Long Country(a) Poems
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IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVIII
for Suzanne DELANEY, in appreciation
(Prelude: CAN THE WRONG MAN BE RIGHT ? ABSOLUTELY !
If only he were NOT guilty of the self-same crime !
For instance, here in Europe, acceding to « nationality»
status can be quite ludicrously irrational: those migrants
even "totally ignorant" of the host country’s culture
and official tongue obtain their "citizenship papers »
sooner or later, while clinging desperately to their
own culture and country to the exclusion of their hosts’- some more fortunatethough enjoy « dual nationality » and therefore DUAL rights to LOYALTY ! And talk tough once they take over responsibile positions in society. And the
ones on whom the latter prey most of all are precisely
those « other» less fortunate migrants at their mercy !)
IF ever I had a country, a country NOT « wholly" put together by
either IMMIGRANTS or REFUGEES, you see, but by conquering
IMPERIAL ENSLAVERS on the backs of blacks and
on those fleeing from hunger, from religious
intolerance as "indentured-labourers », mainly, you’ll agree
WHERE the indigene was routed and rounded up into
RESERVES through superior "fire-power" by the
COLONIAL and local ARISTOCRACY
AND where TAXES and LEVIES imposed by the « Foreign Power »
drove the locally-born MASTER to revolt against the MOTHER
COUNTRY
Until the whole CONTINENT united « nation » after « nation »
to become the foremost mid-twentieth century « COLONIAL »
SAVIOUR of the WORLD country
Only to find its internal structure and economic power usurped
by other NON-NATION constituting ethnies
AND one-by-one take over from the original WASP founding PATER
FAMILIAS confederacy
Yes, then, I’d keep the NEW-COMER from wagging his/her tongue or
shooting his/her mouth tout azimuth - despite the legislative mandate -
as though he/she were the backbone of the nation or from attempting to
take over my « dear » country as if it were their « god-given » patrimony
Even if I never ever had no country stuck together with spit and elbow-grease to look like a pyrotechnically-powere Bollywoodian jamboree
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 22, 2019
It was one of those sunny days, that later on merge in memory, and you can’t tell one from another instantly, but on the second sight they discern, each with its own number of little events. There was good visibility from the second deck of the bus - my memories start when we are standing at a junction on red, we need to cross a major motorway. There are not many cars moving along the motorway, we keep staying, I remember a delivery biker, and a yellow DHL van in front of us, it looks like it is going to attend in the same direction. Finally, the light turns green, and we slowly cross the motorway into a narrow street. The low-rise houses are half-hidden by trees - the spicy smell of linden trees in bloom wafts in through the half-open window on my side. We pass an industrial zone, a string of concrete warehouses standing tightly together, then we descend into a valley, then the road goes up the hill. Soon we stop in front of the barrier - ahead we see the car park, small groups of people here and there - tourists who have come to see the Seven Sisters, and perhaps to swim in the sea. I descend a fairly steep path down to the sea, and finally I'm down on the shore. Although there are people wandering around, I don't notice anyone, and I can't hear what they are saying. I manage to sit down on one of the rocks warmed by the sun, and just stare at the water, at the calm waves. It doesn't matter whether I exist or whether someone else is looking at the sea, as long as I stay in some incomprehensible flat that serves as my home, although my home is something out of the realm of unrealisable fantasies. But there is no law that compels one to have a country, a home, habits, a job, a family. I don’t have a country, its the country that has me, for reasons beyond my comprehension, same is relevant about that bogus home, job, family, habits. I agree to relate to some point to a number of things that are not my own, its not a big trouble. But I don't belong there mentally or spiritually. I take advantage of this oversight of the overseers of order, and slip away to where the waves reflect the light of the sky. Who I am, doesn't matter. Can be anyone, or someone you happen to know.
Surrounded by tranquil turquoise waters,
Guarded on sides by oceans three,
In the east by the Pacific,
On the south by the Celebes Sea,
And on the west by the south China Sea,
There is an archipelago on the blue water crescent,
A group of islands, called Philippines,
Encircled by a girdle of gleaming silver,
With its shores of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep;
A land of green vegetation and terraced terrain!
It houses picturesque and breath-taking views.
Vast beaches of ivory sand sprawl before our eyes
Dolphins leap over seafoam, palm fronds wink
Soft breezes waft and cotton clouds float above.
Anyone will fall in love with these tiny strips of land,
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and celestial monarch birds,
Of strutting peacocks, pigeons, pheasants, and parrots.
The powdery white sand of Boracay
The Chocolate Hills of Bohol
The Caraballo Mountain ranges,
And the Cordillera Mountain chain of Luzon,
The Rice Terraces of Philippine Cordilleras
All these give the country a solemn investiture.
Volcanic peaks, standing mighty and tall,
Proudly line the landscape, dotted with dense forests
Where birds sing melodies and Tarsiers with bug eyes
The tiny primates, endemic to the Philippines roam and jump
Amid the slumbering hills, there is fecund soil,
Turned into orchards and plantations,
Its population with perseverance and patience
Work in the soil relentlessly and in unison.
Well known for their hospitality, they receive tourists,
And outsiders with warmth and camaraderie.
In this paradise of mixed fortunes, tragedy comes unforeseen,
In the form of natural calamities like typhoons and cyclones,
But nothing can tear the people apart and they prosper,
With resilience, bent on sustaining their tradition,
Adding value to it each day and proud of an identity of their own
This beautiful land of velvet waves and crystal sands
Lying as a pendant in a crescent of emerald cluster
Rightly deserves the title- the 'Pearl of the Orient'
"Franklin, why do you want such a fat, ugly bird?
Are you getting senile, or just being absurd?"
"Clearly, Mr. Adams, you are not being a friend.
My dove, not the turkey, will win in the end.
Though Franklin's turkey may be our most native bird,
your eagle, as well, will not be the final word.
A sign of Peace is what we need,
to show other nations of what we heed."
"Are you nuts, Thomas, for saying such?
Only my turkey can represent what we need so much!"
"Have both of you gone so daft in the head,
not to see that my eagle should be the one instead?
It has power and majesty that our nation new,
can be ascribed to the birds advocated by you.
We want Peace, but must remember this war,
so how can we petition a dove to complete this chore?
As for the turkey, I know the pride it shows,
but I just can't get over that thing on its nose.
So my Eagle is the one without a ruse,
and the best bird for the Congress to choose.
It can show our intent for Peace with an olive branch,
is native as the turkey, with a prideful stance.
Freedom will come and be represented by
my Eagle's unlimited flight in the sky.
Ever watchful for both Peace and War,
and without the turkey's nasal sore."
"We both know, Thomas, that Adams is correct.
His bird is beyond the circumspect."
"Yes, Franklin, I have always known
that my dove and your turkey would not have flown."
"Then are we agreed, gentlemen, that we three as one,
my Eagle is the bird that has hatched and won?"
Just thinking about this conversation made me weak,
especially when I had to give it a tweak.
But the Eagle has represented us well,
both in Peace and War, as history will tell.
I have obviously voted with Adams on his choice,
It has given our country a singular voice.
It is strong, majestic, and watchful to be sure,
and stood the test of time with great enure.
One more thing I'll say about the symbol we branded,
What would we have thought if Armstrong had said, " The Turkey has landed"?
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXI - 81
IF ever I had a country, a country without even a single Shredding Machine
And if ever I were elected/nominated/appointed by the powers that be SPEAKER of the Lower House of Parliament whose power to shine however were to be curtailed by the Upper House’s sheen
A country where all laws were enacted without much heed to the rhyme nor reason of the Bard’s Stratford-upon-Avon’s mellifluous flow of theme
Where every legal analyst: Professor of law Attorney-at-Law entertained his or her own opinion as to what the Laws of the State: relating to the Chief Executive, Rules and Regulations of Proceedings in or out of officialdom: libels, torts, crimes, misdemeanours or even what the Constitution may mean
And if ever any elected official or foreign dignitary were to be invited or chose to invite himself whether by rights or not to address the House and read from a
« tele-prompter » or printed text that was obviously Ghost-written, I’d shred the Speech with my front-teeth and unkempt nails and jump up and down with glee as though I were dancing the polka on the printed pages as they most certainly blatantly comport ideas, words and expressions of some heinous GHOST come to tease, torture, detract, confound, contradict and condemn all that is decent in the human being which is not mean
And all this, so be it, I swear before the populace I can never be GUILTY of breaking the LAW should I shred the words of some GHOST who lies, distorts, turns on head some or all the TRUTHS held to be sacred in my Nation’s History since no ghost may rightfully sue me (Sleep tight, Peach of a Teach !) for having even stolen a measly red, yellow or green pea, pod or bean
And this, even if I were to be put through the piranha jaws of the Republic’s Shredding-Immigration-Machine
Even if I never ever had no country worthy of being shredded and pulverized in the Wall of Black Holes’s grinding-machine
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, February 8, 2020
I looked down upon the earth
from a place unknown to man.
I spied a country, a metropolis
And saw the works of mankind.
Hidden among tall buildings
I saw people sitting
Faces staring intently
upon computer screens.
There was fervent tapping
upon keyboards
with nary a sound in the air
absorbed in a world all their own.
Along the city streets
I saw people walking, but not seeing.
Each held a valued cell phone
in their hands.
As they stared intently into them
their thumbs would burst into a
flurry of movement.
Sometimes they would speak
to one another, if only infrequently.
I knew not what to think
for they appeared to have
mouths with which to speak
ears with which to hear
hands with which to touch
arms with which to hold.
But they just walked on
away from one another
not hearing
not listening
not caring.
I turned away from what
I had witnessed
feeling sad and heavy of heart.
And I felt cold
and old.
Written on 6/13/2014
ONE:
At three in the morning the Internet calls out.
Come to the computer; visit friends round about.
All of a sudden, soon pulling hair out,
The lights go off, a total blackout…shutout!
TWO:
Dressed for the country, a total knockout,
In a new white blouse, nothing worn-out,
Marshmallows and smores cooked at the cook out.
Chocolate on the blouse that will not wash out!
THREE:
Friends coming over for a big night out,
Children run to windows; keep a lookout.
Their car slips and slides while they are in route.
Festivities become a complete washout.
FOUR:
Going for a visit, the Interstate route.
A car passes by; guess what is thrown out.
Part of a burger with a Whopper handout,
Right in the face of the driver's shouting snout.
FIVE:
Rushing one morning to the punch-clock readout.
Arriving on time, that day had some doubt.
Picking up speed cautiously on the look out!
BLAM! The tire explodes, too late, a blowout.
SIX
The day's shopping spree had a strange payout.
Smoke from the windows escaping there out.
Eggs were left boiling when the cook went out.
Shells hit the ceiling and the floor; freak out!
SEVEN:
Walking barefooted on a beautiful route.
(Garden shoes were old with the soles worn out.)
Soft-smelly brown embrace toes round about.
Run to the hose to wash the stinky stuff out.
EIGHT:
Planting a garden with success in doubt.
Hoping for sun and for a big payout.
Watering tomatoes in times of drought.
One night of insects, the crop is wiped out!
NINE:
The birthday present would really standout.
Glow-in-the-dark wrapping, would be far-out.
Fluorescence to shine when the lights go out,
But I left it home and arrived without.
TEN:
A walk in the park to get a workout,
Flowers and children enjoyed throughout.
Birds chirp in trees, their favorite hideout.
A direct hit in the eye; bird fallout, wash out!
© October 8, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
I have set in this corner too long it’s true
My hand rails are polished to a light umber hue
My spines have come loose, but they just need some glue
And my cushions have faded from a deep royal blue
Left in the old shed, away I’ve been cast
I may appear shabby just a thing of the past
But the memories I hold will forever last
A reminder of yesterday a history vast
My first home was country, a gift to a bride
Who sewed crimson pillows for her backside
She made me a home on the front porch outside
Where she contently rocked as her neighbors she eyed
I rocked her first child when he came to be born
Moved into the parlor, that floor became worn
With the constant rocking, for he wailed so forlorn
And would only settle when rocked I’d have sworn
I was turned upside down more times than I could count
Ridden like a horse by that boy, like a mount!
Wore out the pillows all on his account
And he once broke a rocker, if I recount.
The years went on by but my life was the same
The boy he grew older and a man he became
Moved to the city, I thought it a shame
It was so far away that he so rarely came
So away to the attic I sat for a spell
Till the old man came took me and mended me well
She sewed these blue cushions as far as I could tell
And set back to rocking on the porch, till she fell.
The people all came their respects they all pay
And the boy came back home, but to mourn not to play
He left with the old man, he took him away
And I was put in this shed on that old fateful day.
But what’s this I see as the door opens wide
A young man takes me and puts me outside
Some small nails and sandpaper returns my pride
New cushions of green, I’m a gift to his bride
My legacy continues in the house on the hill
For comfort and caring I can give still
I’ll be here for the wee one, I’ll wait until
I can rock steady a new life to fulfill
WEATHER FORECAST 2018
Good evening ladies and gentlemen! This is your friendly meteorologist at local station lucky 13 on the dial with the upcoming forecast for 2018.
On the horizon, we have a grizzly cold front blowing in from DC. Most of the cold stems from the comments aimed at POTUS for his tweets. How he survives this cold shoulder treatment is his remarkable ability to say "shove it" in just a few short sentences.
In other parts of the country, a former first lady is still making news splashes by lying out of both sides of her mouth. Will she never learn? Her blatant disregard for military might is deplorable yet she keeps haranguing the defenders of America's freedom.
In case you haven't heard, the devil has fled Alabama and is headed back to Georgia. Charlie Daniels has hit Alabama by storm and has 'Old Peck' on the run. He has teamed up with one of America's greatest evangelists, Tony Evans to take America 'by storm'. No pun intended.
In other weather news, the fires in California are totally devastating. It has been said that a new drug on the scene has created a 'flaming desire' in the leftover hippie group, most of whom are in their 80s, to burn California to the ground before leaving for Atlanta to finish what Sherman started.
The chaos created by this sudden trend to create a heat wave has caused Frosty the Snowman to seek asylum at the North Pole and help Santa's elves make toys for Christmas of 2018. At the rate he is working, he is bound to have a 'meltdown'.
Remember, you heard it first on lucky 13. Tell your friends and neighbors about us. It is sure to cause a spark in viewing habits.
This is your friendly meteorologist signing off and heading to Wigley's House of Brew for a cold frosty mug.
Sayonara! Adios! Caio! Bye Bye!
11 January 2018
For Viv Wigley's contest on Weather Forecast 2018
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII
for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor
who maintained that if you don't like the "humorist",
you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) "humour"
IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY
And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree
And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY
And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of
un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne’er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri
I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a)musings
under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as "peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee
And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI
And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGO-BOOSTING commentary
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5, 2020