Long Nostalgiavoice Poems
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(for: them who are ever there!)
these branches and roots
that cord to the grave ancients
should be free from man’s swords!
both oracle and priest held for days …
I
Your voice speaks in the silence of the night
To the deep still shady earth
That once held a great zest for our childhood
Here in the once thick wooded land
Where progenitors strewed their rustic huts
Yes! where, sang tho’ unseen those sonorous kin-spirits.
2
Ah! Happy and keen folks were the ancients, then;
But their sons? what a sad lot, now! even
Demented hearts aching from those drinks of dizzy times
Raw anguish, sorrow, painful hemlocks of death-lines,
The slow songs that tune softly to the mirthful graves
That still hold the ancestors like prisoners in the wild caves.
3
O! for your unravished wave of primal welcome,
That bade the sonorous weaver come
To make loud greeting of blue azure with song-fleet
O! for such uudecoded song that for the sagging flesh bear ointment
Secret balm from the rhyming unsteady palm leaves of the winds
That flute clearly to ancestors those eternal silent songs.
4
Known are those festal spirits of your night
From whom many lives readily spring forth:
Mused thru’ the voices of strong mortal compeers –
Priests, priestesses, praise-singers, warriors, dancers!
That with gusto, flounder across the space of time;
O, for those festal moments of flush! o, for the celestial clime!
5
You are the unseen bridge of the world,
Like Nturukpa, that elder amongst our ferry trees;
Your bark exhumes the bright colours of the past;
And carried thru’ the festal wings of your night
We desire to be mused to the ethereal clime;
Of uncurbed equanimity and euphoria of the divine.
6
I now know the anguish of these festal spirits
Who take refuge on the water-void banks
Of the topmost branches and leaves;
I now know the noise of their feasts in sacrifices:
Doleful sacrifices in the gods’ swollen foot!
Then adieu! adieu! from the cloyed humans in advent!
7
O farewell! with all your festal spirits,
Who coaxed to the night of sacrifices, priests,
Priestesses, dancers, praise-singers, warriors of the land;
Adieu! with these cold celebrations and coax-throated songs heard,
Thru’ the voice and echoes of rain’s thunder,
In the day of the panther and his noble twin, the hunter.
That engaging voice rings out through the dark
Percolating between bands on the air
Soaring antennas pulse his festive spark
To share his diversion of solitaire
Nestled within promotional urges
Hidden behind that bombardment of sound
Charisma propels his karmic surges
Lifting his influence up from the ground
I bask enthralled within that merriment
As I dial in to win concert tickets
He offers up comfort most relevant
While defeating those tittering crickets
In my young mind I ponder my free will
As I scan future's potential for me
If only I sharpened my emcee skill
My meager voice could expand past the sea
Sojourning over vast hills and valleys
I launch my quest to fulfill distant dreams
Trouncing over boulevards and alleys
With eyes wide open to evade bleak schemes
Every open door now slams in my face
While laughter chases down those marble halls
Dial in massive resolve as I erase
Balance-sheet junkies hiding in those walls
I long for real talk to reach my people
Businessmen wholesale their spirits for cash
That iron tower serves as my steeple
For conquering bright minds in just a flash
So I dial in to the college station
That refractory refuge on my wave
Instead of drowning in dour frustration
Those substantial watts would pump me to rave
Panic shifts to diligence on my show
Where you will always find relevant songs
I hone my craft until I can bestow
That remote rapport that justly belongs
I sat with rum and Joan Baez the other day
Writing up three poems in Bombay
One short another crooked
Yet not quite a disaster
The other long and sad
Not very bad but still not much more
Than a chinchilla whore
In her teens, plump, with baby fat
Still around her cheekbones, shoulders, waistflesh
Trellised eaves
A tooting car on Cadell Road
Dusk falling, friends out on a binge,
I alone in the darkening flat
Joan Baez on my knee her voice from the cassette recorder
Blurring the border between voice and flesh
And letting them enmesh
Wafting out over lonely streets
Climbing the Pali Hills
Sidling in stealth by private yew hedges
To caress like silk the legs of a party
Falling to pieces at only six-thirty
Prosaic, proselytizing like Diogenes in the bin
Beard straggling all over an obdurate chin
Breathe in the voice let the pictures go by
Looking for a conjuror in the sky
And confused, return
Dreams back to ashes, ashes to the urn
Quiet in the knowledge that ashes don’t burn.
They say some poetry
Is coming out of me
Juice wrung out by iron teeth
From the tender heart of a slender tree.
Smile wide, feet bare, curls tied high upon her head.
Scarlett skin from rising suns,
Eager eyes for something more.
Chirping loud while running free, she runs wild
Around the yard. She slumbers quietly in leaves,
With cuddles from a teddy bear.
She’s there but then she’s swept away
Into the ever-changing wind.
Face pale, thin skin, sucked into the frozen air.
Longer limbs for chance to move,
Trapped inside the golden nest.
Irises turned toward the sky, for hope to
Find a voice within. Trapped inside a hermit’s shell,
My senses come in silent white.
So close and then so far away
When tucked behind an iron gate.
If she was graced with Midas touch,
Or part of wheel of fortune’s till;
She’d pray to stretch her wings to sea
And never think to stand so blind.
No more naïveté or loss, because of
Silent wondering.
Throw caution to the dark and
Find a voice as free as wind.