Long Squabbling Poems
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A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery
I
I led her
Her silent leg-irons cutting into my shins
That day when the air stood still
Dry as the day perhaps on the hill
when he spoke standing still
Drier still my words today
of a redundant ransom of flesh:
I’ll take you to the stopping place
Where the quiet cowled nuns make lace
They run a school for well-bred girls
In a cloistered fenced-in arbour
There where you’d have no need for curls
She turned just then seven and ten
Me barely two more when
She said in a breathless moan:
Take me to the French Convent
Here my road has come to an end
I want to learn
I want to gain
As much knowledge as my brain
Will strive to contain
I had no choice
I had no voice
In a Chinese school which stopped midways
She was the best of forty times five
Where I was hoarse from English and Science
She sat so close in the front row
She must have felt my breath at home
Her cowlick hand stretched crooked
Brushed my thoughts down my mane
Something about her dragging gait
Spoke of late hours as a kitchen mate
Or as the matron of squabbling squawking siblings
When the mother scrubbed and ironed
the landlord’s lingerie and loins
A saddened face she kept awake
All through the hours at stake
II
It took me days and days of doubting pains
To ring at last the nunnery bell
And to stare aghast at a pallid face
Not quite white and not quite couched in cowl
To register my request
The novice drew and barred the door
As though I would break down the wall
And as the minutes raced in anguish by
And I heard the rusted pig-iron latch click open
Two forbidding eyes contemplated my plight
Under strictly starched and stretched folds a-sail:
“Is she Catho…” she made to ask
Then as urgently withdrew her demand.
“Bring her tomorrow at eight,” she let her words
escape.
“Ring the bell at the gate.”
I never saw the demure girl again.
Her schoolmates thought she worked for the nuns.
Others: “ She took some vows!”
A sibling: “ She took no clothes for a change!”
Just before her silhouette effaced itself
Under the porch of creepers dense
She turned to give me a look:
Was it a look of despair
Or a well-thought-out
farewell fair?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
With the onset of advancing age, so I find,
A man grows weary of all mundane talk;
Occupies his every spare, idle thought
With that of the slow, reflective kind.
Regretful of many a squandered hour,
Turning his back on the squabbling nations,
Their woeful, self-serving deliberations,
Dreams wistfully of his own starlit tower.
Should he hopefully find that blessed stair,
Wound insides of the ancient, dim lit wall,
Where tread from unseen feet sometimes fall,
He could but elevate himself above his cares;
There, throwing his soul upon the night,
Lift his gaze upon a tumultuous crowding!
His thinning pate adorned with a crowning
From a far-flung, pale, distant light.
And if he was to fix his mind upon that point;
To that moment forcefully bring to bear,
With every ounce of fibre when stood there,
An unremitting will to somehow exploit,
That, which, the mystics so jealously guarded...
Then, perhaps, he might too ascend?
For, in all reality, at the very end,
All is thrown off...the very body discarded.
Therefore I will choose my own finality.
I give my remaining days to old worn steps
Enclosed in rock, a turret that silhouettes
Against an endless sky; and if it should be
That I find such hallowed battlements
Give aging legs the strength to slowly climb,
To praise the celestial and sublime,
When reaching up where my God frequents.
For though those stars seem out of reach,
Unattainable by grand, omnipotent design,
Nevertheless I am thusly to be inclined
To offer up a prayer and unto him beseech:-
"Immortal father who created mortal man,
Ye who sits above all earthly thrones,
Give unto me old tools and rubbled stones,
And I shall endeavour to do what I can...
To rebuild that abandoned, crumbled tower...
For, Lord, be it only by dreams men are
Truly empowered"!
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
Squalidness—Squabbling squeamishly;
Scrutinizing stigmatized scandalization, substantially scarce
Sprightliness...skeptically surrendering
Shamefully—Scolded sardonically;
Snarling splenetically, severing sensibility, scowlingly simmering
Strenuously...sought survival
Sparring—Sinister sisters;
Seductively swiveling soreness, sarcastically snared, swirling
Storms...sporadically striking
Slowly—Sacrificing stories;
Scorching slanderous subversiveness, suffering suffocation
Senselessly...smoldering serendipity
Sinfully—Silent stranger;
Sneaking skillfully staring
Presumptuously—Pursuing pretentiousness;
Promises protruding pithiness,
Potential problems...penetrating
Frantically—Forsaken fantasizes foresee;
Different Man Flourishing...
Suspiciously—Supplication solicited;
Subjectively settling, storms subdue, spontaneously subsiding
Surprisingly...sanctuaries submerged
Sobriety—Soaked scathingly;
Staleness spun savagely, strangely straying, sprung
Scourging...southern spiral
Suddenly—Solitude strangling;
Shallow significants seedily surrounds scrupulousness, slumbering
Spitefulness...shunning sympathy
Systematically—Struggling swiftly;
Skulking shadows slithering, seized sanity, seething
Stragglers scrapping...smuggling
Supposedly—Soberness swarming;
Sunrises selectively swerving, sunsets scattering
Emotionally—Erraticism encouraged;
Enduring essential enemies,
Equivocal excursions...escalating
Hereupon—Heretics hushed hereafter;
Different Man Henceforth...
Relentlessly—Reaping ramifications;
Remorsefully relapsing regrettably, resentful realization recognizing
Reflection...refusing reality
Condescendingly—Condemning contradictions;
Cautiously concealing contortions, conducting contrived conniptions
Conscientiously...capricious consciousness
Arrogantly—Acquiring awareness;
Ignorantly ignoring ideologies, deceitful dramatic disagreements
Transpire...transitioning transgressions
Occasionally—Ostracizing occurs;
Overthinking orchestrates overreactions, obsessively obtaining optimization
Brazenly—Begged, blindingly became;
Different Man Behindhand...
I live in Arrubluc by the sea
much like the fabled Llareggub
made famous by Dylan Thomas
in the radio play 'Under Milk Wood'.
The land meets the sea here as well,
but it's a beachside town, beside the sea,
not a portside fishing village.
The sleepy town awakens, with a yawning sigh,
As the gentle kiss of dawn paints the sky.
Fiery orange and red, a sailor's warning cry,
Ignored by seagulls squabbling to fly on by.
The sun bursts up in the East through the ocean,
And the curved horizon rippled by waves in motion.
For the sea is seldom calm and exudes its emotion
Driven by wind and waves into pulsing commotion.
The waves and shore are coupled in embrace,
The sands are caressed lovingly with grace,
There's hiss and splash as waves surge through the flat space,
Leaving behind wedding veil trails of pure white lace.
At dawn, the sea birds gather in flocks on the lake,
To chat and squabble, to preen and feather shake.
The black swans cruise single file shoreward at daybreak
Grumbling and mumbling grunts, as they come in to take a break.
The gulls and terns, cormorants and stilts gather together
In groups of kin, returning like fishing boats to tether
Up on the shore for rest and relief from the weather.
They gather in a congregation, massing with friends of feather.
The surfers and fishers, come to worship the sea,
Paying homage to the beach and waves with heartfelt glee,
Frolicking in the swell, casting out their lines in a spree,
To catch the whooper waves on offer, and big fish all for free.
The surf club is alive with laughter and cheer,
Where mates gather for bawdy gossip and a beer
Every Friday afternoon as week's end draws near
Enjoying the ballads and shanties of the local balladeer
As twilight falls to night, and the moon ascends,
Darkness reveals its velvety somber blends,
The stars return to the sky, like eternal friends,
Amid the calm and peace as day's end descends.
Arrubluc beachside,
here beside by the sea,
says "Bye, Bye, Good Night"!
For many years, the creek, ran passed as a drain,
Polluted and unloved; a poisoned murky vein.
A favoured dumping place, for household unwanted things -
out of sight, out of mind; and no good what it brings.
Life was almost non-existent in the creek
and weed infestation makes it sad and bleak,
but turning a blind eye has gone too long,
and allowing this pollution was so wrong.
So, ‘friends of wattle creek’ were duly formed
and at meetings their ideas quickly warmed,
with working bees to help remove the mess,
and from there, reclamation could progress.
Weeds became victims, of mattock and the hoe;
there’s room for native vegetation to regrow.
Five hundred seedlings were there every week,
and planted by the ‘friends of wattle creek.’
Through the years, there were many setbacks,
from mother nature and her natural attacks,
with flood and storms or sometimes howling gales –
and thankfully, it was just the weak that fails.
With the foliage and the flowers an attraction
for lorikeet and honeyeater squabbling action;
weebills and pardalotes, were giving lots of cheek,
to warm the hearts of ‘friends of wattle creek.’
Undergrowth is cover for the wary bandicoot,
and the sugar glider dines on native fruit.
In the shallows of the creek; water is now clean;
once again, a spiny crayfish can be seen.
In a few short years, the volunteers with vision,
turned away an eyesore, with a right decision,
now it’s paradise restored from something bleak,
and all thanks goes to the ‘friends of wattle creek.’
The health of wattle creek is quite amazing,
and ‘friends of wattle creek’ deserve the praising.
Native fish are thriving; bird numbers are on track;
it warms the heart to know – the platypus is back.
For many years, the creek, ran passed as a drain,
Polluted and unloved; a poisoned murky vein,
but is now a thriving green belt, captivating all,
and the ‘friends of wattle creek’ are standing tall.
In origin, all form in chaos lay:
One wilderness of warped and seething spray.
Thus, intermixed lay Earth and Sky and Sea,
Until a cooling calm let order be.
Cool crystallized, the Earth and Sea didst fall
Beneath the Sky, which cast its golden shawl.
Whence, from its warmth, the silver seeds didst spring,
Each words within the song the heavens sing.
So verdant were the ample paths of Earth!
Eternal summer and eternal mirth!
The gods, conceived in chaos and despair,
Gazed down upon its streams and meadows fair.
And as a child born to the very poor,
This point of light they loved, and didst adore.
So swiftly sped they down the Milky Way,
From stars to sylvan Earth, to smile and play.
Then tended they this garden of their hearts,
In stewarding each measure of its parts.
Across the lovely lands their garden built,
Which everlasting summer ne’er would wilt.
With all allicient arts their grounds didst gild,
With selcouth statues, fabrile fountains filled.
To share their joy and trouble raised they men,
Those fateful friends in forest, field and fen.
The thoughtful clouds that graze upon the air;
The questful waves meandering from the mer;
Where meadows melt into the beaches fair;
There bound the regions gods and men didst share.
It is a dainty thing, a golden age,
When grace exceeds ambition, greed and rage.
So soon the sunny smile, it doth depart!
So soon the squabbling squalls their season start!
So soon the cherished meadows rang with war:
Where gods had tended, mortals ripped and tore.
So swiftly seizing didst sectarians slash,
For separate wealth, celestial wonders smash.
So long as greater theft brings greater kings,
So long spoilation spreads its wicked wings.
As some avert their eyes when beauty dies,
To hold remembrance of where ruin lies,
So sadly slipped the gods back to the skies.
And gathered in their velvet, starlit land,
The future course of mortal things they planned.
Unforgivable
There was nothing I could do
Except swallow the guilty mouthful
Taken from their bowl of rice
And chew upon the gristle
Of my add hot water pot noodle
Couldn’t stop the ice clinking
In the glass of my extra chilled white wine
Couldn’t stop me eating
In my clinging to my life
No I couldn’t stop their hunger
Or wipe away their tears
As they picked and ate the peeling paint
From the sides of oil drums
No way to stop the sun
From drying to brittle leaves
No way to halt the madness
Of other peoples greed
Nothing I could do but quench my thirst
And dine with the ugly flies
Clinging around the brown babies eyes
Nothing I could do
But feel my muscles work
Feel the nourishment of bone
While they live as human skeletons
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
Adding too much salt so it mingled with my tears
Adding too much mustard
So the food went burning down my throat
I could do nothing else
Except apologise for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Sorry for my country
For not rushing to your need
Sorry for my government
My vote helped to bring them in
Sorry for the United Nations
Who’s squabbling leaves you starving
Sorry they did not stop the war
That turned you into refugees
And all the weeping mothers
Their desperation in their eyes
Their children no more than rag dolls
Limply hanging from their arms
Their little bloated bodies
Going to join the others
On the lime dusted piles
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And say sorry for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Each and every mouthful
Was swallowed with a choke
But all I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
written for Christie Moses and Sharon Weimer's competition "I'm Sorry"
Exorcist -
i need an exorcist...
for Lord, i am possessed -
there are two souls trapped inside my chest,
entwined like duelling snakes...
their conjoined clamor drums in my ears,
shaking me from the pit of my
belly to my aching skull,
they struggle against each other
like squabbling Siamese twins -
beleaguered inmates they are, prisoners in my body's jail
they are rivals for my heart -
that never give up the fight.
24/7 they disrupt my life, rattling their sabers against my ribs...
nameless, faceless, nonetheless i know -
one of these souls is mine - i think - but the other...
the other soul is yours.
oh ho yes! i didn't escape you darling;
that day at the airport, when our romance crashed and burned,
when i turned on my heel and walked away (without a backward glance)
i may have left your body behind, your corroded spine
and weak-willed heart;
but your soul tagged along for the ride.
interloper...
you slipped in through my lips and lodged yourself
in that little space between my diaphragm and my heart.
now there you sit, hunched like a goblin,
with streaming black hair...
and out here in the waking world, i can feel your influence
overwhelming me...drowning my feeble reality.
my soul isn't strong enough to fight...
and now I'm turning into you.
your long unkempt hair is mine, snaking in blonde tendrils
down my ramrod spine...
your rock tees and tatts decorate my milky flesh,
your music pounds in my head, subverting the focus of my life
to the darker side, where the cookies are hash and the milk
is laced with Russia's finest...
worst of all, the image of you is no longer just a harsh memory,
but a painful presence permeating every fibre of
my aching heart.
i wish i could forget you, i wish i could be free...
but with this parasite soul of yours buried inside,
freedom is just a hopeless dream...
a flimsy fantasy...
There seems to be a trend these days,
an obsession with novelty,
and like most bad things of this age
it is traced back to the sixties,
at least the latest form of it,
for in truth, it’s always plagued us,
I’m talking about those who jump
on the newest and latest cause.
It’s really kind of a fetish,
this whole-hog embrace of the new,
that newer is always better,
too many accept this as true.
Whether they call themselves ‘progressive,’
a term wrapped in sheer arrogance,
or whether it is just their youth
that makes them hate all before them,
the fact is they misunderstand
the role that a new idea plays,
and have long failed to realize
the value of ideas that stay.
A tradition only exists
because time has shown it too work,
and human nature doesn’t change,
so ignoring this only hurts.
We saw it with socialism,
the dawning of a ‘better age,’
one hundred million dead later,
and still some fools will sing it praise.
And how many utopians
built communities to do right,
only to collapse in squabbling,
the once peaceful cause now a plight.
And how many revolutions
in art or film or music came,
only to die off in a week,
or come out sounding much the same?
How many countless Holy Men
had proclaimed that they have ‘the way,’
only to end up starting cults,
and with fool woman have their play?
Our ancestors called us tragic,
bound up by our unchanging flaws,
and saw that human beings are
tied up with immutable laws.
The arrogance of the present,
and the surge in technology
has convinced many that they are
better than past humanity.
But the cold truth is we are not,
we’re still walking on the same trail,
and ninety-nine of a hundred
brand new ideas are bound to fail.
A new idea that’s untested,
the product of only one mind,
stands little chance against concepts
that have survived travails of time...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.