Long Minaret Poems
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Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
The gentle buzzing sound echoed memories of a fading childhood
When she and her cousin had whispered secrets at the mosque
About undying love and first kisses before being stung by a bee
‘Honey, don’t worry they make nectar and ambrosia is sweet’
She had just begun to wear a veil to protect her from luring eyes
But passion and adventure were stronger than foreclosing fabric
Fatima widened her crimson lips to a smile larger than persimmon
Teased dimples on olive skin into a conspicuous feast of desire
Almond eyes shone like candle light signals in flickering delight
Mustafa was mesmerized and knelt down to show his respect
Then held out his hands and touched the hem of her garment
‘Nothing will keep us apart as long as hummingbirds chirp and
The eagle in my heart pumps around life meaning and peace’
The two children took a piece of metal and made a blood pact
‘Now we are bound in promise for eternity and infinite joy
Maybe our parents will arrange our marriage sealed by a dove’
Now the fizzing in the sky turned into a shadow of fore-bearing
Grew loud and too uncomfortable for their young souls to neglect
‘Let it be a falcon with his talons bringing pride stealth and vigour
His beak will seal our connection with a pick of mellow salvation’
Impermanence beckoned however when the minaret collapsed
Their young lives dissembled into a surreal mirage of illusion
The hawk was a steel groomed assassin and bore a serial number
Doomed she lay in the rubble catching the dome of the masjid
And she was not prostrated in prayer but slain by the drone
Mustafa gathered her dissected remains and vowed retribution
Mopped up her blood with the veil of lost innocence and revenge
Today he drives a Toyota Land Cruiser through the streets of Aleppo
Gun barrel on top next to a black flag with white prophecy inscribed
The seal of misguided religion will not bring Fatima back into live
But he is a victim and dreams that one of the virgins in waiting is her
14th October 2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 -Bird-
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
____________________________
Dedicated to Ed Sheeran
Inside the glass the dry leaf was manifested, as a skeleton is prominent with all the inside structure and artistry.
I went to the voting center. I had nothing , completely nothing in my mind. Beto O'Rourke, some democratic other names , but I was not daydreaming, I was not dreaming at all, in a grown up body, I learn so little, after putting so much efforts, I feel I am getting washed away, and nothing sits there, nothing gets deposited there, as silt, sedimentation of particles, nothing too much sensual either. It gets washed away, as the river flows, as a present body embedded in the nature, out in the flora and fauna.
I had a ride. She is a beauty, with headscarf and white skin, she is a mirror of the past. flavor of cooked mosul of next door neighbor, where we had a big big masjid on the other side of the road, the name of the masjid was Minar Masjid.
The minaret was truly beautiful, and the curvature , also. Older days, in Bangladesh.
We reached the destination. She met a random person. I had so many complicated nuances in my introspection that I hardly talk about that. There is a narrow lane to be tagged as inferiority complex, and opening up about truer issues, where lights are making the pathway as our intentions are reflected on that.My mom was a old fashioned beauty, an old one, but vintage enough like the most delicate motif, as I touch the threads beyond time, without cherishing too much, without mourning too much for perishing either.
She was never an outspoken person. My older sister had a maxi, a long gown, a greenish one. Amma mended the gown for me, a downsized one, and did embroidery on the chest with pink and green threads. Her knitting was with a style, a reserved one.
Not every morn brings her back. Not these days. Not too often.
another Bukowski nightmare begins
the castrato sings below
while she calls from the minaret
fossicking thru the memories
for our linked verse
while i, sitting beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for some rabbit or Alice
oh incorrigible moon
have you no mercy this night
see the parade pass, the ithyphallic
the trilithon collapsing, time and gravity
another turgid, erubescent symbol deflated
another thought buried by time
and mine to waste
o moon so incorrigible
teach me not emotion
let me revel in callosity
let the mirror play tu quoque
let it speak for once
scream from the inner scotopia
where the predatism scutters
read to me another confessional poet
those in need
of yet another minie ball, open oven door
fill the pockets with rocks and rockets
o god more, more misery
rise and hail your innermost misery
you must suffer for literature
tempus fugit is a lead pipe cinch
that is the diphthong the calliope
never fails to sail thru
while surds and sonants bounce the walls
the coffee shop lustrum, ideomotion
learn to unlearn
supine beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for a rabbit or Alice
the urge for frottage
pushes us beyond logic and reason
suffering polyphagia between the limbs
where the eyes drool in
bushes of void commandments
now postmodernism
and i are even
i refuse to die for this revolution
i refuse the pitiful pitfalls
life's a grand adventure
taking in ever larger measures
i refuse to fail its call
i refuse
i refuse
hand me that bottle of rum
let's think about this
Fergus Falls 97
When tears dry up and laughter is not funny any longer
As duvet feathers grind the weary soul to sunken skin
The parchments dehydrated canvas folds the poet’s path
A cliche strewn among the notion ‘it will make you stronger’
Depicts an empty victory pretends to gather strength and win
The prelude of the past in future remains a lonely aftermath
Gone are the days of jolly frolic of showers gelled and Turkish bath
Of journeys tickling monumental Derwish’s allegoric spin
Despairing anger cannot shed an inner war’s destructive monger
With memories and wreaths of praise and laurel turned into wrath
Then conjoined before and after numbness seems your next of kin
A magic oriental carpet’s washed out fabric evaporates inside her
An ancient pleasure cruise shrouded in silence’s muted fanfare
Sails of plain cloth mystery weather worn in droplet’s silent fall
Its time and place and time-place for scented oriental candles
To rekindle a mosaic of epic proportions a glancing care from scare
From feeling so minutely small and festered no recipe for standing tall
Yet seeds of cinnamon and hope might just reset this hold of strangle
Meditation reclusive pastures enlightenment from darkness’ bangle
Retrieved from imposed prison shackles to praise to heal and call
‘I want to be the muezzin once more sing forcefully in ink and dare’
Climb my minaret resolve cacophony write messages to Self and strangle
All those demons massage my dreams and foresight grab the haul
Then conquer quietly as time proceeds ‘I know I can in solemn prayer’
" Beacon of Love, shine in the night of waning moon, whither thy lamp beams goest , the world will go, O light up the lamps of hope and love"
Eden Verse
Thou foster child of sea and night !
For thee send fairies starry carts
In stormy eves ' in horrid nights
Solace thou sailors sinking hearts
On watery canvas who made thou?
Thou are which Magic painter's art?
Thou saved the sailors numberless
In waning nights, O burning heart !
From centuries numberless you there:
Without a friend without a foe'
Oh one and only ocean's eye!
Moon of the world of ocean thou!
Thou are a far off Fairy's lamp
A ray of hope, a candle thou:
The ice_bergs look at thee in awe
The angel worship at thy top
Thou forlorn rose in midst of sea
Thou oceans meadows only crop;
Thou fruit of prayers of bygone days
From heaven's height on earth ye drop
At nights in oceans pitchy dark
For distressed souls a sight to sea
All shires, towns and kirks and dales
From thy height every scene we see
Thou silent voice , thou helping hand!
Thou foster child of time and sea!
No one can ever thou surpass!
Thou sole in all thy Family-tree'
Oh saving- angel midst of sea!
O savior of sailors at night
Oh minaret of hope and glee
For painful eyes a soothing sight
Thou saved the billion lives at sea
Thy burning heart so beauteous fair
For sailors, birds and lonesome boats
For every one a friend sincere
by Michaelw1two
Sunsets glow here in Al-Iraq,
it casts an orange beige;
fiery though its blister stare,
the horizon is still a dusty greige;
visual spectres shun its light,
twilight’s shield released its guige;
haunt these streets my squad and I,
my sense perceives vestige.
History’s constantly revisited,
through the cobwebs of my mind;
pathway trod by all humanity,
birth and death of man entwined;
humankind’s vistas temerariously adrift,
fate is intertwined;
plight creeps into my sensing thought,
awakes subconscious winds.
Night’s prayer sounds, the cry is heard,
drifting from lone minaret;
caution bleeds its honing sense,
we each drop glowing cigarettes;
masks filled of almond eyes peek,
heads turn to our receiving set;
desperation seeps, the mullah shrieks,
Allah Akbar, prayers duet.
Prayer beads, worn hands,
hot streets are lined with pious souls;
demands as such five times each day,
man’s religion on patrol;
unconscious, the kneeling mass,
into the square a shadow strolls;
thoughts delve into my mind,
danger, alert, my breath extols.
By din of voice the streets release,
men humbly prayer call part;
life here slowly turns, bodies duck,
my heart fades then it starts;
death wakens itself quick,
specific no doubt just read Descartes’;
exists last hint of bullets path,
my face is gone my soul departs.
Jan 2010
Blasphemy
Blatantly ephemeral or plain outright naughty and lustful
Praying for beauty in the eye of beholding passionate Gods
Angles and half dome shaped wishes curve balls and all
~ Those who write by the sword are judged by the Lord ~
Thanatos and Libido a close shave of mounds of Vesuvius
The Vatican going up in one shattering search of its smoke
Church towers like phalli or bayonets decree choice in the matter
~ Trust thy neighbor in her cove’s coveted olives and mangos go forth
Veiled femme fatals embrace their shadows cover the flame
The Muezzin shouts from his minaret calls for service and love
Lingerie adorned by copula’s cusp bosomed for nibbles
~ Wet shirt competition in the heat of the spiritual moment ~
An elegant elephant with trumpeting trunks moaning and groaning
Free flowing love on the banks of the Ganges under cloth of the loin
Where Hindu meets Buddha on sheets and streets of Kolkata
~ Begging for mercy as wars of religions and nations battle in vain ~
Crosses to bear half moons to envisage and Karma to please
One woman’s humid humour is another man’s satirical crime
Whose God is to command me what is right and what thong
~ But once the bloody atheist kneels on the altar faith is restored ~
03rd May
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
Benafim and Thereabout. (Algarve. Portugal)
The road I walk on is flanked by old stone walls, in fact, the scenery
is crossed by these walls but most of them have fallen down by now,
and behind walls almond trees. I can’t think of anything uglier then
these trees, grey, spindly with a few nuts hanging here and there like
discarded Christmas decor of yesteryear. But come February I will
wake up to a beautiful sight, the almond tree will be full of pink and
white flowers, which it sheds, petal by petal, fooling us to think it
snows in fairyland. Then it will be full of vivid green leaves, not drab
green like olive tree, but verdant as a woman’s dress when going to
a new year ball. This landscape has not seen war for eons, dictators,
presidents and generals have ruled and gone; they never came here
where the land has nothing to offer but beauty. But if you listen well
to nature’s murmour, you can hear an echo from an unseen minaret
an Imam’s melodious voice calling the faithful to prayer.
(Once upon a time Algarve was ruled by Moslems)