Long Scrapers Poems
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Further qualities of the King* the THIRUK-KURAL lauds: IRAMAADTCHI - Canto 39, K381 and K382
[*modern-day "kings": presidents, prime and chief ministers, governors, dictators and the like; K381 & K382 have already been posted.]
K383: thuungkaamai kalvi thunivudaimai immuuntrum
niingkaa nilanaal pavarkku
A sleepless promptitude, knowledge, decision strong:
These three for aye [sic] to rulers of the land belong. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
These three things, viz., vigilance, learning, and bravery, should never be wanting in the ruler of the country. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Not being lulled to sleep, always acquiring knowledge and fearlessly assuming the lead - these three qualities crown the king of a country. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
K384: aranilukkaathu allavai* niikki
maran*ilukkaa maanam* udaiyathu arasu
[* "allavai" = sins, evils, unreal things; "maran" = bravery; "maanam" = honour]
Kingship, in virtue failing not, all vice restrains,
In courage failing not, it honour's grace maintains. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
He is a king who, with manly modesty, swerves not from virtue, and refrains from vice. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Always virtuous, eschewing evil, heroic in deed and honour-bound - of such mettle the sovereign should be.* (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[* Which leader in our world embodies the dictates (and constraints) in this maxim? One often goes to war for seemingly righteous causes, sacrificing foot-soldier lives in order to fill some "cartel's" private coffers; or one might endeavour to boost the growth rate by half a dozen % points only to draw the polar ice-caps down on our children's heads and throats; one might build the finest sky-scrapers of the future megalopolises on the slave-wages of indentured immigrant labour only to deprive them of human rights in the name of the Supreme Creator; one might nonchalantly let city-centres choke in the fumes of carbon monoxide and let human excreta pile up on the roadsides in the name of cultural and spiritual enhancement through the pomp of rallies and manifestations on a grand scale and for what? - to keep the soul purified? - while the "kings" of spiritual development rely still on the divine right to rule the poor bugger down below, conditioned by words from the cradle! ] T. Wignesan, June 29, 2017
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
This a revised and updated edition of a poem I recently wrote and posted. I'm interested in your comments, especially if your read the previous version. Thank you for reading and providing your honest opinion(s).
Where have you gone America, where have you been?
Where are the places I used to roam
Long ago with family and friends?
Where are your steeples and spires pointing
Upward, skyward bound? Are they still there
Where I last left them
Back in my home town? God fearing people
And places, filled with traces of
Humanities hopes and dreams;
Sky scrapers, chance takers,
Sweet Land of Liberty.
And I hope you haven’t lost the grandeur
Of the Rocky Mountain Range;
The Blue Ridge, Black Hills, Sierra Nevada,
And Northern Cascades.
Are your wonderfully winding rivers still running
And forest trees growing tall
Like the pioneer days
Before the Pilgrims came to call?
Do your hearts still yearn
For what might be earned
Through the sweat of the brow and tears?
Do people still sing and dance by the moon
Because freedom’s still free so I here? Some fear
You may be falling
From the crow’s nest where you’ve been
While the waves are growing stronger
And you’re losing too many old friends.
While I still wave “Old Glory”
In these hurricane like gales,
‘Cause I’ve seen other places
And many sad faces
Where everybody fails.
Where life is pathetic, miserable, vile;
Without freedom of expressing
Barely a thought worthwhile.
Not that you don’t have a few
Stones in need of shining;
You’ve made some mistakes
But it’s still not too late;
Changing course is a matter of timing. I believe
In you America, you’re
The cradle, bosom and grave
Of all that I am and will ever be
In you, my heart still craves.
Though some may vehemently disagree
The right to do so sets them free
Paid for by the last full measure
Of friends and lovers, sons and daughters,
Fathers, Brothers in Arms,
Souls unraveled from earthly travels, America
You’re a long, long way from gone.
From my view and this direction
This reflection from the glass;
Half full instead of empty,
Troubles always pass. Sooner or later
Come what may the pendulum always shifts;
Left and right, day and night, America,
You’re still the world’s greatest gift.
IMAGINE NIGERIA.
Imagine Nigeria,
Becoming a sweet fruit
Like my orange juice,
Imagine Nigeria
With patriotic youths
Who speck truth and
Make my future look
Good,
Imagine Nigeria
That education carry’s a
Concrete foundation,
Becomes a national tool
Towards economic civilization.
Imagine Nigeria
Where the Elders give me
Shelter,
As helicopters isn’t only
For the god fathers,
Imagine Nigeria
My area without malaria
Where the health system
Isn’t a trap wearing danger,
Imagine Nigeria
During the good and bad,
We all stick together.
II
Imagine Nigeria
Where majority is happy to
Sing her slogan,
Infants carry my flag high
On her shoulders.
Imagine Nigeria
That my export moves round
The world,
Without corruption been her
Escort.
Imagine Nigeria
Where terrorism isn’t the
MilitarY salary,
And unmask every stranger
Within her territory.
Imagine Nigeria
Where tension isn’t collected
Before pension, instead
The aged gather for happy
Recreation.
Imagine Nigeria
That electricity lights up
This city
Its connected with easy and
Distributed for almost free.
III
Imagine Nigeria
Where all my blames are not
Left for the leaders,
Instead, first caution our nuclear
Bread winner.
Never curse Nigeria
All I depend is these natural
Mineral,
I can never reverse the
Desperate immigrant,
Looking forward to construct a
Beautiful new river on
Another land.
Imagine Nigeria
When industries employ my
Indigence
And never appoint by your community,
Refineries doesn’t pollute the high
Sea and kill my cat fishing.
Imagine Nigeria
That farming is encouraged
By modernized planning,
Imagine Nigeria
The prosperity sister
Make big plans from your
Little area.
My governor isn’t a magician.
Imagine Nigeria
Beautified with Iroko
Sky scrapers, and
Ordained the genuine giant
Of AFRICA.
HABIB AKEWUSOLA.
A dark secret I feel tempted to unfold
and the legacy of truth I'm bound to uphold
Ladies and gentlemen, let us view through this wicked universal kaleidoscope
and uncover the secrets of leadership as they try to sabotage all hopes
Many have been paradigms and have given us an insight on this dirty game of burlesque
This mode of governance on an irony note is starting to look all picturesque
My vision is blurry, I can see myself sinking in an ancient tunnel of Romanesque architecture
We need urgent help or else, the people will all become pyromaniacs
as they are fed up with this unjust life of quietism
We all get up and try to fight for our rights
unfortunately, we are mired in a quagmire of morass.
Here we are, struggling to escape and these wicked rulers send upon our spines a quake
that is unavoidably causing us to quaff our very own sweat
It is the survival of the weakest!
The strong ones meant to fight for us are devastatingly collapsing
Our leaders watch aloof from the comfort of their scrapers
they are feeling schadenfreude and on the side of their lips is an enormous grin of contentment.
"We are sinking,help!"
"Utter another word and you will all be dead!"
Hunger is getting the better of us, they seem elated with our situation until BOOM!
We are back on the solid ground and on our two feet again
Doom shall befall them as we shall put to an end this selfish reign
At first we complained of aristocracy
and then to us was brought gerontocracy
now we shall not practice anarchy
we shall not tolerate monarchy
nor shall we accept oligarchy
we are fed up with this democracy and all in its entirety.
It is now our realm,we shall rise to take this country to the ultimate attainable height
for this realm I forsee an explicit sight
darkness shall disappear and upon us will shine an unfading light
let's do this together, with determination,grit and might!
Struck nine on Richter scale, seismic waves so
cruel and wild
From epicentre, shot in circles and created
immense terror
Wrath of earthquake, none could escape- be it a
child or to- be bride
Lives lost, families shattered with every devastating
tremor
Sky-scrapers, schools, heritage buildings, homes
reduced to mere rubble
Catastrophe of this kind, sent down the spine
shivers of intense fear
This place lost links from rest of the world like a
vanishing bubble
State forces and rescue teams rushed to help and
save with verve
Shrouded this place, smell of death ; sounds of
pain- cries, screams, grumble
Reached here, medical aid, food, blankets and
people with will to serve
In fond remembrance, flowers , cards, candles
placed for souls departed
Prayers made to the Supreme power, to restore
peace and conserve
These jolts are Mother Earth's cues to remind that
man is not the only celebrated
Reins of control of this globe still lay in her hands
and man needs to stay grounded!!
It's 12 AM and I've got to correct 1,500 papers.
Mini-quizzes
Tests
Copy-pasted researches stacked to the ceiling,
Shadowing my feelings
Towering me like sky-scrapers!
They say those who can - do,
And those who cannot - teach.
I know this might come as a shock to you…
But I can, and I do, and I still teach!
This job has made nothing out of my reach.
I am PONDER WOMAN!
I make my students ponder upon all the world’s wonders…
Why did Shakespeare kill both Romeo and Juliet at the end?
Why is it easier to be yourself – and not pretend?
Why is the earth oval shaped – and slightly round?
Hush! Get back to your seat, and don’t you dare make a sound.
With this pen, all errors are fixed
A cruel X? Perhaps an accepting tick?
I make my students feel like.. Like.. Tens over tens!
I put the world in its right place… with my magical red pen.
Don’t they know? Don’t they know that all prophets are teachers?
That I have devoted my life, my time, and my energy to be their preacher?
That teachers are sculptors who shape their students personalities…
From nothing, into something.
That teachers are engineers who build an emotional base that is safe
For their students to stand strong in case of an earth quake –
That teachers are psychiatrists who can make their scholars love themselves,
Without invading their privacy.
That teachers are candles in the dark that light the way to knowledge
And endless possibilities.
That teachers are second mothers,
Who left their own kids to come to school and work!
Ah! Irony is berserk!
And I know that this might come as a shock to you…
It’s not about the money I make… for what is it worth
If my students are out of my reach…?
I mean, I am a teacher.
I can, and I do and I still teach.
For all those who’ve been captured by my camera lens,
I wish we could do it all over again.
But time waits for no one despite what we see,
In images made of you and me.
In the snap of a shutter or the blink of an eye
A memory is frozen like tinsel in time.
Shiny and shimmering like diamonds and pearls
Each one a treasure, immeasurable world.
Yet never to last beyond dawn’s early light
As the picture of now is an illusory sight.
To have and to hold like water in hand
Hasten photographers to do what we can.
To coax, cajole, position and prompt
People and places to do what we want
To fill up our cameras with just the right touch –
Never too little, never too much.
With just the right color, right texture, right mood –
A slim slice of life that says what, where and who.
In a gathering of pixels of zeros and ones,
Technological marvel mixed with light from the sun.
And oh what a ride I’ve had by your side
Be you stranger, family or friend,
Throughout the years of trying to make clear
What’s moving like clouds in the wind…
People, places, flowers and trees,
Sun rising and falling on rivers and seas.
Small creatures and features of wood, sand and rain,
Sky scrapers and ruins of ancient remains.
The famous and infamous, lost and found;
The good, bad, beautiful and perennially profound.
Healthy, wealthy, humble and weak;
Down and out with nothing to eat.
But your smile most of all is my favorite frame;
Vignette of your memory, your life and good name.
Etched now in the hues of bold colors and grays
With gratitude I have you to reflect upon today.
I set out on a long journey by train
That spans from end to end
Out through the window flashed past
Assorted scenes one by one
Sky scrapers and mud hovels,
Steaming cities and peaceful hamlets,
Row upon row of maize and wheat,
Bent down under the weight of grain
Cars gliding along crowded streets,
Children school bound in crisp uniforms
Cattle grazing on distant hills,
Cadets on parade beside their tented camps
Smoke coiling up from tall chimneys,
Sizzling cascades from the heights
Swirling streams and glistening rivulets,
Silky meadows and tall mounts
Disposed not to enjoy the scenes,
My mind moored to the final halt
Saw nothing before, but the destination
My fellow travelers – a flaunting menagerie,
Communed with few, connected to none
At every halt, some exited out
And strangers came in to fill the space
But all to myself- my eyes far set
Damning the distance, I waited on and on-
A wretched lone traveler, like a sailor lost in the sea,
Restless I was to reach the shore,
My ears agog to shouts of welcome
My body eager for the warm embrace
I paced the aisles and counted the miles,
Impatient and irate, I grew
I dreamt, my life - a jig saw puzzle,
The pieces neatly fitting together
On arrival after a tedious trip
Once and for all, at my terminus
With my gaze fixed beyond the horizon,
Caring not to see what lies before
I continue to travel miles on end
To a place that outdistances me ever!
March.21. 2022
Form J- Just Write Me a New Poem
Sponsor- Constance La France
When they reach to the edge of the sky
What then?
Will they then realise that all
Is but a lie
Created by bad apples that
Can only be sly?
Up they build
Great boxes of glass that outdo each other
The new arena a few metres in the air
A wanton need to show
That they are here
Everyone flocks to inhabit these dens
They are filled with people
Who show no care
For the wreckage they cause
That cost us all so dear
The city is to some the
Life blood of the country
Sky scrapers abound
That herald the age of infamy
The builders cater to the needs
Of the fat cats
Who are indiscreet and greedy
When rules are to be broken
The inhabitants of these phalluses
Never shirk from taking unfairly
The glass facades barely hide
Their disdain for honesty
Pirates they all wish to be
The foundations of these glittering
Havens of crime are built on
Overhyped manic property dealings
That sours so easily
A different world is
The central business district
It dwarfs the land
And is seen from far and wide
Everyone wants to work in the city
Despite the loss of their conscience
The money is good
And that makes it all ok
When will the tallest building be built?
The race is on
One country wants to pip another at the post
All have as their agenda a big boast
None can see a future full of financial woes
One day the house of glass
Will topple down
One day honesty might reign in the city
One day the boardrooms will
Promote fraternity
Breath and walk easily in a night so blue...
under the green branches of the pines;
and see the brisk breeze that lull the daises,
on the trimmed lawns, sparkling with dew!
On this side of town, rain comes frequently,
to make all things grow, and the courteous robins
live peacefully with the jaunty blue-jays ;
what if people who live here acted similarly,
wouldn't love suddenly overflow and immensely gleam...
like an unexpected snow-fall and make everyone dream?
There are no big crowds where one has to jostle,
no sky-scrapers inviting those shadows so thick and frightful;
nobody leaves the lights on and jitters at night...
couples happily stroll down the lit streets and confidently smile!
On this side of town, all stars seem closer and look shiner,
and folks stop and observe their astonishing beauty:
to requite their love, regarding them as friends...
that always listen to their secrets without apathy;
and they see a magnificent creation without error!
In simpler times, life was modest and slow,
kids rode their bikes down a few blocks,
now they play video games and set up awful plots;
they use foul language and slam the door!
On this side of town, poverty is not known as cursed death,
and the beggars don't have to ask for money;
they are fed with the bread of sweet life...
here they find everything: love, joy, comfort and serenity!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci