Long Fifties Poems
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It was said of old, 'Truth lies open to all', but today
perception is all; no one is perfect but perception
can cure all blemishes, avoiding the fate of being hero
to zero that brittle celebrity promises in life, in posterity.
What a vicar would be shocked to hear, to see, as though
these shock jocks of life and death are maiden aunts who
have never lived: after their demise what a media shock,
what a surprise that these puritans had a love life being
charitable on the sly, belying their dark clothed strictures.
Prim and proper Betjeman's Fifties pose metamorphosed
into a lamentation that he wished that he had more sex
unlike Greeneland's adventurist aunt who had no need to
fabled in the Sixties: our time for ever and always for everyone.
Making our moral dilemmas not confusing morality
with law, hating injustice but being unjust by being
self-righteous becoming our own judge-pentinents
before the fear of ourselves more than this wicked wide world
of wonders defying cynicism by imbedding in us scepticism;
not just of the hypocrtical red- tops that only rarely have a
kernel of truth besmirched by lawyers some of whom not
not having their chopped heads off are a sure defence
of the powerless and true. Even when perception is as
broadminded as the times while being full of righteous
outrage if time fast forwards the past obeying a new
morality old, dressed in new garb.
Who riots? Who occupies? Who wins? Who loses?
We see darkly as we shadow the mote in our
own eye until we can see we are all in this together whether
we are together or not; when hidden charity characterises
us in not in righteous mode in nor complacent commode,
so that one day, for all living on this oblique spheroid,
we can all truly say that, 'Truth lies open to all', on the good Earth.
for Prithwin
first
left downstroke
start from the top
plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits
Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own
Reach - disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold
Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin
Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair
Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha
Reach – disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Resources
1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower.
2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies.
©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009
24 years between 22 yards,
Records being made like palace of cards,
He is one who breathes cricket,
A player, whom no opponent can hate.
He plays cricket only, thinks everyone...
But playing with nos. Is his real fun..
His achievements are his identity,
He's a true legend in reality.
663 Matches,34357 runs,100 tons,154 fifties,200 wickets are enough to call him sir,
He's no other than SACHIN TENDULKAR..
Records are so, that can be written an encyclopedia,
Most times news, was he for media.
Head is at seventh sky, still feet at ground,
Kept every responsibility brilliantly, it is found.
Our Indian soil was blessed on 24 april 1973, when he born.
That day was for Indian cricket, a new dawn.
Family supportive, start training at 11,
His focus being perfect, that's why he has today heaven..
On 15 nov 1989, he came whirling his bat,
At 16, before pakistan, he was like before lion, a rat.
May start was bad, but determination was atmost,
Passing all hurdles, he reached the coast.
Then fours and six and runs and records.
Oh my goodness! Everyone has to laud..
Time was departing, so were players,
But immotile as hill, he was there,
What he cannot do was unanswerable,
His story in future become fable.
Those watching him play at childhood, share field with him,
But wrinkles in his performance was never seen..
Equalling Billgates' income he won hearts.
He was the whole piece, but then also considered himself a part..
Father's wish was to be a good human,
Now every father want such son.
Every thing achieved, giving father tribute asked-' Have i made it large? '
May height so small but deed so enlarge..
But every good thing comes to an end,
And so does when our legend descends.
With brim on head, tricolour in hand.
Touches the pitch, saying I did my job, my sand...
Make everyone happy when he bats,
Now tears in every eyes, but everyone pats..
The god of cricket, jesrsy no.10......
This passion, determination, stamina, spirit & much more we'll see when? ? ?
In India, 'Its Impossible' is replaced by 'Its sachin'
Your Father must be proudly saying-'my son, u win'
The ladder he climbed, no one can reached,
Bye-Bye Sachin, How to be perfect, to us, You only teach! ! ! ! !
I’m no one, she thinks and smiles
to herself – imagining
when the world looks at her
they see gray hair and wrinkles,
sagging skin and dentures
those little things that remember
she has turned the corner on her fifties
soon she’ll be in her sixties…
dear heart, where has the time gone?
it was only yesterday
or a few years back, in the past
her skin was firmer
she didn’t wear dentures
or glasses to see better
she was graced with dark hair
with highlights from the sun
wore her pink bikini
remember, she was so young
oh, so young…
where has the time gone?
I’m no one special, she thinks to herself
even the night can see
beneath the shadows of my soul
there lives a woman,
beyond words, beyond hopes
she saw the truth of her youth
left on the side of a moment
where dying remembers
there are things that matter more
than gray hair and glasses,
dentures and flippant thoughts.
There is the moment when I see Him
His light, His grace, His love
pouring out hope through my soul
when the time comes
when the dying is done
will He lead me home?
Oh, Jesus… hold onto my soul
Jesus, never let me go
I’m a believer and that is enough
to remind me
despite the darkness of death
I will know a light that breathes praise…
There is more than this world
There is hope that opens the heart
Opens the door…
to everlasting peace, love that sings
throughout eternity
on the winds of His perfect will
on the light that can surely fill
on the joy that makes my soul still…
in Him, I find myself
the answer to this unending quest
for a love that never ends
a love that will surely prevent me
from remembering my fears,
the shadows of those long ago years,
before I knew the love
that comes to color the soul
of those who know the One
who brings life to those who know Him,
the ONE who is alive
throughout all time…
His name is Jesus Christ
and without Him, I’d never survive
the darkness that so often decides
I’m unworthy of this joy inside
I’m not worth what He did on the cross
but, I’m so thankful that all is not lost
because He gave His life, despite the cost
And He arose to assure hearts who believe
that He has saved them from
an eternity without His amazing love!
You see them all around these days,
braying loud on the internet,
people claiming that they’re victims,
demanding you ‘recognize’ that.
But when they explain what is wrong
biting back a laugh is quite hard,
half the things they complain of
don’t leave bruises, much less a scar.
I’m a victim because you don’t
call me demi-girl two spirit,
you won’t call me a woman when
surgeons gave me genitals the snip.
I’m a victim because I can
chose to stay home, let my man work,
take half his stuff when I get bored,
Patriarchy makes men jerks!
I’m a victim because some unknown fool
put a dark joke up on the net,
progress means thinking just like I do,
quick, call down the whole government!
I’m a victim because at work
they demand that I do the job,
my ancestors got a raw deal,
so pay me more, you racist clod!
That last part just amazes me,
thinking back upon Civil Rights,
back in the fifties and sixties,
and all that went on in that fight.
The blood, the stones, the dogs let loose,
the murderous Democrat Klan...
Did they suffer to be victims?
Hell no, but for the rights on man!
They wanted only the same chance,
be free of this nonsense of ‘race,’
now their grandkids want victimhood,
seems like quite the slap in the face.
Now why do so many want this?
Well, it seems quite easily to me,
they feel the ‘pain of victimhood’
excuses them from morality.
That because of bad part events
they don’t have to strive to be good,
they can do evil, not feel wrong,
not worry about all the ‘shoulds.’
A way to indulge without fear
of consequence awaiting them,
to make their sins look quite righteous,
to strip all restraints off of men.
So you can burn a building down,
beat people and make blood splatter,
and not have to feel bad for it,
since after all, Black Lives Matter.
And you can ruin livelihoods,
put whole families out of the street,
since, “They didn’t use my pronouns!”
Not care they can no longer eat.
You can walk through the capital
and never be locked up in jail,
but if the other side does it
then somehow that’s beyond the pale!
And while this may explain their choice,
there’s nothing that can excuse it,
If you want to be a victim
you’re really just a piece of sh-t.
Yo. From a whisper, barely a breath, to a front-page roar/ EAST COAST JAZZ in the fifties, sixties/
Not just blowing trumpets, but blowing up the jazz scene jazz/
LPs stacked high vinyl spinnin’, cracklin' truth in every hip-to-be way. Jazz LPs, popin'’ the Truth, etched in black and white/ modern Jazz on the HIFI/
Jazz woke the airwaves up and made the radio take notice; everything felt right. Radio turned on, folks got wise and understood, and Jazz got the blood pumpin' in the mean streets day or night/
If you wanted to be hip to the now, the real, the raw, Late-night clubbing and listening was law, absolute law/
Ornette Coleman, man, a wild, horn-blowin’ free-to-be jazz king machine/ Free jazz founder/ hear his freedom RING!/
Then there's Mingus, righteous anger in his bass, Collective improv, settin' souls ablaze. Lay into "East Coasting," on Bethlehem Records, and let the music soak you down/
Starch your mind with Mingus, that ain't no stereophonic joke! No cover charge here, baby, just pure, unbridled bebop to the cool Miles sound/
A caravan of cats, late-night jams, playin’ something new and bold, Europe callin', TWA Flight 978 ready to take flight/
The Big Apple throbbed, a concrete, jazz-filled hang, Saxophone Colossus, Sonny Rollins, so raw, New York summer Hot Rollins, defying every jazz law/
Moody and quirky, a genius in disguise/ Influencing the young horns, reaching for the skies/
Sonny Rollins, deep in jazz thought on a New York big city day/
Sonny wrote a brand new Jazz Forever heavy page/
The jazz world exploded, on the silver screen, a fifty-cent ticket was your soundtrack to life, a vibrant, vital scene/
"Take Five," baby, the pulse, the driving soul on a jazz beat on stage/
I'm on the Lex Ave Trane, headin' for Groove Street! hold on, hold tight, let Abbey Lincoln sing, while we map our next gig, let’s name our new LP/ the Big Vibe/
Yeah… East Coast jazz… never really dies… spinnin’ vintage jazz LPs to keep my head alive/
ECJ morphs… and lives… in our own soulful eyes. Give me a holler give me a shout I’m talkin’ what’s It all about/ Want to be hip? Want to be in the know? Then listen late at night, and let the jazz sounds flow.
24 years between 22 yards,
Records being made like palace of cards,
He is one who breathes cricket,
A player,whom no opponent can hate.
He plays cricket only,thinks everyone...
But playing with nos. Is his real fun..
His achievements are his identity,
He's a true legend in reality.
663 Matches,34357 runs,100 tons,154 fifties,200 wickets are enough to call him sir,
He's no other than SACHIN TENDULKAR..
Records are so,that can be written an encyclopedia,
Most times news,was he for media.
Head is at seventh sky,still feet at ground,
Kept every responsibility brilliantly,it is found.
Our Indian soil was blessed on 24 april 1973, when he born.
That day was for Indian cricket, a new dawn.
Family supportive,start training at 11,
His focus being perfect,that's why he has today heaven..
On 15 nov 1989, he came whirling his bat,
At 16,before pakistan,he was like before lion,a rat.
May start was bad,but determination was atmost,
Passing all hurdles,he reached the coast.
Then fours and six and runs and records.
Oh my goodness! Everyone has to laud..
Time was departing,so were players,
But immotile as hill,he was there,
WHat he cannot do was unanswerable,
His story in future become fable.
Those watching him play at childhood,share field with him,
But wrinkles in his performance was never seen..
Equalling Billgates' income he won hearts.
He was the whole piece,but then also considered himself a part..
Father's wish was to be a good human,
Now every father want such son.
Every thing achieved,giving father tribute asked-" Have i made it large?"
May height so small but deed so enlarge..
But every good thing comes to an end,
And so does when our legend descends.
With brim on head,tricolour in hand.
Touches the pitch,saying I did my job, my sand...
Make everyone happy when he bats,
Now tears in every eyes, but everyone pats..
The god of cricket,jesrsy no. 10......
This passion,determination,stamina,spirit & much more we'll see when???
In india,"Its Impossible" is replaced by "Its sachin"
Your Father must be proudly saying-"my son,u win"
The ladder he climbed,no one can reached,
Bye-Bye Sachin,How to be perfect,to us, You only teach!!!!!
It is not as simple as merely changing one's name
You must understand the cauldron before that came
And the hustler's hair caught fire burning into red anguish
And the water is disconnected to out the wish
Something about a mother's prayer and father's faith
Like all the islands were one Caribbean state
Jamaica and St Kitts came together beautifully in his fate
I mean the old Garveyite dead upon the track's wrong side
And from his Nebraska to Michigan the fire follows and chide
Those admitting schools where a child's vision died. Wait
Till the latch is pulled on the city's yawning gate. Here
Behold the child crushed into streets by livid fear
ii
So Malcolm by way of Michigan from Nebreaska came
Flesh "red" with fire, eyes knotted with black desire
I mean nothing to aspire to better than a street name
A pimp, a runner, a hustler and only addresses retire
From New York to Boston the criminal element slithers.
Through windows widowed of locks, and doors deprived
The white margin keeps the black space in small fetters
The heist hoist him over the humped wall showing real
Chain this time and literal boundary for a black dream
Religion is borm always in our stillness, bringing zeal
To transform our weakness, and in his a eyes a gleam
Making name and nature one in Islam's deep embrace.
Prison begins for Malcolm the new prosedy of the race.
This gentleman and a scholar, this soldier strongly suited
O glorious comes morning after pilgrimage of night
And through its light this self-made man of sin uprooted
Was Africa's apostle articulating her children's plight.
So brother Malcolm, like a native prince valiant and bright
Took on the citadel's of false history, and with all still
Stoop and lifted sultry minds of sable children with might
And with his balm of words O mended their broken will
Could you have seen him compared with himself in the fifties
Could have sat and listened to the legal logic of his mind
Humbler and humbler he became, a pilgrim in the sixties
But after the firebombing you know death is near behind
He then like his father forewarned came to their end
By tragedy, and for such only the great ones God will send.
One by one those behind the catchphrase
"An end to discrimination"
Took away freedom of association,
Freedom of choice,
The freedom to form groups with any rules that,
Might seem to exclude anyone at all,
Including the totally boring or the repetitive prankster.
Club after club were forced to give up on all their traditional ways,
Until there was only one club left holding out on
Their long held beliefs and traditions.
The one club,
That was prepared to challenge those who would,
Shut them down,
This oh so cozy little group,
Who were proud of their exclusiveness.
Wise heads within the club met with those who would shut them down,
To point out that they allowed women in the club,
They allowed men in the club,
They allowed people of every political persuasion in the club,
They allowed people who were bald in the club,
Those who were short and those who were tall were welcome in the club
People of every color and nationality and sexuality could join,
But the rule to be on a waiting list would stand.
The answer came back in a letter,
Stating that the rule was discriminatory,
And they were given 10 days to comply,
Or be disbanded.
Came the last day to change their mind,
Their ranks remaining unbroken,
Their resolve unquestioned,
Everyone feeling they had earned the right to be there.
They would not budge,
The ruling they would defy,
They would fight to the end,
One and all.
And they did.
They did them selves proud,
They battled for three long weeks,
Using anything and everything at hand,
And when about to be overwhelmed,
They used their weapon of last resort,
Their dreaded stink bomb,
So, those who were the eldest,
Could escape and start another exclusive club,
And this time people would have to wait,
Until they were over seventy to join.
Word of this development got back to the authorities,
An emergency meeting was called,
And an amendment was proposed by those present,
Who were in their fifties,
To re-establish the over sixties club,
With the waiting period allowed.
They could keep their moto "age has its privileges"
And everybody lived happily ever after.
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.
We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.
I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.
Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.
“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.
Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.
Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be ??affable.
Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?