clay fills the hallways.
Silent nights scream, a pale face turned to the wall,
Men forget the pain, and that becomes their downfall.
We labor with crimson lips that pulse with each kiss,
Longing for cold, clasping arms that we sorely miss.
Mourners depart, unraveling the chain,
Sadly, the dead linger in our souls to die in vain.
For memory flickers like a flame, it rises and goes,
Sinking in human light, grief swells in woes.
Cross the Rubicon with us, liberate those in need.
Are you with us in this noble cause, fellow friends indeed?
Unless we’re overwhelmed by terror, there’s no turning back.
Join us as we march to safeguard the areas and their tracks.
Circling above on a sun shiny day
The raven twirls within his dreams
Of horrors soon to be inflicted
Soaring in the skies
The Preacher reads from the holy book
Collections duly collected on chanted psalms
The raven above with a sinister smile
He knew god’s plate was not full enough
Dark clouds from the east flew with the wind
Under the ravens command
As lightening struck the village steeple
Fire and brimstone, hell on earth
Humans who once lived by their daily bread
Became the bread of crows
Telegraph poles free to weep the news
As the crows feasted on the burnt flesh of our sins
The ravens’ heart pleased to share his torment
Amongst the brethren of feathered dark angels
The greed of humans shall be ridden of this earth
Crooned the raven under the spotlight of the devils moon
All were dead, the children too
All but one lone poet, so it seemed
Arms outstretched, clasping at pen and ink
Dying, dying to tell this black tale
Now, in tranquility, lies the village graveyard
Somber, quiet, flowers cover the horrors
Of that unholy day, of the ravens sins
His laughter echoes, echoes the pain
It is said, in the heat of summer nights
Crows sing and dance
As they feast on the remains
Of us, all of us, poets and all
Beside the village in the swamp
On that a very somber twisted day
An alligator lazed upon the shores
She, the only witness, to this feathered fiendish crime
In stealth she watched, scales of justice
A billion years of Gods creation
She slithered towards the stench of death
Teeth primed for an easy meal
A baby, oh so small, shivering in a fog of illusions
Looked into the eyes of the raven above
She saw that hell may very well come from above, not below
She resigned her baby cries to eternity, momma dead and gone
The alligator, teeth sharpened by natures instinct
Darted forth, and jaws stretched, swallows the baby whole
Slithering back towards the swamps shadows
The raven provided this nights’ meals gratuit
She spit out the baby, and licked her cheeks
Providing both substance and loving warmth
Hell may live above
Mercy and compassion may come from the swamp
High in the sky
The Raven
Lost this little one
The Butterfly smiled
Clasping the bed linen
The old woman gasped for breath
And pleaded air to enter into her nostrils
She beseeched before the heavens
To pump back health into her
She sensed the fear of her heart
Embroiled in a war between life and death
The subtle heat of the case
Could be sensed in the air
The courtroom remained silent
Except for the two lawyers who broke the silence
The accused looked at the Lady Justice
Like her even truth was blindfolded
He was innocent and only he knew it
The politics in the state found no scapegoat
Better than him
He was sure he’d be announced guilty
For a crime never committed
Entangled in truth and Lie
He beseeched the heavens to save him
The right leg walked left
And, the left one seeked right
The right hand danced in the air
Whilst the left one caught a cheap beer bottle
With drowsiness robbing his senses
He walked across the crowded road
The drunkard’s carelessness
Threw the people into tantrums
It seemed, as if death pitied him
And halted every time he came closer
To a moving car or motorcycle
Tangled in the web of addiction
He forgot the world everytime
The nectar trickled through his throat
Just like a dry land revives after rain
His tongue revived when the ambrosia flowed on it
The unwanted hand touched her
She stared at a shadow approaching
Towards her in the room
She was forced into prostitution
It brought her money
Enough to feed the members of her family
Torn between dignity and shame
She found no way out
With the decline in the day
The sun reached its resting spot
The cough of the old woman calmed
The court was adjourned and he returned home on bail
The drunkard wobbled back home
The young woman made her way back to home
The four were found sleeping under the same roof
Amidst the four walls that surrounded them
Neither of them had the strength
To admit their day went on well
Yesterday remained the same
Today was the same monotonous one
While future promised no hope of change
Sleep lovingly enwrapped them
And provided them a temporary escape
From their harsh realities
The Universe's Dance
Transitions of the obstruction of life
To the peacefulness of the night
Or a new beginning that a rising sun can bring without a fight
And in the late hour when everything becomes quiet
Nature has a way to transform
Within this turning of time
Every living spec upon this ever changing storm
To which we play this nursery rhyme
Maybe by a birds sweet sound
That brings a sweet remembrance to a season or day
And within a condensed shift in life a smile abounds
Upon a glowing face
The way the wind softly caresses your face
With a cool breeze
To wave off the heat of the day
With a whistling sound moving melodically free
How the drip drop of rain hitting a window pane can calm a tone
With its streams of life being poured from the heavens
To revive a world that struggles for life sitting on a disintegrating throne
And spring a newness into each creation with no discretion
An uncontrollable fire, breathing in the sky
Giving endlessly its lantern to lead us by each step
And warming our bodies when the cold starts to cry
Frightfully showing its characters of depth
Flickering candles floating in the atmosphere
Decorating a painted canvas of deep blue
Wishes casted off into their whispering ear
With silent hopes of dreams coming true
How amazing is a small and fragile seed
That can create a feast for Kings
And feed a family in need
And if planted again grows once more in spring
We so carelessly disregard the treasures that are all around
These viable precious gifts, nature holds out to us so unselfishly
Returning day after day, season after season unannounced
Unlocking valiant colors of wonders on towers of stems rising from the ground... so proudly
All these elements work in unity to perform a theatrical dance upon our stage
They are the silent voices within the earth
Imparting without antcipating anything to gain
Unstained by our constant denial, clasping to last place in our world of worth
Eyes of sadness our universe never reflects
For it hides its emotions within its design
And even the smallest spectator never detects
Its unfailing true love for all man kind
“You stiff-necked people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are just like your fathers: You always resist the Holy Spirit! Was there ever a prophet your fathers did not persecute? They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One. And now you have betrayed and murdered him— you who have received the law that was put into effect through angels but have not obeyed it.”
Acts 7:51-53
All who were sitting in the Sanhedrin looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel.
Acts 6:15
THE STONING OF STEPHEN
Before Stephen fell asleep, he gave a sermon.
It culminated into a bold accusation t’wards the leaders.
The Sanhedrin, with the high priest, would determine
The fate of this angel-face. They were breeders
Of contempt, accusing God’s man of blasphemy.
They were teeth-gnashers, stuffing their ears with glue,
indignant, jealous, furious. They would rob Stephen’s vitality.
This follower of Jesus is never alone, heaven’s in view:
“Look,” he said, “I see heaven open
and the Son of Man standing
at the right hand of God.”*
Clasping their ears, they rushed at him,
Yelling in full view of the glory of God, not
Seeing nor hearing, choosing their dim
View of life. It was evil they sought.
They snatched him, dragged him out of the city.
Were those chosen stones unearthed from hell?
Upon a saint of God, they took no pity.
They were underneath Satan’s spell.
This favored of God, they could not ignore.
A Sanhedrin bull in full vent with dust and smoke.
Truth will shake powerful men to the core.
Arms and legs like chariot spokes,
The high-horse pretenders lambast
the great orator with great force.
Stephen would soon meet the holy cast
Of forefathers…most importantly life’s source.
Another man is enthralled, also blind
To the goads he’s kicking at. He’s in his heyday,
a young man giving approval to death, the kind
of man Stephen prayed for in this way:
“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”*
8/8/2021
*Acts (from the Bible)
London, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Londres
…a serious and well-behaved Englishman, well-attired, handsome clothes (Victor Hugo)
(In this poem, I didn’t feel adhering strictly to the rhyme scheme would have served a higher purpose. T. Wignesan)
One summer Sunday when everything’s bathed in sunshine
London turns into a real feast for délicate souls tuned in :
Trees strong and rotund from frail lawns sprouting
Tender green, an air far from mists and gases grows fine.
So much so they appear to be planted in pastoral country
Limpid sunshine feathery in the fine sky, though blue-ish
Hardly. One feels as if in a bath where wafts
The perfume of a lingering infusion of tea.
Ten-thirty, the hour of interminable services
Divine. Thousands of melodious bells toll through the air
Sonorous and volatile as though seized by strange caprices,
The psalms of David come snorting through clear fog.
Such silvery tintinnabulation that one hears not in France,
The country of intensely tolling bells of bitter bronze
Strike up a concert that’s most sweet, instilling of hope and joyous
Though perhaps a little too sweet, one must there fear Hell.
Tolling bells again greet the afternoon. Men in queues
Well-dressed women and children glide rather
Than walk, hold to their silence in a selfish manner
With their voices reserved instead for exclaiming amen.
All this people look pleased in their stiffening posture
Clasping, even if mistakenly, to their profession of faith
And their Protestantism being alike rough and spineless
Makes some look even set right above the reach of the law.
Hopes of the true christian, Peter’s ever-widening fish-pond,
Fish ready for the Fisher who may count on catching them ;
Holy-Ghost, God Almighty, let pour Thy light on them
So that Jesus’ worth they might at last come to understand.
Six o’clock. The drinkers find their way to the refreshment room,
The family its «home » and the street’s abandoned to God :
And in the dirty-looking sky a few stars look quite lonesome
Foreshadowing rain over homeless beggars out in the cold.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
I'm a speech punk; kind of a menace
Not sure if the word is permissible in these parts
But that's the word I need, life's a furnace
So flush that. Gosh, you leave me no choice
I'm trying to speak, hear my voice in the whisper
Through the walls of disparaging noise
This is the true genesis of your lyrical nemesis
Within the lofty walls of these subliminal premises
So join me in these choruses
If you are tired of all those empty promises
I know some will hold on to being cynical
And insist that so and so is not tyrannical
On the offensive, trying to sound authentic
I’m getting tired of these old nonverbal diatribes
Untried ideological theories from war times
Self-proclaimed superheroes asking for more time
Descending heavily on dissenters
I find it interesting. You insist on destruction
But cry foul over the consequential sanctions
Questions leading to more questions
Your overarching approach is nonsensical
You're overreaching, overreacting
Flashing knives and talking peace treaties
I choose reason, so I'll be philosophical
Through and through until people know the truth
I'll show you who is master in this class
Through the looking glass, looking straight ahead
Hard forehead set against their hardcore hearts
Delicate apples of eyes rolling upon these surfaces
Don't forget light shines in the darkness
These are obviously obnoxious princes of madness
Gospel hardened bumpkins, hard of hearing
Pluck off their ear muffs and remove the earplugs
I don't know, it's the starkness
Of their skewed vision and aversion to reality
Posing, for whatever reason, as minimalists
And all of us losers attempting to look strong
Strolling roughshod on dog dump filled terrain
They say without travail there are no babies
So, I'm caught barefoot in this hell of a place
No name, upstart among folks with no faces
Clasping hands holding back nervous chuckles
Upon the sight of my adversaries' bleeding knuckles
Section such and such paragraph this and that
Yeah, voiceless man quoting verses
Telling the man with the pitchfork to get lost