Long Notwithstanding Poems
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Thanks to you all
Thanks to those who come to
poetrysoup.com, practise poems,
write, read and share poems
and comment on others
Thanks to those who read my
writings, do comments, follow
me, avoid my poems, block
and ban me from their list
Thanks to you all
I’ve no eternity here, all of me
from least to chest, best to edge,
sharpen blade of new paddy leaves
jeopardize my torn nib of ink
in the field of writings graph
Maybe I couldn’t write any word
for beauty and stunning young girl
in comprehension, in passion and
in my fashionable heart
Maybe I couldn’t write charming note
of flower’s petals, striking fragrance,
in my perpetuity lake of quills
Maybe I couldn’t draw the sexy body of
rose, lotus, tulip, sunflower, orchid,
lily, daffodil… etc in my vulnerable
reef of poetic expression
Maybe I couldn’t draw the colors magic
of rainbow in my infatuated fallen
soaked feathers with November rain
Maybe I couldn’t inscribe the nature
the cosmos, the solar system, the ocean,
the black hole, the space, the sky, the stars,
the planets, the galaxies, the meteors, the
gravitational power…etc in my slumbering
wings of writings
Maybe I couldn’t plant the meditational
tree into the pure heart of words, I couldn’t
select the seeds of immortality in my
ascetic madness and magma script
Maybe I couldn’t greet the autonomy flying
of Cockatiels, Parakeets, Canaries, Finches,
African Grey Parrots, Budgerigars, Cockatoos,
Conures, Macaws, Poicephalus…etc in my
unintelligible incarcerated language
Maybe I couldn’t hail the abode for Labrador,
Bulldog, German, Poodle, Beagle… etc and
Maine Coon, Egyptian Mau, American Bobtail,
Ragdoll…etc in my materialistic
harvesting terminology
Maybe I couldn’t sleep with power of poems,
dream to be a finest classic or modern poet
in my kingdom of pen, paper, ink, writing
table-chair and lamp
Notwithstanding all these, I thanks to those
who come here at least one time daily,
erratically and read, write, share own
thoughts and comment frankly
Thanks to you all a lot. Thanks and love you
all. From me always ready the rose without
thorns and love for you all, although you bleed
my heart by thorns stinging
-November 14, 2018 Chattogram
////
DEDICATED TO POETRYSOUP.COM and ALL POETS-POETESSES OF THIS ESTEEMED LITERARY SITE
Me think it's true that one day time shall be no more. Me think that 'mere oblivion' may be the dying wish
of those claiming to be 'master of their own ship'. In eternity's world, there can be only 'One Master'.
Me think it's not true that all the world's a stage. Notwithstanding, there are scenes enough to amaze,
and no shortest of interesting parts and people to engage. A broad stage where all may and ought have their say.
But also narrow stages that invite trouble, darkening our day. A world of 'make-believe feelings of reality' that we wish were true.
Platforms and plots enough for all, including me and you; plenty of room for the many and the few; and gifted works, old and new.
Human drama is broad and twisting; faithful as the morning dew. May all captives of ignorance and fear be released from their cage.
Last scene, last act; and for the last time, the curtain is raised. The story line and character performance left the audience ablaze.
A staged world, one so predictable, pristine, and finite. Eternity's world is a never ending story, and another page. 03242017; Premier Contest, Brian Strane
It all began as my wife and I were attending a
state fair. My wife had joined with a friend,
and the two of them sought their interest and
fantasies. I simply wandered about from one booth
to another until I came upon a gentleman painting
on a canvas. It caught my interest when he sighted
and made eye contact with me about 8 feet away.
Suddenly, I was taken aback as it would appear that
He began painting a picture of me. From a blank canvas,
he proceeded to paint at a pace I had never seen and began
with a FOREHEAD covered with aging lines and sweat.
The sheer sight of that forehead brought drops of
sweat to my forehead.
There seems to have been a prophetic link between
the painter, the canvas, and myself, uniting us like
the confluence of rivers.
Little did I expect that he would be painting a picture
of me. As he proceeded with great brevity and skill,
every aspect of the painting created a like-effect
on myself. As he continued, with watery EYES, he said
such eyes portrayed my own, filled with cares and burdens
of hurting people.
The EARS he painted were larger than normal and embraced
with signs seen only by those needing to speak in confidence
to a trusted one. The tired, weary, and lonely souls knew
that the ears were special and designed to listen to their
cries of neglect and pain; to their disappointment, mistakes,
and misfortunes.
As the painter began with a normal-looking NOSE, he assured me
that the nose was lightyears from normality because it was equipped,
not to pass judgment on the sins of mankind, but to filter what came
through it. And like a tree taking in carbon dioxide and giving out oxygen, such was the nose of my own that he painted.
Lastly, the talented and prophetic painter paused and stared at me
just before starting on the MOUTH. There were no critical words of
caution from him or the mouth he painted. Notwithstanding, unspoken
words flowed into my heart and soul, igniting a change in the way and
tone of my speech. I was therefore informed that my lips of dust must henceforth release more words of divine love.
Not all of our lives are like a box of chocolate, never knowing what we
are going to get. Sometimes, God unveils the essence of our lives in mysterious ways. In my case, it is a 'never-ending story'. But it started
with a blank canvas.
Make haste to befriend the toro meanly reared away from spectator prying eyes
by dread alone the bull is nurtured and prodded to terrify
and when at last the ranchero’s silhouette appears in the arena it charges
Wake! India! Wake!
There are no greater mysteries than those your scientists can unravel
the only mysteries that persist are those drummed by priests into your brains
even a helpless Stephen Hawking can pierce the Aryan mystery by silent reflection
Wake! India! Wake!
Let those who seek power in the polls seek it for their own sakes
sooner or later sooner than later they too will pass away
their power gnawing at their bones will feed the etherising flames of their pyres
Wake! India! Wake!
Let those who seek to challenge their power challenge it for their own sakes
they too will rot in the chains they have willingly chained themselves in
for they too seek power for the sake of power and for theirs and their own comfort
Wake! India! Wake!
And let them all pass over you you who have borne in quiet pain
mauling under the pretext of mournful migrations and the Mughal might
Mohenjodaro and Harrappa notwithstanding Vijayanagar and Kaveripumpattinam
Wake! India! Wake!
Do not for a moment think your sons have deserted you
nor your daughters gone to spawn with other spouses under other suns
your needs are their needs your tears their blood coursing in their veins
Wake! India! Wake!
If you had woken up earlier to tend to your shores to tend to the marauders at the border
letting only the lone Kshatriya exert his martial art abused by fine courtly comfort
you would not now wonder how a Rajput court at Mewar drove Akbar to such lengths
Wake! India! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 10)
The human body was built with a stretching ability. Skin and muscles are very elastic and prepared for adversities. Bones can be fractured and broken, but mends back in time. Ache me; bend me; mend me; brake me; mane me; pain me; I bounce back. Everything within me connects, communicates, and confers with each other. But I am wondering about 'the goings on' of a can of corn, if dented. If a dent is made in a can of corn, does it force the kernels to draw closer together? It's like this. While cleaning our food closet one day, I overheard a most interesting dialogue between designated speakers for the corn and the water.
"What just happened here?" said the whole kernel can of corn to the water in the can. "I felt a deep stump that shook us as you moved like a high tidal wave." "I know! said the water, it was as if someone just threw us into a large tote of other cans". "I don't know what's going on here, but I sure wish it would stop. We have feelings too?" They seem to care more about a dent in their cars than one in a can containing their food supply. Go figure".
After a pause, the corn kernel said, "Anyway, the dent they caused just took away some of our already crowded space. Moreover, I suspect before long someone will come looking to eat us, notwithstanding the dent in the can. Until then we'll just have to deal with the way things are. "On the other hand, said the water, they might decide to eat us as a last resort, like when things are bad and money is tight. In that way we'll last longer. I must say that as a result of our can being dent, not only have we both been stirred, but we have been forced to communicate like humans do. Maybe we'll also learn to bounce back like humans". And the corn kernel said, "Perhaps so, and I guess if you are going to get eaten, later is better for us."
12242017 PS Contest, Dented Cans, John Lawless (Personification)
My childhood memory of Easter confronts me with three very pleasant reflections. Perhaps my first experience with the idea of Easter came with the way our parents would sacrifice so much for us to look pretty and handsome at the church on Easter Sunday. We never felt more special nor looked better than that at any time for any reason.
Coming in second as I look back over several decades ago is the delightful Easter egg hunt. As a child, that was one of the most fun experiences of the year. The hunt was always on Easter Sunday after returning home from church services. There was the added bonus of the hunt within the hunt. That is to say that there was always 'A Golden Egg' that included something extra special that always lit up our happy stary eyes and hearts.
But the third item was the most mysterious of the three even though it always appeared first chronologically. In fact, there was Holy Week that always seemed to flow with a sense of awe. There were movies depicting the 'day Christ died' and the Sunday that he rose. Nevertheless, the Friday before Easter known as Good Friday was a problem for me because I did not understand how a day could be good when such an evil act happened to Jesus. I do not remember when, but heaven surely shined its light on me and explained the goodness of Good Friday. I tell you, that light was so bright that it lit up my entire life and the light of Christ's Goodness and what he did for me and you have served me for a lifetime and will continue to do so throughout eternity.
Certain traditions and celebrations over time often fall by the wayside, and family values and habits change. Life takes on different priorities. Notwithstanding, we must remember that we enter this world with a family standing by our sides, and when we leave this world, families will be there as we exit. Oh, I know that the boiled and painted eggs no longer grace our lawn, and our kids and grandkids may not be as well and formally dressed as we were in yesteryears. That's okay, as long as we never forget as our families gather for dinner this Easter that Easter must always be about THE CHRIST and The Family.
03292018 FB PS Contest, Easter 2018, Hopkins-Drewer
In the eye of the hurricane, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : En el ojo del hurracan
(Ninth in the collection : Metafora del Desafuero, published – according to the editor, Alejandro
Duque Amusco – not in 1988, but in 1989, was awarded the « Premio Nacional de Poésia »
for 1989, on May 28, 1990. Bousono, as in these later free verse compositions, shows how
well he manages the long-breathed line, a clear contrast to the compact and elliptical earlier
verse, say, of the collection : Subida al amor. T. Wignesan)
The creatures of plenitude situated themselves holding their silence, the thrones of
inexplicability, exactly, therefore, in the very centre of the eye of the hurricane :
that doors be blown asunder, that windows be blown away,
that agonizing bodies in makeshift beds be smothered into oblivion,
half-dead widows, postmen who half-way in the act of delivering
the love letter which would definitely render us joyful,
the seat where the poor old grandmother was in the act of sitting
while sewing
the newly-born baby’s pony-tailed bonnet which turned around half-
way in the gusts,
the hurricane which uplifted love and all that was left of love :
letters, papers, leaves
of music,
lovers in coitus at the orgiastic acmé and the light,
when it began to dawn,
when the saxophone cleared its throat and commenced the beat of the
dance,
when everything on the stage in its place awaited the raising of the
curtain,
when the wedding was at the point of being consecrated, and the
priest was ready to offer his benediction : « el ite misa est »,
when within the following few moments the inexorable
ceremonial of the written formalities was about to be concluded
then, as I said,
and only then,
the hurricane unleashed its violence with rage, the incomprehensible
hurricane, and there stood still only the immoveable lucid eye,
separate, eminent, complete in its entire being, that by force of its
profundity had ascended to the exact point where it could
redeem its guilt,
the eye of reconciliation,
the eye of wisdom and suave serenity,
where the intact and silenced world sang
adorable and yet so beautiful without us,
necessary pretexts, notwithstanding, of its musical nature.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Jogging on the roadside,
With my friends at my side.
He moves every inch with us...
I almost forget we were four.
Seeing him as one; we discuss
Along the line to the very core
Before I knew he was a stranger,
He has turned out a humble words exchanger.
"What's your name?"
He asked diligently.
"What's your aim?"
I replied bluntly.
I know you feel dismayed.
Notwithstanding, I am for peace.
So; be unafraid,
Set aside your earpiece
And give ears to me,
My words with a straight face.
Pasting all the copied pleasant words
Into my ears like songs of birds
Pleasing to the heart every dawn of the day,
Hardly could I get away from his voice culture
Painting itself raw on the blank vacant space of my mind
Loom up with the best attar of roses.
Allover me again and again till my withered flowers grow kind.
Considering him a different vulture
Not to feed on carrion and fly away
Coming up roses with bared teeth for another tease...
But I sensed he would love it a game
Or see me behind the times--
Telling him I will think well of it
So that he won't see it as endgame.
Though, the well-intentioned untruth, I've a heart-stirring permit
Of one's own free will beyond wildest dreams
And set a match to my pun
As we smile and stun
Through the narrow hole of my ears,
His running thought beautifies the flowering moment.
Through the shady words in cool paints,
Filling the widened path to hold my breath.
Where sunny days hid afar in our accoutrements,
The hot weather foaming to worm the family birth...
If we won't only do it for fun and disappear
Between the thin lines of complaints.
Someone I never think of,
Is now the reason I uncontrollably laugh.
For the silent moment easily pictures,
His unrelenting acts decently packaged which bathe me
Romantically thinking of our future,
Praying and working to make it be
The richly blessed one absorbed in friendship.
Down the line against all hardships.
Yet, for all these
I never let go of laughter
Whenever I remember
The awesome pictures of all the tease
You planted into my head
And the zeal of beads around my waist well thread.
In which I film
You as the humble stranger
Who purposefully endanger
Peace of love into my dream
This week I have been in much thought about my wife and our marriage of 39 years*. I have noted and deeply considered the power and impact of 'history' in both the maintenance and long endurance in a marital relationship. The future is projected to be one of hope and vision, one of anticipation and eager planning. Although nothing beyond the 'now' is guaranteed in the 'tears' ahead, in sweet peace and harmony is where one would like to be in the 'years' ahead.
I heard a story of two gentlemen engaged in a conversation about their wives. One said, "When my wife gets upset with me, she always gets 'historical' ". In an attempt to correct his friend, the other gentleman said, "I think that you meant to say that she gets hysterical". The reply was, "No, I mean 'Historical'. She's always bringing up the past". With that in mind, I want to make it clear that I am talking about history and not hysterics.
Part of the beauty of mariage is the planning and dreams that we make for ourselves and prayerfully seek their reality. We also seek to leave some kind of legacy for our children. Notwithstanding, there is that which is behind us that can thrust us forward. Experiences and memories, both pleasant and otherwise can be harnessed and utilized to rocket us into future joys and successes. It is often the triumps and sometimes the failures in our past that inspire us to future success. What we draw from such experiences gives us confidence for future growth and developement. Yes, we have today. Yes, we had yesterday. Yes, we have this moment; Yes, by grace and faith, we have tomorrow. But indeed, we can look each other in the eyes and say, "We HAVE yesterday; we HAVE a history".
One of the anticipated desires that my wife and I began to treasure as the years flowed by was to 'grow old together'. Many are the obsticles that can hinder and prevent a marriage from achieving such a reality. Nevertheless, it is a real joy and an awareness of God's magnanemous grace when we reach the senior years and begin our 'growing old' together.
31412cjPS *Presently, 2020, 48 years.
Volga – 4
to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little
is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house
and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island
Volga - 5
coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus
the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality
the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid
is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving
manuscript of the basement of a well
the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected
in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs
they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song
to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required
notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen
here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well
on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …
within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken
if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land
let us have one game more