Long Monsoon Poems
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Heavy and eerie silence reigned therein,
The dark rooms looking as sullen as mean,
As if they had taken serious offence
Against me who had failed in their esteem,
My heart feeling contrite was heaving tense,
To have halfway deserted my fond dream.
No one was there my inner thoughts to share,
None who so some forgiveness to me spare,
Aimless I wandered into my blank mind,
And wished I could that royal guitar find
To inveigle my heavy heart to sing:
O Fire, this poor moth that in vain wished once
To fly away, hast returned broken wing
To thee, forgive him just this one instance,
Burn away both his wings and make him lame,
Nay, consume him in thy red scorching flame.
As I wailed clue-less, my soul sinking low,
Two warm teardrops fell from above on brow.
Dark and deep clouds hung overcast on hills
That day, the gloomy woods and bare river
Awaiting in suspense with monsoon drills,
An ominous calm prevailed all over.
And soon it all shivered— land along sky,
A wild tempest blew forth O howling by,
Through pathless woods glaring its lightning teeth,
Like a raving maniac snapping chain,
Wishing to unleash hell, terrible pain
To whoso there’s on hills, whoso beneath!
And not a soul around was in the camp
To wipe dark of my heart, nor light a lamp,
I could sense: a woman lying on face—
On a carpet below the bed, clasping
Her wounded heart, and pulling hair in stress,
Blood trickling down, in utter pain, laughing
Still, bursting into a hard wringing wail,
Now, rend her bodice, now beat breasts gone frail,
And from nowhere winds roared in from windows,
The pouring rains soaked further her sorrows.
Through night the storm never did cease to rage,
Nor did my fair lady's passionate cry,
I wandered from room to room, a blind man,
Unremitting sorrows my companion,
And yet none there who could have consoled me,
As I heard the cry: ‘stay back, all is false',
Maher Ali the mad was there, no doubt,
The old tenant of this odd wailing house,
‘Tell me what’s false?' I could not help but ask,
Waiving me off was how he responded,
Repeating, ‘stay back, stay back, all is false'.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali, Kshudhaarto Paashaana.
Part Two
Do you remember your run-up to the crease
your Lindwall-delivery dragging the clasping flannel round hobbled boots
your anger
at the wicket that went on a no-ball
Do you remember your opening bat
that snicked the runs to leg and off
which dozing umpires signalled as byes from pads
Do you remember Brigitte
her perky bobtail
her boucles of prancing hair
lances on her forehead
sickles on her verti-vir-ginous temples
Where are the bridges you have crossed
and those you had planned
and those you saw grow pebble by pylon and cementing stone
where the roads you laid
up virgin forest and limestone
Where indeed the buildings you repaired
erected
re-erected and razed
and the thousands and thousands of miles
you rode the wild seladang of the primeval jungle
hand on hump
with no stars in the paly night to guide you
through venomous blukar
and the boiling green torture
seared deep into your burning entrails
these that now have run out on you
Watch now how the river glues under your fuming stare
when the monsoon torrents sweep the knock-knee-ed pylons to a side
those dry as split-bark legs of yours
itching once too often in comforting company
though a little spindly for a Pied Piper
Yet you made the puppety Peninsula run
down drains and monsoon pipes
to a purge-full sea
Who is there now who wouldn't wake to your fits of irrupting gurgly merriment
to ease the tension
amongst unlikely fellows
Who who wouldn't miss your seething whiteheat glee
at his side
You who knew how to accompany Kay and Richard
up to the closed door of your last night
a very good night on your lips
Your opening bat's duty done
the side shored-up in safekeeping
the last fast breathless ball you faced
nicking the bails off
You needn't return to the pavilion
for the standing ovation goes on
for you Bala
long after the cloddy-stumps lie slain on the tiled floor
© T.Wignesan 1993 August 8, 1993 - Paris [from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
Thank you for the culture so rich and colourful
The silk woven fabric, tribal clothes, so wonderful
Thank you for the rice, chapati's, and street food spicy hot
It touched me the poverty though
Which showed me to appreciate how much I have got
Thank you for the cows that wander in and out of traffic
The rickshaws, chaa wallahs, loud horns
It all feels so chaotic, but magic
Thank you for the monsoon rains, the heat and humidity
The cold northern air, but not the pollution in the cities
Thank you for the coast line and sand dust in the desert
And the mighty Himalayas
That rise up and remind us of a Tibetan presence
Thank you for the land it felt like my second mother
It showed me the way home to inner peace like a no other
Thank you for the Ganges
The most spiritual river on earth
Thank you for the belief in a possible rebirth
Thank you for the North, South, East and West
India has a gift I wish to share with the rest
Thank you for the people a billion or more
Friendly and open, spiritual hearts galore
Thank you for the religions so diverse yet the same
Thank you for showing me how to sit still again
Thank you India for giving me back my life
I never expected you to introduce me to my wife
Thank you for the knowledge of yoga and ayurvedic craft
Most of the world doesn't know everything you gave us
In the past
Thank you for the ancient places where a sacred presence lies
In the mosques, churches and temples
The burning of incense can open your third eye
Thank you for the freedom you give to walk your own path
From villages, yogis, saddhus and sages, sit and meditated
In the smoky grass
Thank you for the knowledge of I am, I am
Thank you for Shiva, Krishna and Brahman
Thank you for meditation, musical ragas and art
You have taught me a lesson that the ego is an illusion
And not that smart
Thank you for showing me the light in your eyes
The street children I bless them that they will find their prize
I bless the land of India today
God bless the people because daily millions pray
For themselves, for animals, for nature and us
They know and they live with the truth
One day we will all be dust
Thank you India, you inspire me on
I will hold you in my heart
Until my words are long gone.
Transitions and Contrasts: Just like the Seasons
Scorching, sweltering, drying, draining
The Candle of the Sky, now a supernova
Chirping birds cry out for drops of draught,
The strays of streets too, dying or suffering.
The poor farmer’s heart, broken,
Like his dry and barren field and feet.
His wife’s sweaty palms trying to support
The pot on her head, and the babe on her hip;
Her anchal over her face, trying in vain,
To shield it from heat and dust.
Fifty miles away,
The businessman complained,
His AC is not good enough, and he can’t sleep.
Then the rains come down,
Soaking the land, pleasing the heart.
Kids splashing and screaming,
Coffee mugs and snack trays steaming,
Isn’t it time for music and romance?
But the single mother who couldn’t go to work,
Worried about her leaking roof
And her child’s still wet school uniform.
Spring came, colours and flowers,
Is there a fragrance always in the air?
Butterflies and dragonflies shimmering,
It’s time for festivals, (is it Onam yet?)*
Shouldn’t there be new clothes and feasts?
Oh, but no one back home, no one remains.
And for the grandpa who is alone in the bungalow,
What for is Onam if he is alone?
Winter comes with lights, gifts and carols.
Shimmering stars, bells and beauty.
Christmas and New Year,
Glory to God and Peace on earth,
Beauty and smiles; love and hope,
But is there a hope for the freezing homeless
Their hunger and longing
For bread and lodging?
Autumn stood there, silent witness,
Forgotten, yet calm and composed.
Trying to get rid of the scorching heat,
Before the squall and cold numbness come.
And they repeat year after year,
Never letting the world forget,
All is dynamic,
Constant in its inconsistency
.We puny mortals, mere actors, observers,
Too turn sentimental, passionate and cold.
Shed tears like the monsoon,
Turn angry like summer,
Cold like the winter
And fragrant like the spring.
We see the pain around,
Sometimes lament, sometimes turn angry,
Often be apathetic but still hope for Spring.
*Onam is the spring festival of Kerala, a state in India which also marks reunion of families and
nostalgia for home. In the urbanised world often this gets ignored as family
reunions rarely happen, therefore dampening the spirit of the festival.
morning brought an arcane song to my ears
i was observing the spilling of light
between the curtain and the wall
the way the light seemed to carry the dust
when my quite moment
was dispatched
by the sensation of the earth and
its 30 km/ps rate of motion
by comparison
i wasn't even a mite
on an elephants eyelash
i was a microbe
riding on a rock
on a massive migration through space
my body became filled with avidity-
something was about to happen
the dam was made of mud
and it was monsoon season
looking into the hallway mirror
i was astonished to see the image inside
was not me
this was some type of apparition
a ghost
that belonged to someone else
the electrons in my brain swirled
forming the loose pattern of wafting smoke
an electrified current
all of this energy
shot past the sleeping dogs
though the house
pierced the atmosphere
then outward into the deep vastness of the heavens
a remarkable paroxysm and
i was back with myself
yet
i felt subtly metamorphosed
looking around,
all of the stuff
i had worked so diligently
to acquire
took on a look of being frivolous
unnecessary
it was all the programming of someone else
the whims of a schizophrenic
with vainglorious proclivities
a booming voice announces:
if you do not abide to the constructs
of this lovely societal aggregation
you are an outcast
a luddite
a nihilist
a lost soul
a demagogue
a loser
a shoe shiner
a sewage swiller
weak,
pathetic,
unable to assimilate
due to anachronistic tendencies
...
we have viewed into the aperture
that gives a glimpse
of both dissonnant living and
ways to slough off the insanity
but
we are controlled by dna's unblinking eyes
we make love and war simultaneously
we are the amalgamation of genes we conspire against
dna spirals up my spine
then feathers across my neurons
entrenching its fingers into my convolutions
i am the product of a mad scientist
who has designed me with used atoms
from distant, dead stars
i breathe oxygen
that have been around since the birth
of the universe
yet,
despite it all,
these animated atomic miracles
have fought to keep us all held together
so that we may witness the splendor
of being alive
the morning song wasn't so veiled after all
I was working late night,
It was ten when I stepped out of my office,
The monsoon had already started its show,
Wild storms and copious showers,
Thick clouds of spooky figures,
Rustling of leaves and swirling of trees,
Shattering of rain and rolling of winds,
Amidst the full force of nature – I was trudging on.
I could see only darkness.
And nothing but darkness.
The winter winds were bitting my throat,
My nerves and veins shaken in cold,
And I was standing all alone,
Not a single soul to care of me,
From my birth till date, I was one and only one,
My journey from an orphanage to a hostel,
A miserable one,
As I was walking in the rain, I just wondered
Why God created me ? I serve no purpose
I am desperate and desolate.
The roads were deserted like me,
Not a single man was out,
The thunder roared and the lightening fired,
Ahhhhhhh ! I screamed and shouted with fear,
My courage slowly turned to ashes,
My prowess was broken to pieces,
I was petrified of being alone,
Fear started to conquer me,
I became weak and craven,
In a cold sweat I stood still,
Fear was running down my spine,
I looked around, it was murk, murk everywhere,
All of a sudden I heard someone wailing
Breaking my thoughts I stood fixed
It was pitch dark and I directed myself to the sound
As I was nearing, the cry was even louder,
I made my steps fast,
And pulled my legs strong,
I ran and to my puzzle - My God! a baby
The infant was lying inside a tent,
The rains have already smeared the rug,
The baby was exposed to the merciless showers,
I was shocked and stood inactive,
A thunder brought me to this world,
Without any qualms I lifted the baby,
She was shivering in cold,
Not knowing what to do I took a rug and wrapped her,
I looked around there was no one,
“Help! Help! A baby here”, no reponse,
I rubbed the baby and made her warm,
The rain stopped,
The winds turned to breeze
I searched all long there was none,
I removed the rug to see her,
How beautiful! She looked at me,
Where is your mother, my dear – I wondered,
She caught my hands tight and smiled,
This smile gave a wide meaning to my life
Without any hesitation I hugged her,
I looked around still it was dark,
But I followed darkness with a dauntless courage.
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
The “Mayday” radio call message was the final voice from Air India 171 flight bound for London seconds before it crashed creating an eternal memorial for 241 gracious beings, with one survivor. My heartfelt sympathy and condolences to every family member, friend, and associate of those who made their ascent into the heavenly realms. May they rest peacefully in God’s kingdom, and may He dry the salty tears, and erased the heartaches of their remaining and loving family members, friends, and loved ones.
I have written a Trilogy Poem to commemorate and remember them reflecting God’s grace to their family members, loved ones, friends, and associates. These situations are never easy to fathom, accept, grief about, or remember. May God’s richest grace and blessings rest and abide with each of you, your loved ones, and family members until eternity!
In Three Winds They Rise
A Trilogy Poem in Tribute to the Souls of Flight 17 - June 2025!
I. The Silence Before:
The sky, it held its breath that day,
no warning sang, no wings betrayed—
just echoes of a thousand dreams
still packed inside a cabin's seams.
Some reached to call, some kissed the light,
and then —
the fall.
The hush of dawn could not undo
what humanity had flown into.
II. The Names We Whisper:
We gather now, with hands and flame,
each soul remembered, each with name.
The uncle, daughter, child, or friend—
whose lives began where theirs would end.
We hold their laughter in the breeze,
in dusk,
in prayer.
With seatbelt fastened memory tight—
yet still they rise in candlelight.
III. The Spirit’s Return:
But grief is not the end of love—
for wings are gifted from above.
We see them dance in monsoon rain,
we feel them walk through loss and pain.
And when the night is deep and wide,
they speak—
within.
Not gone, but flown to higher skies,
in three winds now —
they rise.
Dedication: This poem is lovingly dedicated
to all the souls aboard Flight 171 —
those who soared with dreams,
departed with grace,
and now rest among the stars.
May their memories be eternal,
their spirits be lifted,
and their legacy live on
in the hearts of those who remember.
© Dr. Joseph S. Spence Sr. All Rights Reserved (Epulaeryu Master), June 15, 2025.
It's in the evening time in June The south west monsoon starts already It brings abundant rainfall soon. The rain makes puddle in the street steady
We return from the rural school
My elder sister is eight years old
I am two years younger than her cool We want to play in the rain water bold
First, I jump into the puddle. It produces a quick splash sound. Again and again I jump into the trouble My sister also jumps into the water around
She and I are completely wet I wear a drawer and shirt
She is in shirt and skirt set Even the school bags are wet and dirt
My mum sees us to play in the rain
She shouts at her high pitch voice. We are afraid by her tone again Then we go into the home without noice
My grandma brings a turkish towel soon
And she removes the wet better
My mum comes out to beat us with a spoon. They're children,my grandma tells her later.
Do you remember when a day felt like a year
and stealing from the cookie jar was the biggest crime?
We'd gaze up at constellations, both far and near,
whilst catching fireflies, come May or June ... wasting time.
And stealing from the cookie jar was the biggest crime,
knowing heavenly eyes were watching from the clouds.
Whilst catching fireflies, come May or June, wasting time;
never letting dreams be dreams --- yet look at me now!
Knowing heavenly eyes were watching from the clouds,
adrift, I became, refusing to let go of childhood,
never letting dreams be dreams. Yet look at me now -
trying to find the conclusion to the phrase: If I could ...
Adrift, I became, refusing to let go of childhood:
a time where no matter what, we were better together.
Trying to find the conclusion to the phrase: If I could,
but no use, I'm in a cocoon, fearful of the weather.
A time where no matter what, we were better together,
gazing up at the same holes to heaven, finding comfort.
But no use, I'm in a cocoon, fearful of the weather,
afraid my tears will turn into a monsoon, causing hurt.
Gazing up at the same holes to heaven. Finding comfort
by looking up, because there was no other way.
Afraid my tears will turn into a monsoon, causing hurt,
sitting, waiting, wishing, for a reason to stay.
By looking up because there was no other way -
just the nighttime sky, hanging so high, and you and your heart.
Sitting, waiting, wishing, for a reason to stay
in the present. My little girl takes me back to the start ---
Just the nighttime sky, hanging so high, and you and your heart;
we'd gaze up at constellations, both far and near.
In the present, my little girl takes me back to the start:
do you remember when a day felt like a year?
All the song titles used are by one of my favorite artists, Jack Johnson:
1. Do You Remember
2. Cookie Jar
3. Constellations
4. Wasting Time
5. From the Clouds
6. Dreams Be Dreams
7. Adrift
8. If I Could
9. Better Together
10. Cocoon
11. Holes To Heaven
12. Monsoon
13. No Other Way
14. Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
15. You and Your Heart
16. My Little Girl
Written for Silent's Musical Pantoum Contest.