Long Cogitation Poems
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The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : La Cuestion
« …Oh ! God, Oh ! Centre »*
for Vicente Puchol
(* Note by the editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, attesting that the above quotation was not included in Bousono’s Antologia poética, 1976, and on the « mysterious Centre » on which the poem is a cogitation. T. Wignesan)
Yes, we know it : would you like to find the secret precinct,
the invulnerable enclosed sanctum,
to enter through any hole into the incredible spectacle,
to penetrate the labyrinth and find the powerful Centre.
As if a thief could rob the totality of light
to find, as I say, the powerful Centre, the absolute Centre,
the immobile Centre of the tempest which moves by itself,
a Centre where nothing is found to budge,
where everything is absorbed into itself, like love, containing
itself in itself,
not on its periphery, but fully wrapped in its contents,
overflowing like the apparition of a card in the suit of Spanish cards,
like an enormous cup of manifestation which augments,
like a wave which continues to mount higher and higher and beyond
its highest limits,
farther yet than possibility’s horizons ;
and keeps growing afterwards, going on for days, and the spectacle of its extermination – the hideous knowledge and the joy of recognising its loss ;
and which continues growing for an immemorial duration in the
direction of its own centre : terrible,
like a persistent cascade pouring down its interior, a flooding within
the experience of feeling well in one’s being,
an existential waterfall without end which retracts - having stopped
flowing – inwards into its own Centre.
Ai ! The crucial question is therefore to enter the labyrinth,
The big question comes down to making the move.
Be warned that it is only an act of penetration,
a simple act of transfer ; it would suffice to make a gesture with an
idea that brings joy,
perchance it might suffice just to find water in the barn
or a path in the woods, or in the woods
to fall upon an exit
through the hole (where we came in), to proffer with the key to the
enigma
the solution of the charade,
and discover the other side of the abysm, the reversal of the plot,
before the roof deteriorates
under probing fingers…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Unsettling premonition kickstarts fiendish abomination
Consider the following
dogmatic, enigmatic, fantastic,
idiotic, jargonistic, kimetic, linguistic,
narcissistic, opportunistic,
poetic, quixotic, rhapsodistic,
scholastic, transformistic,
universalistic agglomeration
as an abbreviation
overactive imagination
wrought demonic manifestation
unaware reading dictionary
could engender garrison housing
Century 21 ghostly conjuration
paranormal shenanigans this
Lake Wobegon resident
grudgingly attests perturbation
disembodied spirit betook
(analogous to Casper
the friendly ghost)
"FAKE" spooky introduction
primarily cause ethereal
phantom of the opera mine
diaphanous doppelganger actualization
forcing agonizing confrontation
blindly highlighting spectacular illumination
constituting undeniable declaration,
whereby stagnant existence
aligned stark juxtaposition
courtesy faux charade, escapade, facade...,
gimcrackery literary affectation
yielded (still does) negation
to befriend prospective logophile,
essentially begetting immediate amputation
as posited a posteriori said acquisition
regarding, kneading, experiencing...
inclusiveness feeling reviled discrimination
foisted linkedin with nonestablishmentarian
progressive, liberal, agnostic Unitarian
paradigm upbringing birth parents
decreed ideal articulation
to foster independent cogitation
among yours truly, and his two sisters,
at one time felt veneration
marble lustrous bead
felt towards (guess who) second born
only brother gifted with affliction
diagnosed recent as
schizoid personality disorder,
a mental health condition,
whereat emotional affinity
toward kin folk sundered
buzzfeeding self cannibalization
predicated on inchoate
in utero causation
insync with adaptation
(actually Putin on Ritz key conspiracy
incorporating Russian collusion)
in tandem with basket of deplorables
little rock and rolling
witnesses regeneration
frothy heady windblown
dyed in wool Taj Mahal size
pompadour toupee coronation
ego freezing troll defies decapitation
barley bubbling within hopscotching
mucky swamp characterization
capital hillbilly Phoenix
resembling archeopteryx alights
shrill screeching, digging lame talons
into trumpeting paunchy underbelly.
Walking lonely through the dark
In the night time I did embark
Upon a mission to clear my mind
Answer to questions I wish to find
I walk onward through quiet streets
My footstep noises aloud repeats
As I approach in the nightly dark
To my destination, the local park
Though its shady tree lined lanes
My mind wonders stressed and strained
And as my boot falls echo gently
My minds progresses differently
It swirls and curls and rages on
All concentration is withdrawn
To solve the riddle in my mind
To the key I’m currently blind
As I progress across the grass
My shoulder acquires a new mass
A crow there sits as black as night
Fixing me with its beady sight
I jump and start and this intrusion
Causing a stumble and contusion
But the crow it seems wants to stay
So my shoulder its weight will weigh
So as I return to my cogitation
This crow proved an aberration
It speak with a voice all gruff
And a manner that was quite bluff
It said in its own raucous way
That I was being rather fey
To let this matter of heart intrude
And drag so long with no conclude
I tried to shoo this troubling bird
Finding its gruff advice absurd
Who is this thing to offer opinion?
Surely it is the devils minion
The avian conscience would not loose
Just offer more words of seeming abuse
Telling me to lay this love to rest
That in this matter its advice is best
Failure to remove this nasty creature
Caused me to ignore the feathery preacher
I thus returned to my deliberation
Trying to recover my old elation
But my new friend continued to tell
That I was the cause of my personal hell
Thus he proceeded until at my door
When he return to his home once more
That night my sleep was trouble and light
With the voice of the crow ever a blight
His words slowly sunk into my brain
The gruffness was gone but the sense was plain
I awoke from my dream with clear mind,
Wondering why I had been so blind
I have been living in a world gone by
Missing the wonders of a sunny July
I thank that crow so noble and black
For finding my life and giving it back
I now move forward into the light
I will no longer walk alone in the night
THE INNER VOICE OF MARK BIRROS II
From world war two in the Atlantic
I hear the drowning cries of men,
climbing out as in spirit from waters
that lap the steps of the harbour wall ;
time erodes as the sea -
washing up these thoughts that linger
here and on many beaches,
thoughts that stick and have the stench
of used oil around them,
the name on a memorial
does not reflect the horror ;
the surf rejects such cogitation ;
for a moment, ' try again '
the gulls seemed to say,
' let go ' said the movement of the ocean,
but I cannot, I simply cannot
for what transcends these waves
and breathes out the universe
is love, the love of a father.... ... ...
The old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the evening,
and like a night- nurse at the bed
as growing lesions slowly spread,
the crescent moon would nothing say
to see the patient pass away ;
the stars call out but they are late -
what metaphysics spring from that
while in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire cat !...
A presence haunts me as that touch -
that hugs the heels in failing light,
with eyes that peer through space and time
and follow me into the night.... ...
The pine wood has its secrets -
I am one of them now,
like the columns of an ancient temple,
straight and upright
where no priest intercedes -
I trust it with my life,
I am theirs and they are mine,
growing inside me, sturdily and strong,
transcending their roots with my secrets
to their archetypal heaven... ... ...
As if a change of consciousness was meant,
against the pull of ego, the body
inwardly swept up in spiral ascent,
spirited away from me
from all the world below,
from all that I would ever be
that anyone might know ;
raised the cloaked arm
of my archetype
to draw the void across my eyes,
and I did rise to heights of bliss
to see the world from this -
dancing in vortices, tiptoeing on pools
as through a mesh, devoid of flesh ;
our world is an illusion -
a carousel to light,
as in the midst of heaven
we ghost on through the night... ...
Most everything written
(and learned ya in school)
Yukon coon sitter, (and bet
your bottom dollar) tibia bunch
of contrived information
all details bu...bu...bull...low knee
within this poetic missive
after spending a lifetime crunch
ching numbers, the following
singularly just my hunch,
but despite minuscule
approximate i.e. kid size lunch
meal, (sans two clenched fists,
and weighing about 1.5 kilograms),
not much to munch,
yet if smacked in the kisser
by a pugilist visited
square in the jaw deadly (Judy hush
hiss) sucker punch
whereby the unlucky
recipient may see "unlucky stars"
after brows severely scrunched,
thee above poppycock, and potentially
"FAKE" though (Ripley deed lee)
believe able to ye,
nonetheless behooves me
to segue-way (by Segway) to pre
sent a "TRUE" revelation see
(gnome hatter, aye
cheese silly contradict
mice elf alias Stuart Little) prithee
please just accept what I write
with a grain of salt
(from the Sultan Sea),
cuz yawl do yarself grave
injury and lodge a gree
vance against this harmless
right ham handed cree
chore from the outer limits
of the twilight zone, thus
I STRONGLY ADVISE thee,
NOT to stake eh knee
un mensch chin hubble cogitation,
and figuratively swallow,
hook, conga line
and sinker thine highly suspect re
dunk yule us gobbledygook mee
cully (meekly) reed this
more so asthma
childish entertainment, hence oak key
jist put aside any urgent task
to revel as sigh bee
devil logical syntax
with sum man tricks
playfully wasting yar
precious time free
cully (freakily) inventing outlandish nee
incoherent yawping, towering,
and brutally butchering,
Brooklyn speak (homer over
mayor later mother), she
nearly always... er added
letters "er" at'er the ender
her sentences - er stain?
Written: July 18, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"heart sets up a vibration
echoing as wordless intent
mind translates in symbols
flight of our soul’s ascent
is intent then a stirring
of soul with God, conferring"
***************
Before tenacity sets off its fetching flame,
There is a stillness that cogitation can't achieve.
A breathless edge where time loses its cleave,
And stillness screams what words never claim.
The heart begins with an unanswered bell,
A fork of tuning fire before a plucking smell.
Its pulse is an unwritten or unheard poem,
A lit beacon shines in the grid of low hum.
Soul and root share secrets in this domain,
In soft waves of warm, unspoken light.
If feelings boil up, but lack a refrain,
Still caught up in the whirlwind of pure might.
All that matters is the look of that sparkle,
A phantom of greatness carved from the glow?
Ideas arise from dreams barely recalled,
A river that blends where no map can scald.
The mind is an inception of a starry semaphore,
Strain to maintain this shaking in a scroll.
But what it communicates is only a spore,
Mirrors of an overall that lacked a belt role.
The soul is a vessel lined with vapor vows,
Doesn't talk; it only pulses and flames.
Its desire strums the strings when it plows,
Not sowed, not seen, but vital with a name.
So before the page, the docket, and the appeal,
There is a sacred rhythm that rules, not real—
A chorus of rhythm sans beget, wild and free,
A rifle that is still not seen by the scree.
Is this divine voice in quiet sway?
Talking to the soul of cosmic breath?
A hymn that vibrates but cannot say,
Where truth and myth flock across death.
Intent is but the ember after song—
Ash of awe where stars and spirit throng.
Written: August 14, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Today's man, a vessel of desire,
Feeds his body with mutant foods,
Yet hunger deeper, his soul afire,
Cravings are what incite the wildest moods.
In today's world, he falls into a sea of abounds
Consuming without cogitation or care,
His insatiable hunger knows no bounds.
As he feasts on what's not meant to share.
Genetically modified—chemically enhanced,
His body becomes a battlefield.
As mutant foods grew and danced.
Leaving his health to yield.
His taste buds danced with artificial flavors.
But his soul yearns for something pure.
Something that ignites the primal avers
And makes his spirit soar.
He seeks the forbidden fruit of passion.
The wild and untamed ecstasy,
To satiate the thirst of his frantic ration.
And set his wildest instincts free.
He craves the touch of a lover's hand.
The fire in their eyes, the heat of their breath,
a link that goes beyond the actual land
And satisfies his hunger for depth.
But in this digital age, his soul starves.
For genuine human connection,
As he seeks solace in virtual carves.
Searching for that elusive resurrection.
His insatiable hunger grows day by day.
As he longs for something real,
Yearning for a taste and for sway,
To satisfy his soul's appeal.
He ventures into the depths of mirth.
Where the wild and untamed strive,
Seeking solace in the beauty of the earth,
Where his spirit can truly thrive.
He forages for the fruits of the land.
In fields and forests, he finds his feast.
Nourishing his body with nature's sand,
And his soul with junk—these are the least.
One day I sat before a time face-to-face struggling to puzzle out
from a conundrum the time threw at me. Since the riddle was
a mind bothering one I felt like Oedipus walking through a gorge
touching the surface of rough rocks to feel something that may
inspire him to find an answer to Sphinx’s riddle.
The riddle that the time threw at me was “How long does it takes to get rid of all irrationality of the world and all agonies of humankind from surface of the earth?” My answer was “Several thousand… tens of thousands… hundreds of thousands of years…. Rather, over the billions of billions to the other side of eternity?”
The time said to me “O helpless stupid idiot! If you vanish, in other words, at the moment you stop your breathing, everything, whatever the things that bother you, whatever things that torment you, will vanish at the same time;
the bitter roots live in your heart as the colorful flowers named anguish blooming by a path of cogitation: the luring scent named anxiety comes from a deep swamp, traps you and never let you go. And all those miseries, you must know, will vanish without a trace as you stop your breath.”
After the time gave me a severe scolding he shoved me roughly from the back
with his strong hand that, no matter how much you plead for his mercy or kick
and struggle, will never turn back once he moves forward or returns the thing
that once he confiscated from you. I was fallen into the abyss of pitch darkness with tremendous speed as if a piece of shattered star sucks into a block hole.
Is life itself merely a matter of perspective?
Does cogitation dwarf the poet's reflexive?
If only my words could spread across the paper.
Build a punter world faded from a barren taper.
Has tied together details with his utterance.
This ringed world is bathed in such radiance.
There, as it blazed, the finest fury was sown.
The glories of lofty notions must be shown.
His clever mind shows words to shove.
The fading sun's beams, the genesis of love
Spur one's heart to beat with goodness.
The globe's first torn-and-wrung governess
Or daydreams when yield is in full flow.
The width of this real mental orbit grows.
the same as in this busy, boisterous space.
My mind rises, free of servitude in place.
It might happen with each passing year.
My name, my life, and my manner endear.
And amid the dust of a poet's silent rest,
Maintain contact with the wise and best!
Exert one obedient deed in one fading hour.
Or heal a fading face with a genuine flower.
My lines are fortunate despite a tight scope.
for their nimble date, on the apex and slope.
Still, this verse is my finest leisure option.
It follows a sly path across the attraction.
One time only, deny a brood urge to revive.
Chase only a sigh or lull a worry not alive.
From brick and frame to flowery blitheness.
Our walks have bred humility and forgiveness.
While conversing, I softly stroked your face.
He commands us to protect this holy place!
Written: February 04, 2023
I craft poems by evening time since I can't slumber.
I'm dreary of the one with a springtime splendor.
I'm lacking in rest, shrewdness, and moral dignity.
I've lost my aware vicinity and spotless anger.
We are not blinded by flies, owls, or moral agony.
It's not the fatal quiet or the sun's loss that's injury.
This isn't a chorus wraiths in the lush hedging.
The drab caveats of another day induce dark dubiety.
Nebulae, stars, neutrons, and quasars are all fledgling.
Dismal holes with some pale and green dwarf lighting
Blooms to be merely seen or to be picked in billion years.
This is the chronicle of the star nights, every evening.
Every night blurs you from my sight, yet, shed the tear.
I wish for a splendid twilight and consistent star seer.
I trust the rife angel's whisper and recall our discourse.
My awe, once the chalice in grasp was deep, rest clear.
Our spurn requital to God wanes our sole act of alertness.
While ebbing pristine streets toward the swift darkness
We scrutinize the cosmos, yet we are witless of his might.
Due to the safety risks of glass shards bits in the chalice
Wishing I had a hundred mates to gather around light.
My soul suffers in a gentlefolk that scorns peace bight.
Yet I shudder at the cogitation of starving to death alone.
Life is amazingly brief not to raise a chalice to reunite.
Written: January 17, 2022
The Chalice of Night Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke