Long Greenness Poems
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Harm Of Will
To be disturbed by the wake of night
Only too tired to actually know how to feel
Yet dreams awoke for not my sight
So serene perhaps, to understand its real
A story once began, shall never end
Distinct was a memory to remember, to once again believe
And a time indeed, of it to be stolen from this one man
Must an afterlife be a living dream to no longer achieve?
And I refused to admit to this vision I’ve seen
Yet can I be stubborn still, for I’m afterall mystified
Simply I knew it isn’t just an ordinary dream
To realize the warrior being me, did in fact had died
Then came the unholy Askance to assure its all true
Certainly as becoming, the befallen angel Ei-rian, intrude as well
And having lived a life, known to none least the few
I’ll say life is but a dream mirrored reality no others beheld
For the longest while, I know I’m dying from within
Is the Angel of dreams watching over me?
Death smiles while the devil sings
Living a forgotten past, knowing a love is never to be
A demon who speaks, an angel who sighs
Both seeing me as a warrior I never knew I am
Walking a lonely soul where untouched memories denies
Towards a harm of will, as black as any shadow to a man
{Thirteen was a chime heard from the deepest of mind
What once was darkness, was now but lights there shine
The lyrical aria once again voice the children’s cries of agony
Thundering ever louder then before, their unwanted misery
And just as the overpowering chanting had began
Came was then the moment of tranquility when all became calm
His wings, rooted with trails of gold reflects upon his skin of scales
As he emerge finally with an awaited command at his will
Then at the raise of his masculine hand, the children vanish
All that was left, was but me staring at the very greenness of his iris}
“Welcome once again, Knight of the Word
So long yet soon enough is my words to be heard
The past you knew not to live within is perhaps inevitable
Yet to remember to believe, neither is it totally impossible
Visions from time to time one sees, is when one believe
Reality is the only reason you are blinded from to perceive
A mind chooses to follow where one can hear or touch
Simply to a misguided judgment when a feel is just as such
To day I am thinking
About those memorable moments
I spent during my childhood
Amid the natural surroundings of
A deep lake surrounded by a dense forest.
The forest was so tall, deep and green
With its fearing darkness some where and
It's alluring enchanting beauty every where
That it was difficult to resist visiting the forest
Almost every day.
The lake was so heavenly beautiful calm and quite
Like the quietness of the sound sleep
That I use to sit for hours watching the dancing
Fishes and water plants and mosses and the setting Sun
While dipping my feet in the friendly lake water.
Oh, the pleasure of those moments
Is still alive in my mind
Like the Daffodil’s of William Wordsworth
And it often flashes in my mind
Giving me the same pleasure and Joy
Which as a child & Youngman I had enjoyed
About forty years back.
In these forty years lot many things have changed
All around me, including the Lake of my Allen Forest
A thin Lake is still there, visible during rainy season
But without that clear water and the quietness of Sound
And the forest has no longer remained the same
As it use to be about Forty years back
When it use to fill me with the joy of it’s refreshing air
And the Music of birds, falling leaves and the sound of silence.
That old lake and that lush green forest has left a deep impression
On mind and heart giving me the blessings of solitude
And making itself immortal in the minds of those who
Had seen it in its prime beauty and greenness
I often remember the man Allen who had built his small dwelling
Surrounded by the forest near the Lake and made this forest more
Beautiful without disturbing the natural surroundings
To enjoy the Blessings of Nature in its fullness about hundred years back
I am thankful to God for giving my childhood an opportunity of
Living amid the blessings of beautiful Nature - the Allen forest, the Lake
The Patther College, and the Holy River Ganges, which still flows at a
Little distance now instead of touching the forest
As it uses to be about forty Years back.
Kanpur 5th Nov 09 Ravindra K Kapoor
Patther College is a Hindi Word means Sand Stone made building
CHAPTER 7b (Ipiki, continued)
Which had shared their lofty tree-nest
Now the bats abruptly vanished
But for one unlucky creature
Which the hunting snake now swallowed
And, its scaly torso flexing
Disappeared into the foliage
Which regained its normal greenness.
One black leaf however drifted
Gently down onto the sleeping
form of Matto, who now waking
Saw this gossamer-like object
Resting on his naked midriff
Soft as air and light as moonbeam
Black as night, now slowly stirring
Matto took it very carefully
In his hand and looked more closely
"It's a baby bat", said Kwona
As the family huddled round him
Then the dark winged creature fastened
Tiny claws round Matto's finger
Han and Kwona then permitted
Matto to adopt the batling
For a second time extending
Succour to a helpless orphan
So they talked about the naming
Of their Pipistrelle companion
He was cute and very squeaky
So they called his name "Ipiki"
By their keen young ears the children
Heard the language of Ipiki
But their parents could perceive no
Inkling of his high-pitched chirping
Matto made himself a necklace
Woven out of fibrous fern fronds
From the necklace hung Ipiki
Sleeping as they walked in daytime
Then, since bats are nighttime mammals
He would wake up in the evening
Matto fed him grubs and insects
Which Ipiki snapped up gladly
After several days, at sunset
As the bat bestirred, it spread its
Filmy wings and fluttered skyward
Circled several times near Matto
Then crash-landed in the bushes
And his maiden flight was ended
But the bat grew fast and strengthened
Gaining skill and flying further
Matto found that soon Ipiki
Had no need of finger-feeding
With his bat acoustic senses
He could capture flying insects
In the darkness. Thus at nighttime
As the family ate together
And retired up to their tree-nest
Then Ipiki would awaken
Stay some moments as the children
Cradled him between their fingers
Then would flutter through the night air
Circling round their tree encampment
Keeping up a kind of vigil
Near the family through the night hours
And from that time on they suffered
Less and less from biting insects
When you sang, dreams croaked, then you ceased to be a volcano,
It was simpler to become a rock, not letting yourself be unraveled by the waves of myopia.
After seasons died in your arms, resigned to your cold might,
You questioned if perhaps all flowers tear their petals in vain for you.
You were left emptied of greenness, a vast void where echoes can't return,
You've lost the appetite for light and horizons, a crownless tree in the purple twilight.
Oh, how you wished to remain the same old fir, clutching a world of rays to your chest,
But you let the day slip into night, you departed to become the leaf you await to fall.
Nymphs in chorus called you to shout again, for the wind to blow in your blue day,
But you stayed silent, and in your silence the tear of the sea extinguished in a fist of foam,
You feared the equinox that doesn't come, the persistent remembrance of a song once drawn,
And you feigned your existence into a white beginning of hibernation, like a silence before a revelation.
Do you believe that once you bloomed, the storm can't break the branch that holds you?
You stopped being the barbarian that made the echo in the mountain laugh at itself,
And in exchange for smiles, a sad pass settled on your face, casting long shadows,
An unanswered question that floats above you, a flight that no longer knows how to reach its destination.
Ah, you’ve lost her, that fearless bird that used to scent the filters of your soul!
You've ceased your word, halted the depth from caressing the root of the sky.
You've forgotten the whirlwind that lifted you above the world, and now you search for meaning,
You are a snail without a shell, feather without flight, a ripple without an ocean, a sky without a constellation.
Is waking harder? Is oblivion gentler than the sweet pretext of remembrance?
You wonder why the stars do not answer your indescribably late call,
The road back seems too long now, legends speak of new beginnings, barren horizons.
Slowly but surely, you lost it... in a pass of slippery fog over your world,
Now you are the slave to your own echoes, seeking a mirror in me so you can breathe once more.
Part Two
Till October comes around with its bounty
The granary stuffed to the full
Lush fruits still pulpy and juicy
Ripen to a filthy rashes on skin brashness
The greenness of innocence
Turned to an over-ageing dun-yellow
Tell-tale sickening silliness
Soon detached the firm leaves will lie
Thick on the ground spurned and trampled
Earlier than the appointed hour
No matter
Recourse to pins and stitches
Breast uplifts
Straightened nosebridges
Dead Indian women’s chevelures
High straining buttressing stilts under heels
And thick sticky chemical tasting paint
Squeezed carcasses concentrated musk
Furs of bludgeoned seals and foxes
Haute couture paid through bankers’ loots
Or the easy secret service paid trysts
Through hard-earned tax payers’ sweat
In five-star deluxe hotels
Will lengthen the hour
Yet
In the boudoir
Yes
Pity the woman
She has but a score years
from teen to thirty-five
Before men take her
for a whore
Some women know this well
And cleverly work to use this sell
She’ll kick and thrust her lolly chops
from bum to cheek
In the later Heaven’s southwest sky
Fascination oozing from her loins
The sacred portals of propagation
Bruised all over under fire-dragon skies
Bloody a limb or two out of joint
and the gnawing ignominy
Of having relented in June
Sowing your wild oats
with the blessings of 13.7 billion years
The trained and disciplined chromosomes
Without the company on whom to work her wiles
and sap nourishing energy to continue
She’ll seek the riotousness of her ilk
and at autumn’s summit
At the height of smoldering flesh
When worms and germs
will make a merry feast
Of the beast in her meat
Let her fade away with her booty
Seek not to set right wrongs
You have only yourself to blame
For thinking easily entered gamboling
Will not be made out to be your aim
For weren’t you then the spirit consoling
© T. Wignesan, May 10, 1987 (rev. 2012, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)
"My mind was once the true survey,
Of all these meadows fresh and gay,
And in the greenness of the grass,
Did see its hopes as in a glass..."
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Windswept village,
Ancient 1836,
Tornado torn,
Blasted to bits.
Here is the steeple,
Here is the bell,
Here is the clergy,
Hurried to hell.
Perception: paragraphed.
Gracious gusts of air sliced through the saloon and side-swiped the sheriff, newly
desert bound. The blacksmith, now inclined to move, found his organs strewn
amongst a congregation of cacti. Somewhere in the busiest part of town, 3 iguanas
regained their birth-home.
Desert;
Impatient tumbleweed,
Sole-searing sand,
A band of train robbers,
A lonely locamotive.
The charcoal smeared engine breathed gun-smoke. 3 men, wild-eyed from birth,
filled burlap sacks with yellow shapes, shiny prisms, aurum, gold bars- money. They
were wearing greed, 50 pounds heavier in offensive sunshine. Miraculously, it took
them 20 seconds to escape to the southernmost point of Death-Valley. The robbery
and the escape were a success, but the men were dead: they were tornado-
transported.
Studescent schoolhouse,
Sleepy seminars:
Murderous math,
Luminous literature,
Romantic religion.
Guillotine glass,
Wind-wood,
Bothered Bonnets-
Homeless Heads,
Breeze bent bowler-
Motionless men.
"God is art, since we can't form him in marble, or smear him on canvas, we paint him
as the ocean, as cloud-air, both flora and fauna, and most importantly in our
selves". Dogma drags down drooping doors: dripping mouths, students torrid in
tantric trance, minds elsewhere. Bethany's brain is buried in the bestial sands:
Cyclicide.
Oh ancient town,
forever replicated,
no memoir shall remain,
of days undecimated.
1836,
is all but mixed,
in the minds eye,
where chaos is free,
and order bound,
to sight,smell,touch,
and sound.
1
Last night dinner
with four couples
points out the difficulties in living together
and apart.
Even the
son of a wealthy doctor, disdainful of
inebriates more artificial than the moon,
full, full of joy for humanity
and life
suffers deepening depressions
like the mist outside a lamplight.
It was a good restaurant
expensive but comfortable
in the alternate life-style way
the cook was a hairy
talented clown
and we clowned though beneath each
facade
was turmoil and decay.
We lay
beside each other like bones
in a boneyard
and find joy (I do anyway)
in the bone dance
to bone music.
2
Without a thought for slash fuel
or deer, the mist
deepens and deteriorates upon
the mountain. The mountain
completely unaware
of its greenness. The ice
is centuries old.
A red-tailed hawk
floats above the unit
observes what small mammals, birds
are in the clearcut
Awaits
the moment
to strike
or fades away almost
silent as the mist. I dream
of it, though I am awake
among my co-workers, the bullet
system zinging cut logs down
to the road, bones.
3
Pardon
me you mountains
for coming to the edge
without mystical knowledge
or belief, only love and wrinkled
eyes for the women and men who
light the fires and wield the chain saws,
drive the cat, swing the ax, I
completely laugh among them like a god
yes, although my face is a mask of hate
and pain, what god does not come to this field
of flowers out of fear and confusion and chains
product of the hot anvil and hot engine
of human history.
This duality, these bone-breaking dualities
this volcanic eruption erupting from some
confluence of beheaded forces, one
powerful with eternity, one
blinding with intensity, meet
and in the middle is me.
It’s slicker'n two wet snots out there today,
my crew boss warns.
Life bests my best synthesis of it
so I begin to pray
for a happy combination
of sun and mist.
Song of the Sea
The giant of Africa the great Nigeria
Land flowing with milk and honey
The garden adorned with gold and pearls
No! The rogues will not cast their spells
The axe in its adventure is capturing and
falling the trees in this garden
The birds are flying away
leaving their eggs in fallen nests and
Their young’s in the care of the hawks
that hides in the crevices of the (ASO)rocks
Their melodious songs ceased from the shores of our ears
The rhythm of their chorus is gone
O malicious describes musical notes of the new song
Mischievous is the beat that lace the chorus
The chorus i called democractic carol
Mostly sung by the democratic parties
and that they do without sympathy or empathy
The terrorist like an adventure with pleasure
ran through this pasture
Ravaged the age long value of our culture;
Of progress, unity, love and peace
Giving the ‘vultures’ an adventure
The greenness of your field is fading
that is done majorly by greediness
O my God, they do that with readiness
Your fruits are falling in false labour
The trees are giving up their flowers - their true beauty
O trees thou were made to shed your leaves
When we need rest beneath your shadows
The sun of Democracy raced and hurried from west to east
The race of the sun from west to east is to set
O Olympics of power in Nigeria
Will the sun of democracy in Nigeria
at this time set in the east/south-south?
When we needed its rays the most
Will the north and the south/east wait and
watch it rise again from the west?
The moon also took refuge in the silver clouds
My walk through the night can’t be a solo walk
The stars are still shining and that keep me singing
I could hear the voice of the blue sky calling onto the blue sea….
“Oh God of creation, direct our noble cause.
Guide our leaders right, help our youths the truth to know.
In love and honesty to grow and living just and true.
Great lofty heights attain.
To build a nation where peace and justice shall reign.”
(I felt empty
But no more I sense the hole,
A feeling of loneliness,
Had coaxed my heart,
To the beauty of hope.)
The greenness of my earth,
Was dwelling in the shadows,
Like the late winter's night,
My path to love was veiled,
By disbelief.
My insight was lost,
Looking for the answers in the
light,
Unaware of the flickering flame,
That was lit in the dark,
Bright.
I went looking for the pearl,
In the depths of the ocean,
Bewildered by its vastness,
I stopped my search,
Oblivious of the pearl being
guarded,
By an ugly shell,
Lying unseen in the waters,
Yet floating in the shallows.
I walked the garden barefoot on
the grasses,
Trying to relish the softness
beneath my feet,
Unknown of the slits,
Which were caused by the rough
gravels,
Along my path.
The blood that poured,
Highlighting the rail,
Towards the blooming marigolds,
Which I travelled.
While picking the marigolds,
My eyes rested upon,
The single thornless red rose
blossomed.
Fascinated by its beauty,
I forgot about my dismay,
And went to collect it.
A single dew drop rested upon
its petal,
And the aroma felt rejuvenating,
The dew drop was like my
unfound pearl,
Also the flame in the dark that
was flickering.
I looked in the dew drop with
careful eyes,
And it was like a small mirror,
I could see my reflection looking
back at me,
A sudden recognition calmed all
my fears.
I was being embraced,
By the gulf of pleasant air,
And the earth sent ripples of joy
from beneath.
I could hear the birds singing of
love,
And the sky blessing me from
above,
And the freshness of the
approaching spring,
I could breathe.
The beauty of the rose,
Had beautified my barren land.
A sense of contentment,
Washed all over me.
The gaping hole in me was filled
with hope,
And I was at last complete.
My friend has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss her so much.
The drapes are drawn
I have to see, cannot be closed in
I miss my outer side so much.
Outside, last winter’s trees are clutching a few leaves,
I miss their bare bodies so very much,
I miss the broth of green, its absolute greenness,
where did that color go?
The turtles of May are here early,
I have missed their wet-eyed sleepiness,
missed them, for they arrived early.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
is so easy to miss.
The May blossoms arrived in secret,
were daubed quickly by wood elves,
soon they will run out of pink and white paint.
My friend will come back with the chicken stock
and a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss thanking and dispatching a live chicken,
miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of the plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock
the mise en place of coq au vin
miss the taste of past meals.
Today I will cook some missing ingredients.
Dandruff clouds on the rim of my spectacles,
I miss the clarity,
miss the glossy curls of middle-aged poetry.
It’s almost unbearable to have missing teeth;
the stars have full gleaming sets
they are surrounded by mouths
everything is in order,
everything is hungry and surrounded by mouths
the perfection is unbearable.
I miss the farm-wise cat,
the sheepish dog and his waggish ways,
the strange speech of men looking for women.
the mélange and medley of fat times.
Nobody settles for consommé anymore.
I will miss cracking chicken bones today
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend rushes back from the shops
just so she will not miss seeing me.
If I am left alone too long I tend to make lists,
get too empty
and disappear for a while.