Long Paradox Poems
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To MOM; March 11,1979
This is the story of an animal trainer,
Whose mettle and courage, couldn't be plainer.
A search'd reveal if you'd care to explore,
None greater exists than El Eleanor.
She's faced the very meanest big game
And transformed them all , smiling and tame.
There's Big Daddy Harry, King of the Brood,
He fights in the jungle and brings home the food.
When the hunting is hard, his scorn can be raw.
El soothes the pain, takes a thorn from the Pa.
The next animal is Rusty the Red.
The patron saint of unmade beds.
A beast of habits, bad ones galore,
His head s in the clouds, his, clothes on the floor.
El's plans are to put an end to his bad mannered life,
By chasing him within,an inch, of. his wife.
Lindsey's the next, she's no longer wild.
El taught her well when she was. a child,
Out of the home and into the night,
She's now a trainer in her own right.,
By way of taming by putting a smile on,
She's done a dog, a .cat, and one big Italian.
The animal Robert likes his milk whole,
Drinks only unmixed, unopened and cold.
Devour, he can, a whole pound of meat,
Sharing with him sure ain't a treat.
El''s main defense against his devour'n,
Is a refrigerator as big as a cavern.
Next on the tour tour is Kristin Clothes-Horse.
Her closet is full, but never her purse.
El hopes to prevent a new"confederacy"
One which would a poor man, namely, "Poverty Lee".
Now we find Jenny the Baker.
With time, she's become quite the good pastry maker.
Jenny however''s a wrestling cook,
An odd combination that's not in the book,
She has her own reasons, for truth to tell, son,
The cooking is a wrestling move called a"full Nelson".
Hilary's a creature who likes to get around
In automobiles at the speed of sound.
She doesn't always though, 'specially not at night,
Then she likes to travel at the speed of light.
It's hard to see now but she's on the track,you see,
Of her own future business - called Hilary's Taxis.
Nori's the last, but not the least,
A full member of this zoo, and like the rest a beast.
A paradox of sorts, this Blue Prize winner,
Is proof that church schools are chock full of sinners,
Thus we are the animal house,
And though we may complain and grouse,
Everyone, no matter his status,
Thinks El Eleanor's got to be, the World's Greatest!
Happy Fifty-fifth Birthday,
From son Rusty,
Was the purpose of your absence an attempt at causing me pain?
That crippling feeling, a spider spinning its web inside my mind.
That arachnid, poisonous, jeers the word space like a handicap.
That parasitic relationship forms a cloud covering the moonlight,
A fog that swirls like a whirlpool in your absence. How rapturous
Your paradox forming a bridge made from our memories. Broken and
Reshaped they become the foundation to a journey in that sea you
Created within me. Your withered emotions and fleeting empathy
were a false proposition of hope only a jester would find funny.
An exhibition of animosity lies in the silent waves – waiting –
for our sunset. How beautiful its rays are against the black water;
falling into the abyss, hidden under that rain your pseudo blanket.
Does the sunrise when you are blind? Does the moon set when
You can’t see the sky? That colorblind man sits there on the beach
Looking in silence. He cannot see his reflection within the water, he
Stands and walks to its surface. There he finds a crow crippled, limping
In the ripples where his reflection should be. That psychedelic feeling
Draws in his drowning breathe, falling into the sea. Paramount to his
Survival the man drowns, his understanding a paradox in his memory.
Only he, the crow, remembers the light of the moon. Its pompous shape,
that transcendent light, a memory to your decay. Only when yellow hits
the eyes of the crow will that white light fade beyond the thunderstorm.
He cries to the heavens, yet his speech murmurs under the weight. That
Black water suffocates his prayer, but he finds comfort in his anonymity. In
the presence of absence the crow longs for loss. He who is stolen from
wishes to be further buried, lost in the waves. That siren sings a fading
melody back into his ears. His own prayer an anchor tied to his feet,
crippled in your memory. Fractured in his own faith, what god heard
his suffering, his murmurs clots of air in a salty sea; black as the blood
from the wound you carved out in his chest. What blessing filled
his misery, that pseudo composition you create is a platter filled
with the feather of the crow. His words held sweet your grace,
an ensemble dancing in the mind of the forgotten. in the sea of
his followers he is Poseidon, yet still the crow sank, anchored in misery.
Clouds spiral down and curl around to touch me
—not those western drizzle shrouds
baring a soul of misery mizzle
...though I adore a good wallow in sorrow —no
these clouds come from yonder bluebird wilds
white cirrus wispy and whispery dance around me
I steal one to wear across my shoulders
like a platinum’s blonde’s faux stole
they come to me like papier-mâché angels —no no
that’s too cliché… and passé for I’m far beyond
the Godly touch of angels… hmm.. they come to me
like a lover —no too easy …like a heartbreak-er lover!
yah I’ll go with that and get a taboo tattoo of his name
anyway the clouds they find me where I stand
dissatisfied with being satisfied
the result of my cool cat face seduction
I wear a crimson bee balm boutonniere
display it on my plunging V lapel but
it attracts wasps instead of honey bees; I find
danger brings a secret pleasure to my displeasure
my leopard print pants (red sky colored)
stirs sir knight with his bridled gaze and walking stick
he watches my next move on the chessboard
tries to guess my breezy strategy
my hands behind my head legs crossed
maybe it’s a white crested ocean I'm floating on
—or wrestling with— either way
I’m here to play and paint a displeased scene
watercolors? they’re just transparent hues
applied to my white background
depending on the mood of my mood ring —but
when acrylics bleed it’s harder to see the scene
colors escape their space creating a slurry
of what is where where is when when is why
and why don’t know why ..what?! but I know how
blurry lines take on a life of their own
and shapes a new fate from ‘no gesso’ mistakes
I could switch my style to snarly tiger stripes today
and gladly take that horse-headed knight down
that wooden old guard has new orders
he’s suspicious of me scrutinizes me
but only half as much as I’m used to
his right hand on his monocle
—the other eye blind
just beyond the reach of his walking stick
I free my torso of its purple grapevine corset
uncinching my fake waisted form —I muse
if my time as a wastrel was wasted or invested
oh …the monocle is telescoping me again
I shimmy lose my butterfly wings
slap him as I flap them and fly away
it’s hard to know if I’m still beautiful
or if I’m just broken
—either way I embrace the rainy side of the rainbow
happily discontent
*Image of Paradox of a Mindfoolness.
Irreconcilable Paradox
The midnight sun casts about clear shadows amidst a
twilight noon, 'tis yesterday.
The windy gale brews, astir none to wake the quietude,
America's Guy Fawkes Day.
Watched I the beautiful orange sunset rise up above the
rolling hills flat opened field.
Leaving my umbrella sorted at home, danced I out into
the deluged rain spots yield.
Ambling I briskly stood alone in a crowd, as a quandary
cleared ere me from behind.
Menacing maintaining all matters determined found I at
a total loss to ideas sublime.
Brooding of the things I yet can do yesterday, I hurried
along to finalize nothing else.
In my rush to the airport, boards I, a train that went the
other way past fields of elms.
My new schedule should get me to my appointment in
the nick of time, one day late.
Know I will get that new job for 'tis the first time work I
there as of prior' year to date.
Been unemployed for straight five years, works I out and
in exclusively hands-on daily.
My legs are stronger as a direct cause of that makes me
feel sick for I am e'er healthy.
Speaking on health, the car insurance is fully paid but
wonders I, much is still owed.
On the subject of owing, our daughter's graduation day is
today, four candles a-glowed.
The court speaking, arrangement rose criminal charges
the prosecution, never violets.
Friends and I went to a drive-in, saw an old film just cast,
our Model-T's all on autopilots.
In the end, we all walked out as unconditional strangers,
familiarities sensed a oneness.
E.g.; If hail treasures of an emptied chest wouldst naught
crusheth e'er emphatic dream.
Thence bandied wordings lay straightforwardly ere wee
tilt scale rove archaic extreme.
The farcical tale wove abstractly, yet absolutes resolved
parodies sage distinctiveness.
2022 February 15
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 10
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 March 02
*NOTE: I've portrayed the extremities of paradoxes distinctive values as self-defining based on its own merits, my placement via its close proximity to its opposite, validifies that point, whereto, abstracts become absolutes distinguishing their individualism.
Pity my city
I pity my city there is no dignity in this city
There is no justice no freedom
Street children in a locked hall, shocking
County council overworking
The city must be clean so some humans are garbage
Some are cabbage, the garbage pay the damage
No houses sleep on spillage
But there are human rights
There are human right activists
There is the department of justice
All filled with malice
Pockets practice
Gross malpractice
Injustice, silence
You are in court
Guilty of court contempt
Another charge
The bail or the sentence
I’m bailed out in silence
Next time just bring your presence
Retain your silence
I was told
You will be safe.
My phone is gone, my shirt is torn
No bus fare so I walk alone
I think a lot, go back home or not
I remember I am a poet
I write a poem, a paradox
Pain in the city
I pity my city there is no dignity in my city.
Never what I came for
Likewise not what I prepared for
To be robbed by those I voted for
I am not happy anymore
My city is no more
I don’t wish for more
I just want go
not the city I know.
not where I wanted to grow
cartels make us bow
Now, now, now, it is time.
Time to know I am grown
And carry always my identity card
The men in blue are out bad
And always never forget also to carry ‘kitambulisho ya polisi’
Hawa watu ni mabeast na mafisi, human hyenas
time to tie up my seat belt whenever in a matatu,
sina mia tano ya kulipa coti kila saa na sitaki kulala ndani siku tatu
two days I am locked up inside my own head
spinning spinning, my thoughts are dead
the life so far I have led
no step has been made
no journey finished
No house furnished
Time is running and broke is sickening
My heart is listening, my brain is calculating
I have to act quick, just do something
The weather so good for chilling, but bad for singles
Life is unfair
No dream has been real
No love to heal
No feel
No deal
Just the bill
More and more bills
The city is fattening
Wanjiku is sickening
From Nys to health to Tunnels
It is all on the channels
How they on the seat eat
Meat
The citizen kitty is gone
The city is torn
Get the president on the phone
Call the press, what must be done be done
Impunity will not rule this city
Dignity must be restored
This city no more a pity
Bring back the citizen kitty
Say no more
The city.
In a realm where shadows dance, the world will be but a howl of pain and ecstasy,
Where the purest among men, in their quest for sanctuary,
Shall find themselves teetering on the brink of weariness,
Facing a choice that echoes with the agony of despair and its emptiness.
The skies painted with hues of sorrow, the earth a canvas of tears,
In this melancholic landscape, the heart battles its fears.
The whispers of the wind carry secrets from ancient legends,
Tales of souls who wandered, seeking something more.
Among the ruins of dreams, where hope once proudly stood,
The echoes of laughter now drowned in a somber flood.
Those with pure hearts, in their silent vigil, watch the world crumble,
Clinging to fragments of light, as dusk turns endlessly gray.
In the labyrinth of thoughts, where consciousness flows like rivers,
The mind wrestles with torment, the body shivers.
Metaphors dance in the twilight, weaving ancient tapestries,
Stories of agony and ecstasy, in whispers, they are told.
The choice of agony, an open path where shadows tread,
Where the soul's lament is a song of the dead.
Yet, in the heart of darkness, where despair seems to reign,
There lies a flicker of hope, a respite from the pain.
For in weariness, there is a surrender, a silent plea,
To find solace in the void, where the spirit can be free.
The purest among men, with hearts heavy and worn,
Seek refuge in weariness, a sanctuary from the storm.
The howl of the world, a symphony of sadness and delight,
A paradox of existence, where day merges with night.
In this magical journey, where consciousness flows unbound,
The soul seeks meaning in the melancholic sound.
The choice of agony, a testament to human suffering,
Where weariness becomes a beacon, a guiding light.
For in the depths of despair, there lies a hidden grace,
A promise of redemption, in life's intricate maze.
The purest among men, in their silent contemplation,
Find strength in weariness, a profound revelation.
The howl of the world, a reminder of the fragility of being,
A call to embrace the pain, to find the true meaning.
In the heart of this melancholy, where shadows intertwine,
The soul discovers its essence, in the esoteric divine.
The choice of agony, a journey through the soul's night,
Where weariness reveals the path to the eternal light.
Carlos Bousono’s poem : Recordando a pastora imperio
for Damaso Alonso
(Poem published in the collection : Metaphora del desafuero, 1988, and dedicated
to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and
patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not
read Bousono’s poems – I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first
bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago – before I began translating
them on October 16, 2013.)
I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility
of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance
is concentrated of a sudden in this posture
of an instant,
under the weight of centuries,
all of its foregoing agitation,
in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found
its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation :
the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop
onto the prey,
and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant,
like the form most refined and pure
of such an incomprehensible paradox : velocity and paralisation,
becoming more dense in the procès
between Aquiles and parsimony,
or the tortoise and despair…
No, there is no différence,
because to differentiate hère is to make a descent,
while here there is but an ascent.
And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly
that to make a move
is an intolerable imperfection
for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement,
to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond
and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between
the fresh flames,
a compromise, then,
with the truth of the highest form of living,
and so the dancer of flamenco
remained for this reason without moving
in a difficult equilibrium
to see if that position, without touching it,
in not moving any of the pièces,
without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction,
could by chance last, keep enduring there,
on the razor’s edge,
maintain itself on the head of a pin’s unlikely verticality,
balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant
succeeding the other,
on the verge of the abysm itself,
earth and boulders coming loose,
and one after another in succession, and in succession…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
It wasn’t the life she wanted.
This life drained the light from her eyes,
Turning them to deep gray circles,
Her voice lost its tone,
She lost herself.
Mothering was not a part of the plan.
She was supposed to get out.
Out of the town,
Out of the house,
Out of the state,
Go to school,
Go to college,
Go to work.
Grab the job of her dreams by the reigns,
Ride it into the fantastically detailed future
That she’d been planning since the 6th grade.
A home,
A steadfast group of friends,
Maybe a dog.
But not a kid.
Not a husband.
This was not the plan.
Over the years, she learned to pretend,
If not for the kids, for herself,
For the husband,
That she was happy.
Trapped in this provincial life,
She was happy.
Wake up at 7 a.m.,
Make the bed,
Walk downstairs,
Make coffee,
Make breakfast,
Remake the bed that you forgot to make.
Wake the kids,
Get them ready for school,
Get the keys,
Get in the car,
Get on the road.
Go home.
Sleep because you can never sleep at night,
Trapped in the spiraling paradox
That prances in your mind,
Telling you that this is not your life.
It shouldn’t be.
It can’t be.
At 3:00 p.m.,
Get back in the car,
Get the kids from school,
Get the kids back home,
Get back on the road,
Resist the urge to keep driving
Past the house, into the night,
Never to be seen again.
Resist the urge.
Because you have to.
At 10:00 p.m.,
Make sure the kids are in bed,
Make sure the lights are dimmed,
Make sure the stove and oven are turned off,
Go to your room,
Your husband won’t be home yet,
Not for another 2 hours.
You’ve got time to kill.
Read a book,
Look for flights,
Watch a show,
Cry into your pillow,
Because no one has given you their shoulder
For a very, very long time.
Husband comes home at 12:00 a.m.,
He takes a shower,
Crawls into bed next to you,
You exchange pleasantries,
He turns off the bedside lamp,
Within minutes, he’s asleep.
What to do tonight?
Another successful day,
Set off without a hitch.
Walk back downstairs,
Fold the hampers of laundry,
It’s 3:00 a.m. now,
The kids will be up in 4 hours.
You’ve got time to kill.
Maybe this time,
You and time can trade places.
Maybe this time,
You can keep driving.
Maybe this time,
You can be free.
Maybe, but not today.
In the twilight of our consciousness, where shadows intertwine with subtle grace,
I wander through endless corridors, seeking truths in this forsaken place.
This world, the sole reality, with all its terror and tender embrace,
Demands our love, lest we lose ourselves in imaginary space.
Through the labyrinth of thoughts, where dreams and fears entwine,
I glimpse the dismal utopias, where false hopes align.
The politicians' empty promises, like stars that cease to shine,
And the futile whispers of reward, which the misled call divine.
How can we live in a realm where terror and beauty blend,
And not surrender our hearts to this paradox without end?
For if we scorn this earthly tether, where shadows and light amend,
We fall into self-deceit, where illusions grow and bend.
In the deep valleys of our souls, where echoes of existence ring,
We must find the courage to embrace this world, its horror and its spring.
To love it in its entirety, in every tear and triumph, to cling,
For in this acceptance lies our freedom, where only truth can bring.
The utopias of the misguided are but mirages on the sand,
Promises that dissolve in time, slipping through our hand.
We must root ourselves in the present, in this tangible land,
Where terror and wonder coexist, a realm we must understand.
The religion of the future, a whisper of comforting lies,
Attempts to mask the terror, but leads to our demise.
The imaginary world, an echo that never satisfies,
Dispels the fragrant beauty that in the present flies.
In this sacred waltz of thoughts, where consciousness aligns,
I strive to love this world, with all its dark and bright designs.
To see the terror as part of life, where beauty too refines,
A place where dreams and reality, in perfect balance, combine.
Through the misty veils of day and night, where dawn's first light appears,
I walk the path of acceptance, embracing hopes and fears.
For only in loving this world, with all its pain and cheers,
Can we find our truest selves, beyond the false veneers.
So let us cherish the terror, and the beauty that it brings,
And love this world in its entirety, to the rhythm of its wings.
For in this dance of reality, where every shadow sings,
We find the essence of our being, the truth in all things.
The Selfish Knight and His Lady
Sixteen pieces for me
Allotted the same for you
But, it always begins with Me first
Unless the 'me' is you...
Whereupon, like Alice in her checkerboard world,
It's up to me to find our way.
It's up to you
To find my way...
I have been both pawn and knight
(never bishop nor king)
And our Queen moves so many ways
She never fails to make me spin.
"Capture the Queen,
Capture the Queen..."
I hear the forever cry
Emanating from the bishops
Holed up in their towers...
Chanting fealty and Romance
Singing of lady-love and noble favors
As I plod forward, a foot-soldier,
Or jump in frenzied el
The maniacal knight
An endless quest...
For her turn
(Your turn, that is, my Lady)
Comportment and Courtly manners
To match Courtly silks and tresses
Follow you in saffron mornings
All through glades of twayblade and cocksfeet;
Ever gathering, ever in the light
While light be present...
'Til evening's soft glow
Guides you home.
Took long years for one mortal
To build a pointed arch.
Arms extended
Through other arms
And tokens and chivalry pristine,
To your lofty heart.
But you removed the keystone
And that house of worship fell.
Unlike Samson in Gaza
Yours was no righteous strength
But some preternatural power
Summoned forth from within.
Sui generis
An altogether different vacuum-genesis
As lightning came from a dark, deconsecrated space
Not creation, but Her black twin.
As it was, so I deserved.
So here we are
Moveable pieces of glass cliché,
Infidels to the universe of Good
Imprisoned on a board
Within a game
Of skill, a game
within mirrors, a game
Within infinite possibility and paradox
Moved by, after all, an unknown hand.
And still, after all that, it is my fault.
We all learn that
Glass pieces, when struck,
By light, or love, or luck
Make fine parade of color
But cast no shadow.
Well, not
The hollow ones fashioned like you,
The one imprisoned my soul,
Turned prism opaque,
Forced the flight of radiant light...
But, fine pieces they do chip,
Or splinter,
Or break.
That's why they move
When someone shouts,
"Off with her head!"
So it is, after all
This fear which motivates ...
And dispatches all.