Long Loin Poems
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As you walk through the corridors of life, its highways and by-lanes, the
back-alleys and well-beaten trails, through lush jungles or the arid scorching wilderness you pickup tidbits or sometimes gems of wisdom at the unlikely places, from the unlikely people, sometimes very much alive and present, sometimes from long dead and forgotten.
you learn from parents
and more so from peers and seers,
life teaches better.
One thing I learned from Jesus Christ is that you have to carry your own cross knowing full well that you may be crucified on this very cross – sometimes you have no choice, sometimes you have to do it for the good of the people.
Prophet Muhammad taught me that when a revelation dawns on you, embrace it zealously. If you have enough people believing in your perception, you have begun a new creed.
Moses taught me that you don’t have to tread the well-trodden path. You can cut across the wilderness and still reach the Promised Land.
Buddha taught me that a state of enlightenment can only be attained by renouncing physical and material yearnings.
Mahatma Gandhi made me see the futility of war and aggression. You can bring down a mighty empire just be a wooden staff in your hand and wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
Mother Teresa made me realize that you can live your life unselfishly, working and caring for others and still make your life a success and fulfilling.
not of the heavens
nor of any astral plane,
faith is of the heart.
Nowhere is taught the skills to live a life. You are not born with an instruction manual. No one can fix it for you if you screw it up. And you cannot return it and get an instore credit. You cannot put it on lay-away. You cannot exchange it for another if you don’t like the one you got. You just got to make it work good for you by yourself.
But these bits of wisdom comes much later—at the tether’s end of one’s life,
when we have already put too many miles on and the seats are all worn-out and the dashboard all faded and dusty. When the brakes start screeching and squealing. When the engine starts making funny noises and the radiator begins to leak…
a life-long process
salvation lies in one's self…
seek none but thyself.
I knew him before they shackled him to chair
I contend, none knew him better than I
He's tall, charming, quite an elegant air
An athlete lissom, a kite in the sky
What happened you asked, what so deformed him
Crippled his independence, left him ill?
The doctors said osteo-arthritis
But a disease is never its own cause.
I will tell you how he told me, listen
There is a madness meaningless in us.
The happy night I went to sleep, we lay
Like children in each other's arms, snoring
The cockcrow and bird call woke the new day
Fresh air and old love, and life adoring
Shall we breakfast with family today
Or to some lake, picnic paired, wander free
A vehement no, a tone for the fray
I rose for the bathroom, shocked at lost glee.
I would return in silence, let her speak
The calf gets more milk just by being meek.
One step from hallway and into the room
I felt a sharp pain announcing my doom
A shadow from behind a door, a groan
My loins exploded in my head, nothing more.
How long was it, I cannot tell, a moan
Of pity, a kinder hand to restore
Consciousness again. The back crumbled then
Degenerated more and more with time
Things smelling salts and linament can't mend
He functioned well in intervening years
Running, swimming, the ardent athlete
A few interruptions, grimace and tears
For wasted life and love and great defeat
You do not start from bottom starting new
Again, but from a deeper hole of doubt
A deeper fear. It crippled him he knew
Not how, nor how deep the scar remain. Out
Now, you must go; leave the great spectacle
The man who prayed without miracle
And yet still believe this end serves some cause
Some greater purpose than himself. I pause
To reflect, then limped away, the sick loin
Begins in the old sickness of the mind.
What could he not have done, the great lovers
He denied for honor, the high esteem
Of wealth and fickle praise, but love covers
More than faults in the mangling of the dream.
The scholar, the poet, the statesman too
Wears shackle invisible on the heart.
Love measures the height of what we may do
Yet men go all the way in, not in part.
See your great spectacle bound to a chair,
Crippled, defeated ... perhaps, something there
Strangely smiling, beyond the eyes of fear
He's tall, charming, quite an elegant air.
When Humanity Cries
Message in my angry pen
Peeps yearning for release
To scrawl on white walls
Venom from a ‘ball’ sting,
Bane in an irate pen
From a daring ken.
I yearn to hug The Hague
With stumps for hands
Which were both chopped
By some idiotic bandit-
He’s on the Court file
I’ve reason to smile!
I’ll murmur woes of war
Into the cockles of its ear
Cut lips the Cross to kiss
Iron taste of cold metal;
Gone past pain of whips
My lip chopped as chips!
I see with my big Heart
Both eyes all gone blind
The sight is that of greed
Where no Civility thrives-
I presume they are stars
O Gosh! They are scars!
Weaklings trampled dead
Line each side of the road
Suppurating in cold dreams
Power of force flying fast,
Right is not so strong
But the strong or wrong.
Modest message peeping
From shadows called Ink
Yearn to release Graphics
Of Humanity crying;
Where Ghandi stood once
His ideals have no chance.
Formation is taking shape
In battle with poetic force
Frenzy poised to pounce
And denounce decadence.
Mother’s loin was torched
As Hiroshima scorched!
My Anger was aroused;
Like tinned fish so packed
And carted away from Home
To work another’s Farm;
Until I learned to read
I loathed this dread!
We cry, cry beloved groin
When another one dies
“He’s taken, taken by AIDS!”
I mourn, I travail, I wish......
Holding a dead child
I cry hoarse and wild!
I whimper like an orphan
Sucking Pen for a thumb
To draw the bitter Ink
And spit to the paedophiles.
Bereaving children fun
Evading his lewd run.
I smoke and sniff this paper
Scrawled this painful writ
That, perchance, putrid lungs
The message will massage.
I yearn for an injection
And not this rejection!
Where then is my mother?
Ah! A Kitchen Girl.......
Father? A Garden Boy
Boy and Girl at their age...?
Now I sleep not a wink
A wretch on the brink....
Ink tears well in my eyes.
I feel I’ve gone shorter
Rolling down the cheek pad
To leave a letter of pain.
I kneel, my sins to bloat
Till knees bald as a goat!
JM
29th Oct’ 2013
Watch me try and live a commital life of social norms, mores, manners, domestication, that tired ritual of boring sexual for the times at hande, which are still at least 30 yrs B e h i n d, if u know what I mean. Sex sells is everywhere we look, listen and remember and partake, but not in school. School says AbStInANcE, PARENTS say Never. Yea and do the math on your birth sonny or sweetie. HMMMMMMM, the month thing doesn't quite add up. Go to your room, none of yr business, yr to young to know about things like this. Instead of saying, I was an idiot and didn't use protection and I was a moron, because I let him. We love u just the same, and same, and same. We never learned our fluid lession. Thank God most cars today either don't have a back seat or u have to be a gymnast/contortionist to get anything done! Stay away from circus people and gypsys. No, just stupid would be parents, with no intuition as to the real, "pleasure" savers on the market. Been there, saw it aplenty, never happened to me as I kept in my pants, read, pictured, analyzed all other precautions that were ****** oriented withput cuming up with "that" surprise. My ode to my local pharmacy, their tight book collection, and the privacy for me to read how to pleasure a woman with all of my body parts except, oh wait, my nickname from my work patrons is Dirty Dave.Too bad they will never know the lenghts I took to make sure no little Collins' were walking the planet, unfathered. Someday we may get it right. But it must be-come from the parents; this is not a school measure- get clinical, get smart, get educated outside yr loin addiction and make unparalleled education at home happen. Not my job. You produced them from your own wanton, unplanned knowledge, unsuredness, mistakeness, or sexual stupidity. Your job is to sacrifice all to make them WAY better than you. Hence they don't beguile the same human life errors. Our planet is full of counter humans without love/affection compassion/empathy that act as infinite guideposts toour all future. Ignorance begets ignorance and ignorance is bliss,...and so on...,
Entrance into the Garden of Eden
An Exit Oft Repeated in Four Acts
By Sy Roth
Act 1—Somnolence
Smells of winter tickle a warm sun.
Crisp air,
Red, brown and yellow leaves,
Thrust the trees aside for their impending sleep.
They all come to the dance brushed
Content to revel in the gift of a cool early morning,
The commuter moms wave queenly to their spouses
The kindergartners snuggle at their mothers’ thighs
The yellow buses creep along the streets like multi-legged caterpillars.
They all bend their knees
With uplifted arms
They stretch in a free-day yoga plie.
The balance of warm sun and falling leaves,
Comforts them into a somnolent sleep
Cats resting on windowsills dreaming of nothing
But belly rubs when they awake
And the mothers remind themselves of the need for toothpaste at the local CVS,
While they ignore morning headlines that shout of a fiscal-cliff fall.
Act II—The Awakening Asp
Miles away a mother dies in bed alone.
Her dreams lay in bloody splatters on her morning pillow,
The house bellows silence afterwards.
Task one, a bloody heap of compensation for their silence.
He prepares to meet the crisp morning also,
To grab the low-lying fruit which hangs lusciously ripe in his mind,
Green fruit of the loin
Slathering beast of his senses
Giving way to knowledge.
The asp in his frozen garden sibilates silent messages
He happily complies,
Runs his tongue over his sandpaper rough teeth,
A fava-bean violence rests in the venomous one
Spits his triumph at the world.
Acts III—The crossroads meet
Garden of wishful dreams meets at 9:30 a.m.
Sounds of enthusiasm settle in in the lush green garden.
The air like a popped balloon
Is eaten by gunshots and screams.
A boy reacts in fear, in Room 303, and
She comforts him
Shoos the ghost from the room,
but it is insistent.
She hugs the boy closer,
Trigger pulled,
She brings him closer,
Conjoined twins in their new hell.
Act IV—Finality
He leaves for other gardens,
Remain in a loving embrace
All dreams flop flaccid to the floor.
Nuit magique (Awesome Night)
Catherine Lara
(A lilting catchy French tune with a " barbed " message addressed to oneself or to any damsel in distress. Free translation by T. Wignesan)
Okay
Il n'y avait rien à faire (One felt free with nothing to do)
Okay
Dans cette ville étrangère (In that foreign outpost)
Okay
Tu étais solitaire (You were all alone)
Okay
J'avais l'cœur à l'envers (I was feeling quite out-of-sorts)
Okay
Tout ça n'était qu'un jeu (I felt there was nothing to lose)
Okay
On jouait avec le feu (Though one sensed danger approach)
Okay
On s'est pris au sérieux (Yet one couldn't help being in earnest)
Okay
Le rire au fond des yeux (Deep down though one kept feeling light-hearted)
Nuit magique (Imagine)
Une histoire d'humour qui tourne à l'amour (An humourous episode that gave way to romance)
Quand vient le jour (When light thrust open the night)
Nuit magique (Imagine)
On perd la mémoire au fond d'un regard (One's thoughts grow blank in the depths of an absorbing glance)
Histoire d'un soir (As the evening drifts by and takes its toll)
Nuit magique (Imagine)
Si loin de tout sans garde-fou (Way away from home with your defences down)
Autour de nous (To keep us from harm)
Nuit magique (Imagine)
Nuit de hasard on se sépare (On an hazardous night one takes off)
Sans trop y croire (Not quite convinced)
Okay
C'est une histoire de peau (It's a question of skin colour)
Okay
On repart à zéro (One tries to start all over again)
Okay
On oublie aussitôt (Yet one forgets it happened just as quickly)
Okay
Qu'on s'est tourné le dos (Turning one's back on it all)
Nuit… (the Night…)
(The song continues with these lines repeated thrice :
Une histoire d'humour qui tourne à l'amour (An humourous episode that gave way to to romance)
Quand vient le jour (When light thrust open the night)
Nuit magique (Imagine)
On perd la mémoire au fond d'un regard (One's thoughts grow blank in the depths of an absorbing glance)
Histoire d'un soir (As the evening drifts by taking its toll)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, December 28, 2018
Tiny Window to the World
Marooned in the consuming gloom
Cut away from escape or from egress
Between me and the Wild World
Ly a tiny window
Through which I espy the world
By an open vista to teeming life
Sprawling across rolling mountains
And roiling waves of the sea.
Between me and the World
Is a Small Window
That paints and bestows life’s rupture
Window that avails treasures of nature
A small window never opened
Through which diversity of life unfold;
Happy people, sad people, mad people....
A tiny window that never let go
Abundantly giving a whiff of stirring colour
Dancing or twisting in wanton glee!
A tiny window
that never shuts or darken
Yet, forever shut me in its fold, its hold
Captivating with a kaleidoscope of races
Internalising me to its whim;
Not to look in one direction always....
To admire life beyond the gloom
To look beyond the tiny window
Onto the rhapsody of His Artifice
Pouring through the inspiring panorama,
To write with verve and gusto
To celebrate creation with rupture
To reclaim lost dignity with frenzy.
A tiny window,
so miniscule and so minute,
Through which no finger can caress the air
To catch a breeze blowing lackadaisical
To the dry sea and the frigid Equator!
Window that must let go of my lust
And quell the conflagration on the loin
A tiny window that sees not itself
That permanently keeps me in its hold.
That which, if you take it away,
You abduct me away into the darkness
To grope in futility and verdant folly.
Tiny window
Like a telescope drawing creation nigh
Or periscope giving form to tiny pestilent;
Life curling, springing and twirling
In unique idiosyncrasies of its nature;
Man attempting to play flagella’
By mutilations, mutations, castrations
Women and botox and lipstick and all....
Window that makes one want to close
Yet, at times, it makes you a peeping Tom!
This tiny Window, I fancy heard it say:
“Don’t close the window or curtain it
“For Africa speaks outside....”
That Tiny Window is my Eye!
08th Oct’ 2013
Tim is a thinker and operates within the logic of his brain
Reasonable thoughts solutions imperative webs rule
and divide analyses paradigms and guidance from hell
He googles and ogles centrifugal dispersion displayed
on the smoke screen of distracting internet searches
A seeker he is however the computer can think but not feel
He had encountered Dialectical Behaviour Therapy
with the message of emotions complementing his
cognitive certainties meant to assemble the wise mind
Zen it must be then but even the information highway
takes him to Zen Mate a platform for hyperspace security
He can’t even delete it once installed hook line and sinker
Zen Zero Engagement with Nonsense obfuscates imminent truth
looms large as he decides to simply be under a luscious fig tree
An orange loin cloth covers his modesty as he attempts humility
Yet meditation still takes him far away from Gautama Siddhartha
to associations of Gauntanamo Bay Cuba and Alejandro Fidel Castro
but what has Tao got to do with it anyway what about Mao Zedong
Tim’s soul drifts away from internal Peace he is not yet cut out
for relaxation and confuses and corrupts to settle in Nirvana
His begging bowl calls for saffron delight without caviar’s caveats
Descartes shouts 'Carpe Diem' Marx wants knowledge with action
Nietzsche implies Zarathustra but golden ‘zarat’ remains fool’s gold
and ‘ushtra’ the camel does not fit through the third inner eye
Why cannot simplicity be more simple when the here and now
drifts away towards where and when as Tim tries to capture
letting go and let God while enlightenment is clothed in darkness
Tim’s Nike trainers suggest he can do it and Greek philosophy
reminds him ‘Hic Rhodos Hic Salta’ to jump here and not anywhere
else but leaps and bounds refuse to reach outcome detachment
One day he dreams that he might reach what is so close but obscured
for now sandalwood fragrances incense his inabilities to achieve
the essential meaning of life without target driven performance
Lust has such a bad press
one of the seven deadly sins
of course people die in bed
but they may as well be happy
when it is indeed the grim reaper
who is greedy and gluttonous
L Lush divine coupling
U Underwear on the floor
S Senses on naked skin
H Heaven and pleasure
yearning for joyful release
desire and sexual yearning
passion coveting and craving
to be totally one with an other
petite mort rebirth of devotion
culmination of living and Love
L Lavender fragrance
O Olives’s tender juice
V Void of conception
E Engulfing sweet fire
foreplay and imagination
creative positioning
climax crescendo
an altar of union
satisfied longing
culmination of life
H Hailed be our fun
Y Yielding restraint
P Piety discarded
O Ovations unfold
C Crisp tenderness
R Rivulets of flow
I Indigo Kama Sutra
S Sex at its best
Y Yardstick coupling
you hypocritical purveyors of sin
heretic lowbrow Philistine oafs
minds loin clothed in denial
cross eyed spoil sports
probably don’t get enough
and envy my rapture
02nd July 2020
The theme park was crowded. Elephants on roller coasters, mosquitos bracing the water slide, ferrets enjoying the ferris wheel and leopards shooting crack in the gallery. A myriad of personification and abundance of fairy tailed suggestions. ‘Its a small, small world’ blared from Magic Mountain as Cinderella dressed up as an indentured laborer in a fancy shoe shop. A comedy of terror ensued in the ghost train, conducted by a retired wall street banking giant resuming the corporate identity of a demon slayer. seemingly seeking redemption, but of course, he had another ace in his sleeve.
All animals were equal but of course the apocalypse had struck in 1984 and the Lord of the Flies was buzzing disguised as an orange clock, collected tickets and sold strawberry ice cream.
An English patient from a nearby lunatic asylum, thought he was a beetle, but Kafka had married Mary Antoinette and was sipping champagne from her braw. She, for once was not eating cake and was thus unveiling the myth of leavened bread at her altar. A merry go round of deception in the snake pit in which a contortionist was trapped in limbo and loin cloth from hell. Mary Magdalene teased him with with a vile of anti venomous serum and soothed his wavering agony in anticipation of saving the world.
Hot cross buns offered cold comfort, but the world was on withdrawal after management had banned coke as a sugar substitute. Sweet dreams were made of lactose free roach skin and the party dwellers reveled in aspirations and nightmares, elevated to prime position in the national canon. A truly amazing ode to joy and poignant distraction from the pawn shop of modern living.
But when the bell struck midnight and Dali melted his digital clock, all went back to the nothingness of the human condition. ‘Your shift starts in eight hours, nothing has moved because of a little fun in paradise’s ante chambers.’ Thanks God the crowd were already wearing their flannel night gowns. ‘Gotta live life to the full and heaven can’t wait.