Long Inexorably Poems
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What formerly got celebrated as adventitious age of exploration...
1492 unleashed, jump/
kick started, and downloaded
a bittorrent götterdämmerung
spelling genocide of indigenous peoples
occupying Turtle Island,
now surviving tribes
just a shell of their former grandeur.
At present Columbus day
linkedin with high dudgeon
courtesy scattered remnants
of once proud nations
occupying contiguous United States
plus calling Alaska and Hawaii
their happy hunting grounds,
enshrine actual or mythologized
spectacular pièce de résistance
instances when counting coup.
I recollect needing to know
scores of years ago
when a student attending grade schools
within Lower Providence District
as an important bit of information
contributing to (white washed) history
of western civilization
(and never forgot)
recalling the names Nina, Pinta,
and Santa Maria associated
with heroic measures undertaken
by Cristóbal Colón,
(but also been referred to,
by himself and others, as Christoual,
Christovam, Christofferus de Colombo,
and even Xpoual de Colón)
five hundred and thirty years ago,
who purportedly "discovered"
the Americas, when in
fact native occupants of the land
already dwelled upon
the then island paradises.
He/him and subsequent swashbuckling
gung-ho high spirited men
set sail across expanse of ocean(s)
exhibiting eager intent to claim
untrammeled storied quintessentially
opulently magnificent kingdoms
intoxicating greedy Europeans.
Blatant exploitation inexorably nudged
courtesy trickery vis a vis hook and crook
to grab good & plenty treats
forcibly wrested by violence
sabotaging the delicate webbed wide world
constituting millenniums of heavenly bliss,
where marauders wantonly ransacked
indeed lacking absolute zero selflessness
forcing diverse autochthonous nations
to acquiesce and surrender
ancestral grounds to aggressive, coercive
and offensive Europeans hell bent
to populate occupied territory
commandeering, humiliating, manhandling,
poisoning, subdividing, triangulating
every square inch
encompassing fruitful grand home
of rightful heirs to stolen
near boundless tracts
eventually hashtagging uncharted
pristine green acres
spanning from sea to shining sea
becoming commercial real estate
falsely claiming a haven
housing home of the free
land of the brave.
FOG HORN ON THE NEVA
Fog horn on the far off Neva dock
A canal bridge to open and unlock:
Today I heard its sound
Unmistakable note found
Implanted down in my head,
Coming today a word long unsaid
Across the railroad tracks it calls
To me through cracks in walls
And half-closed lattice windows,
Across the shadows and meadows
From far away in the salt water -
An ocean-bound huge transporter .
Took me back to porridge oats
And blanketless beds with cold coats,
Sharing a pillow with gran and mum
In a cold unheated tiny bedroom -
But warm as only a mother’s arm can be -
Listening on foggy nights with me
-To horns open Tyne’s swing bridge old,
And in foggy winter days cold
-To lost ships off Cullercoats moan
Trying to find the walls of stone,
The welcoming piers of heaven:
Sandy river’s saving haven.
I was taken aback to be taken back
Thus, on my hustling life’s track
I forget the real roots. I need
To recall from what did I proceed,
For often does my boat get tossed
And in the fog I am sometimes lost.
The Horn’s lament is familiar
Like a family voice or a prayer,
As a bird recognizes its mate’s call
No need to ask what it is at all.
It is friendly. To it I return.
To hear it I yearn.
Like my mother’s laugh,
Like grandfather’s cough -
I Know it like my own face,
It is easy to retrace.
As I walk on Nevsky Prospekt
Turning back the pages of neglect,
I hear it in the depths of my heart.
It reverberates as a note apart
And I feel it in the mist
Of time. It insists. I have missed
Its plaintive call for so long.
As a salmon returns where he belongs
To his birth river on the foam
I am drawn inexorably home.
Bustling Tyne ships are now gone.
Only pleasure yachts that leisurely yawn.
No battleships or tankers to see,
No river smells of sweat and tears salty,
But the horn’s fossilized lament remains
In sand-banks and sea-lanes
And memory banks retraced :
Memories never to be to erased.
Life’s mist becomes too dense.
Guide me in the fog thence.
Lead me to back to reality.
The horn is searching for me
From the past through the cracks
And lattice of my old bridge tracks,
Opening my mind to echoes of the past,
Holding my soul sound and fast.
When the 21st century stepped into its third decade, the major tone of the world sharply switched. Internecine confrontation, cartelism and calumniation snaffled the high pitch, while comprehension, cooperation and cosmopolitanism, like ill-adapting burdens and nuisances, are inexorably pitched out of the era's finickier and finickier register.
The last 4 years, principally accountable for the bend toward such trend, has a clear pattern.
Since the moment that pussy-grabber grabbed the oval office through foreign fix, everything seemed to have been predetermined.
Needless to argue: just as a train steering along its normal route suddenly swerved into an appalling aberration under multiple symptoms of systematic failure, poped up a chain of bizzare behaviors: a row of willful withdrawals from multiple international organizations and treaties, barefaced dunning over allies for protection fees, capricious veer of trade vanes highlighting haphasard jitters of tariff rates toward countries of utterly different natures and qualities, pussyfooting pace toward putin and patronizing pose before pals as well as other unpredictable hitches and glitches in the making and implementation of policies or even nondescript whimsical whistles that had perplexed many politicians, publicists and observers who believe U.S to have relapsed into isolationism, that is, paying more attentions to or becoming exclusively occupied in its own business with less or without interventions or concerns upon external matters. Many uttered criticism over this phlegmatic position, pointing out it was the isolationism that had connived at the fascist aggrandizement and caused the inadequacy of vigilance in the pearl harbor incident before it finally gave way to requisite engagement. But I have to say the wording of isolationism is simply unfitting nowadays. One can prove this by drawing a comparison between the degree of globalization of recent times and that before world war 2. As we take a glimpse back to the period around 1940, we can find that oversea entities and links were relatively meagre and the corresponding influence and leverage upon other countries relatively negligible. At that time, pursuing isolationism was more or less of a certain venial aspect.
(Please read part 1 first or this will make no sense)
To the scientist’s dismay, pressing the cancel button was ineffective. The plunge into his past continued inexorably. It, however, was not without its benefits. Henry’s skin became supple and his muscles bulged as in his youth. His hair returned to the light brown that he hadn’t seen in decades. For the first time in decades, Henry felt, not just okay, but good and joyous in his renewed youth. He decided to stop his slide into the past at about age twenty when he would have his degrees and could live his career over again. If his “other self” was there, Henry would assume a new identity and make a whole different life for himself. It was an unprecedented opportunity and he meant to make the most of it.
Near his birthday in the year 1970, Henry hopefully pressed the cancel button and was rewarded with a loud click. But instead of gliding to a stop, the time machine accelerated in its journey into the past. Henry experienced the hormonal rush of puberty and felt adolescent acne break out on his face. Within minutes, a reverse growth spurt cut his height by several inches. Soon, he was a young child at play, oblivious to the danger of his situation. The year 1950 saw a tot and then a cooing baby. When August 8th passed, the infant suddenly had an umbilical cord attached to a nonfunctioning placenta. Its two umbilical arteries throbbed desperately, but the return blood through the umbilical vein was not oxygenated, nor did it contain essential nutrients.
Membranes enveloped the devolving Henry who now had the “old man” appearance of a fetus. Then he became a blastocyst, ready for implantation in a nonexistent uterine endometrium. Within seconds he regressed to gastrula, blastula and then the berry-like ball of cells called morula. Like some weird countdown, he became 64, 32, 16, 8, 4, 2 cells and then a zygote.
The paternal half of Henry’s chromosomes disappeared next, leaving only an ovum ready for fertilization. Even that became an oocyte needing to complete meiosis before it vanished entirely in the immature ovary of Henry’s infant mother.
Henry Higgins, born August 8, 1950 and died November 8, 1949, physicist and time traveler is missing forever.
How can human deal with all the other animals with a sense of indisputable superiority? What makes them keep mollycoddling the mean motive of extracting from other animals as much as possible while paying little love or care?
In their eyes, our husbandry only meets their needs for fur, yet our holocaust serves perfectly to decelerate the covid's spread. What a horrible horde of "hypochondriac" hotspurs! Hence nothing but the humanistic & humanitarian outrage's outstretch has sped!
Mauling in flagrant air, they're unscrupulous in self-warranted villainies as the ruling species. Moaning in despair, we're in no position to defend ourselves as cheaply disposable herds. Sweeping and speeding, they have a crash compensation for covid curse coming their way by commencing a cruel culling campaign over pro-peace populations. Weeping and bleeding, we're creating poignant literatures which will snivel sanguinary historicity for later generations.
Does their ferocity really mitigate their discomfiture? Let's take a glimpse at the present picture------which can't be more self-evident------ As a series of crackdowns of necessity get under way:
Large-scale lockdown, shutdown, quotidian curfew, social contact constrictions, manifold travel and transport bans continually and constantly upset human's regular hours and cadences, all walks of life lapsing into doldrums or even standstills and every sector wading strenuously in the swamp of slump, covid sets out an exclusive trip at great ease, staging a worldwide itinerant show in extravagant style, pestering human being all around the globe, tossing them into a vicious circle of "everywhere they've fled, nowhere for them to flee", taunting their knock-off caliber in comparison to a veritable calamity of public hygiene and smashing their transgressive turgidity and turpitude inexorably and mercilessly. But ironically, the more toughly the real corona of covid gets human pinched, the more tightly human gets their imaginary corona clinched, of which the title presumes to be the universe's sole supreme, in which the content, however, contributes to sciosophist's sloppy ream.
Clipper Ships
My mother; she wasn’t there any more
Burned away in chemo radiology
Therapy for the incurable
As she lingered for a year
Lobotomized by cancer
But in her dreams she sailed her clipper ships
Sailed away on the mighty Cutty Sark
Indomitable spirit she was
Swayed by the poetry of canvas sails
A sea gull riding to the rigging
Until the coma took her
And us to a three-day hell
As we patiently watched her
Slowly inexorably fade away
Every last breath counted in longer minutes
But she stood bare foot on the deck
The salt washed planking oak wind swept
Beneath the great white wings blown the prow
Her heart pushed aboard the clipper ship
She sailed the proud sea the pride of her fleet
And every last breath in longer and longer minutes
She reached at last the very last
No goodbye, no farewell, just a soft emptying sigh
As at last; she escaped
Leaving us alone in the deathly silent room
Gone
Aye my lads ! She’s a fine grand ship
My mother said
My brothers and I stood gawping on the dock
The finest clipper of the fleet the mighty Cutty Sark
The great masts from which to hang your dreams
And ride the plumes of briny waves
She’s a thousand books of sailor’s tales
With rigging made from the strings of Neptune’s harp
She can sail from one edge of eternity to the next
In crematorium puffs of smoke
And now just ash
White wing gull she rides the slipstream still
Still; she sails her clipper ships
While on holiday in St Austell on the Cornwall coast of England, we saw a great sail ship
cutting through the rough seas. I remember my Mothers eyes were shinning and streaming,
her face a picture of rapture. Later that year she took us all to see The Cutty Sark. A
grand old Clipper dry docked at Greenwich London. I have never seen anyone so enthralled
and enraptured as she was, as we all stood on the deck. From then on paintings and models
of great sail ships frequented every wall and corner of our home. Paintings and photo's of
The Cutty Sark can be found on Google. Take a look sometime if you like, and you'll see
why she fell in love.
Pray masquerading hidden beauty,
Sweet innocent Princess Cinderella
She of midnight pumpkin slipper glass
For whom the ball bell's
Be spared your humble prince his
blushes of asking for your hand
and pleasure of your company
And so to please accompany me into the
banquet hall for the remainder on this
most auspicious summer evening
His Majesty quite inexorably is taken
with your strength and presence as yee
his confidence you have shaken
And he wishes to if nothing else discover
the name of said fair maiden woven into
that bespoken silken dress that grace
herself doth silhouette such blinding figure
of the number eight
If this be my kingdom i am over which to
reign then surely i duty bound as said king
should wish the fairest princess in all the lands
under my domain to take and marry as my Queen
and mother bare she and i a rightful heir to follow
the line of succession
For if the price of royal cross to bare is
duty before self then let me please this 1
concession have
Let me please for marry love and get to
choose she that which doth my heart desires
with a wanten passion worthy of an endearing
romantic fairytale ending where the protagonists
end up growing old together gracefully
So come the when the clock after
the bewitching hour of midnight 12 o'clock
strike shall you not be with a but slipper
left to seek you out once more
Rather we dispense with pleasantries and be not another
further single we a second lost just incase
either of you and i be in both in a state of
wistful dreaming
Only to be told my unconscious subliminal Julliet
was in reality to be in fact an unassuming passing
stranger terminal cancer patient who choose to spend her final moments reading
Shakespeare's Romeo and Julliet to me whilst i was
in my coma
So when in fact or if indeed eventually i was to
awake the time i lost could be permeated
by an empathetic soul by the voice of
an angel
Falling victim only to be branded with the mark by one of life's cruelest of intentions better to have loved
and lost than never to have loved at all
THE SUN, EARTH & MOON
(Alternative title: Sygyzy)
The sun is the past—
crucible of the
epigenetic light.
The earth’s the present—
inexorably
our arrogant might.
The moon’s the future—
a desolate orb
frozen in its plight.
Modern science says: The sun is the past, the earth is the present, the moon is the future. From an incandescent mass we have originated, and into a frozen mass we shall turn. Merciless is the law of nature, and rapidly and irresistibly we are drawn to our doom. ~Nikola Tesla
© Suzette Richards 30 July 2017
A PRICELESS GIFT
Everyone should consider his body as a priceless gift from one whom he loves above all, a marvellous work of art, of indescribable beauty, and mystery beyond human conception, and so delicate that a word, a breath, a look, nay, a thought may injure it. ~Nikola Tesla
I hold myself rigid within the framework of creeds
imposed upon me by the secular world at large.
I resist the urge to become totally feral.
A light shines through the cracked urn of my consciousness,
and challenges my intellect and the many preconceived ideas.
Reason and common sense hover; are peripheral.
I recognise that the frail husk that we dwell in
is the reason for our temptation and fleeting pleasure—
Our very earthly existence is ephemeral.
© Suzette Richards 1 July 2021
MAKING MY LIFE EASY …
From Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone,
to the electromechanical vibrator —
all invented before the vacuum cleaner.
Life as a woman has its perks,
but the drudgery of housekeeping
could leave many feeling meaner
than a nest of rattlesnakes.
But pay me some attention with an invention;
I will surely become a real keener.
I do not think you can name many great inventions that have been made by married men. ~Nikola Tesla
© Suzette Richards 10 July 2021
Written to coincide with his birthday, midnight 9–10 July.
The first 3 lines: These are all inventions by married men.
PS Tesla never married.
Also see my article: The Tesla 3–6–9: Poetic form since 2017
Alias indomitable invincible
Donald John Trump oozes wrath
inexorably plunging every species
of life toward apocalyptic warpath
mercilessly threatentens world
wide web promising bloodbath
validating ex post facto commander
in chief as nonpareil sociopath
hence... this call to arms gives run
for money challenging any psychopath
lest inevitable according to dead
reckoning prediction of
wisest sages calculated math.
Thus one poetic footsoldier doth broadcast
dire straits emergency, and inveigh
grassroots action mandatory meaning
registered voters must
cast ballot per se
else planet Earth will...
burn thermonuclear gray
rendering oblate spheroid
uninhabitable, I daresay
if bleak forecast father time doth delay
global warming would outweigh
former worst case nihilistic scenario,
nonetheless Gaia will serve
as repurposed ashtray,
whereby inextinguishable fiery storms
approximating calculus of doomsday
nsync with intolerable weather forecasts
if complacency rides roughshod field day
defying lack of immunization oy vey
against opportunistic unfamiliar organisms
viral and bacterial agent provocateurs
microscopic gangbusters
nothing could allay
winning scrimmage play
thinning overpopulation whereby
scavengers make short shrift
plethora once living flotsam and jetsam
perhaps requiring rotting, putrefying,
goods put on layaway
(type of foragers -
reference https://www.google.com/search?
client=safari&channel=mac_bm&ei=
KECaXe_UA6SO5wLh-7gY&q=list+
examples+of+scavengers&oq=list+types+
of+scavengers&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0i22i30.
58737.70074..70997...0.4..0.223.1875.
21j2j1......0....1..gws-wiz.......
0i71j0i273j0j0i131j0i67j33i22i29i30.
wnDI0kLrKWM).
now ye might hashtag me chicken little
synonymous to Rome burning,
while Nero did fiddle,
perhaps scaremonger i.e. Cassandra
alamist bah bing away, a realist foaming
at figurative mouth with spittle,
would you believe cautious optimist,
who presents prediction,
while this poem heed whittle.
Tiny misshapen meringues, puffs of cloud, float
Like lacework across the green and brown land
Far beneath. In the distance, they are a little
Bigger, yet still not the towering fortresses of home;
And the snaking roads, mostly dirt this far from city
Or town, can be followed from horizon to horizon.
At every intersection there is a cluster of houses
Tin roofs sparkling in the bright sunlight, with more
Strung along the roads, a twinkling necklace of homes.
The ochre earth is patch-worked into squares and
Rectangles, with seams of dark green; each bead
In the necklace of homes stands guard over
Enough for one family to manage, one generation
To another.
My imagination takes me down, down into that
Foreign land, into a world ruled by the rhythms
Of the seasons, planting, growing, harvesting; and a
Rare journey to a greater world to sell and buy.
I see the unrolling of years, with good harvests,
And bad. Children come and grow into the same
Rhythm, broken only to move further along the road.
Yet, inexorably, in the distance of my mind, the
Rhythm stops, a pause as a father takes his leave,
And a son begins the pattern of a new passage
Of seasons, each not unlike the one before.
It is the great breathing of the world; inhale,
Pause, exhale, Nature’s unconscious beat.
And I feel fear.
There is no natural rhythm in my life, no
Ritual of harvest home to count out the
Compass of my days. Here is where I am,
Not a place of dirt with familiar smell after
Rain; or tree that grows with me, each ring
Sounding the passing parade of years.
My world has not the sameness and comforting
Familiarity of a few rectangles of fertile land.
My horizon is the other side of the world, not
The line of distant hills, that I have been to but once.
I look down from my swift journey, continent to
Continent, and in my imaginings, I see that I too
Am one breathing of the world, as the farmer below.
And my fear is not of death, but of not living.