Long Dismembering Poems
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The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
"...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track." C. G. Jung
"The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal." Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don’t mean what they see
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3, 1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems. 1997
"There is a window open from my heart to yours." Rumi
See the splendor of pained poetic souls.
After he died, leapt out in the air above,
turned into a star in Gaza's bleak sky,
pouring words and tear.
How many heart cries. For what endless suffering,
soothed by his verse and rhyme.
The gallant Gazans follow it with reverence.
Although they weep for his loss, they dwell in his poems as a citadel,
a secured ark.
Did he predict today's indistinguishable relation
between occupation, displacement, and genocide?
All words coalesce, flow uncomfortably into the English lexicon.
Out of his grave, in Gaza City, the stone grove of his voice,
the vulgar odor of colonial infection withers by the spell of his love.
The tyranny of outrageous minds is set ablaze, when they hear him,
more joy than rage, soothing yet like a hurricane pounding the waves,
bridging the hearts.
He came to speak, to bridge the chasm between hearts, collapsed in shreds, secured in grace.
Poets are with art and nature crowned.
Reach Refaat a poet's crown.
Mark him the chronicle of this scene of horror,
author of resistance, pride, and honor.
Refaat wrote, "sometimes a homeland becomes a tale," a heroic tale,
and their savant poets too.
After he died, the sky of Gaza was littered with white kites speaking shinningly
to the deadly drones menacing above, like the buzzing of so many flies.
A parable of justice, a hope that never dies, under the golden dome of Mediterranean Sea saluting the eyes, eyes that see through the dark clouds, the brush of freighted air, the march of history toward a luminous point, into the clasp of a fresh new-born idea, nearer to binding faith than wild dismembering injustice,
Gaza uncaged, free from all deceits, where people mingle at seaside cafes with no fear of being bombed, reciting his poems, with bouquet of flowers on his grave with the note that reads, rest easy friend, Palestine will forever be free.
Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply breathes
beneath my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious
and both loudly out
and quietly in
content.
Home unveils life's liturgy.
This home wherein I was conceived
and born
rebirths me each dawn
and decomposes all my dreams
where I grow up and out,
where siblings moved away
from whom I married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.
As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity
I can distinguish,
one self from other,
this is never a benign
or wisely severe discrimination;
better as a distinction
without prospects today for contented difference;
dishearted separation.
My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.
My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as shades of sympathy
not entropy,
sad self-isolating apathy
from my heart's dismembering womb.
Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new constructions
with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden memories from past days
and life
and loves
reframed by unfamiliar
but grace welcoming
trees
and birds
and a few persistent weeds.
... Is dead, no more moves to make, is a cold hearted killer and wants more, your child
died sooner, now this fellow and who is next? The man bends down to his victim and with
the saw starts dismembering the body in front of you, your adrenaline rushes quick and
your eyes wide open to how far can it go, legs, arms, head separated from the body, now
the man stands and walks to you, with no mercy draws a knife and stabs you in the stomach,
your world gives a quick flash back in all good moments and the reason why you live on,
your dead child and your soul companion, now you don't want to die without giving up a
fight, so on you struggle with death to not take your soul, bleeding deep the man sits
like a child in front of you, you raise your head to see clearly and another flashback
comes to your mind, the man you spilled the coffee early in the morning, the man who
walked away and didn't accepted your forgiveness, so on you cry with pain, a psychopath is
on your house and murdered your family and you are the target, so you gonna die, the man
stands and picks up the saw, grabs you by the neck with no mercy, choking you on, he raise
you high with demonic strength and with the saw starts cutting you in half but your not
dead yet, you scream silent with mouth covered and pain makes your eyes fade, half way
trough and your not dead yet, the man keeps back and forward and slices you in half, your
last exile for man kinds future, the man walks away, next morning police is there, murder
number 147 in 7 all that goes of year, so your name is on a list of cold cases, 10, 20,
30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, and keeps counting the years been stone cold case, so never you
will hear a word from justice...
Is this the world we live on?
A Heart's Deep Song
Grant me for sweet remembrance sake
Some golden gift that I may take
With me into that region
Awaiting me when love is gone,
The jewel that held thy fragrant hair
Against the winds of March; a share
Of lavender thy fringed lawn
Nestled among until dawn;
A broken bridge, a tattered string
Of thy deep lute's dismembering;
The many-beaded beryl zone
That thy still orisons hath known;
Or, that my heart may be at ease,
Tell me the bliss thy vision sees;
Sing me the secret of thy faith
That I may find thee beyond death.
R.J. Lindley,
April 17th, 1972
Note-
In youth I sought the winds that sing aloud
bringing in music of each new day
I was bold, hungry and quite proud
yet life's selfish yearnings got in my way
Looking back, great life was there to be had
if only my anger had not held sway
I was so wild, crazy and yes, a bit bad
for which truth and justice made me pay
Ah, but who hasn't regret about youthful misdeeds
about fine treasures so stupidly lost
I that happily sowed far too many dark seeds
sadly now reap, the inevitable high cost
When youth in folly thinks not but then leaps
should it shock, to find, Fate plays for keeps
Started as just a short note--turned into an unfinished poem.
My muse taunts me today... at her sweet pleasure..
I've come to take a life,
and I'm searching for a certain Poetic Parasite.
Blood drips from my poetic knife,
and I'm placing him in the soup spotlight!
You know how I slice and dice,
So you can call me Michael Meyers!
Lay on my pentagram and be my sacrifice,
and feel my poetic fire!
I love how you run and hide,
chasing you on this site is such a thrill.
You better not commit suicide,
I want the satisfaction of this kill!
This site will be like Crystal Lake,
Dismembering this poet like Jason!
Talking about the Butterfly was your worst mistake -
So you better call a freemason!
You told me to burn in hell,
LOL, I'll gladly do so!
But I love having you under my spell,
So let me hit you with this TKO.
Stop cowering behind that woman's skirt.
Stick out your d#@n neck,
I swear it won't hurt,
Your head I've come to collect!
Look into my handsome face,
as I decapitate your head.
I'm placing it on my trophy case,
and this is gorier than "Night of the Living Dead!"
I want to eat out your heart,
kinda like Jeffery Dahmer!
I wanna blow your whole being apart -
So call me the una-bomber!
Remember when you called me a worm,
as you lay bleeding at my feet.
I've come to rid the soup of your germ -
So Trick - or - Treat!!!
Soup Family Happy Halloween - kids be safe!
My easy does it done over did it again.
Rusted and busted eat up with sin.
Discontent with the nonsense splendidly blended to end, my endless transcendence not yet to begin.
Ashes to ashes rusting to dust.
Cloaked in consequences smothered in lust,
Stoked the coals fanned the flames chocked on smoke swallowed the lame.
Dismembering embers float like flickers of blame, stifling the light while fueling the shame, unable to refrain from this pain I can't explain, my heartstrings strain my broken heart stains stained.
Chained to my brain each days ending starts the same, deceased in peace all that remains goes down the drain,
Contrary to my obituary I was crazy not insane.
Dearly departed we are scattered here today, gathered and battered each one in our own way.
My whispering thoughts when gone untamed,they go astray.
Don't just hear these words I speak to you ,PLEASE LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.
It begins inside the light looking out then you're outside in the dark looking in.
If we could see what was waiting for us inside the the dark, it's a trip we'd never begin.
The light at the end of the tunnel it's not the way out but it's the way in, you can look back to see where it all started
BUT YOU'LL NEVER SEE COMING WHEN IT GETS YOU IN THE END
I Adamantly Refuse to Care or Show Concern,
After All
I Served Sincerely and Genuinely, Now I Sever
Hoaxed Mundane Emotions that No Longer Appeal to My Growth
Flippantly Burning Icy Bridges
This is More or Less What You Think
Even More that Spilled Ink!
Pages Stained With Expressions of Clustered Ink Lichens
For I am Sole Custodian of My Emotions
Strolling Flamboyantly Through the Emporium of Memories
Some Insipid, Some Cherished, All Purged for Space
For This is More or Less What You Think
Even More Than Ink!
I Castigate in Order to Reciprocate by means of Detachment
Sharply Dismembering Familial Ties
For I Rather Drown in Water than Blood
My Behavior And Actions May or May not Appear Imprimatur
Shunned Mundane Conformities, Autonomous One
More or Less what You Think
Expressing Choreographed Ink!
Most are Unable or Unwilling to Embrace Their Shadow
A Glimpse In the Mirror Shrouds The True Reflection
My Response is Isolation
Because My Energy is Mines to do As I Please
Such are Normal or Reactive to Both Inner and Outer Influences
I Shall not Partake In Friendly Bantering Where Venomous Strife Once Proceeded!
My Silence is A Science Blaring In Ink
More or Less!
My heart utters gently: you are seven;
I am too. Yet, the bloom of womanhood
carries us now unto fields where
spiced pleasure and abandonment mingle…
I reminisce our childhood years, when as a girl,
we would look out the bay window
till late evening, awaiting Dad’s arrival.
How cold those months while we freeze
in longing, in tireless dismembering
from an absence you , I could not bear:
oh, we escape through storybooks, art-play,
even dialogues with a guardian-moon
allowing the release of damn cries, ‘ We don’t
need a soldier, we need a father!
Although the fear of sudden loss remains,
this navel spins in unified order; knowing
he loves us despite his passion for freedom.
It is about time we embrace a wholeness
ordained by healed seasons… then to dance
around the fire, under dusk’s awakened joy;
searching for the magic of stars…and treasure
each purpose of Dad’s cherished footprints.
..................
Laura Loo Contest: Any Poem Won in November ( not from mine)
Written 10/17/2017
Resubmitted: 12/3/2017
Contest: What Child Is This