Long Untutored Poems
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This bowl is no longer mine,
was never so,
Let it go.
well worn before the oath,
A gift that despised the guardian,
Presented freely without a dowry in May.
tainted, and abandoned.
used, and widened by many.
too wide to keep a home.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
insatiable, licentious and libidinous.
The bowl was scorned by many.
ere i fell a wandering,
incorrigible, rebellious, untutored.
a bait on my way, the sorrow on my path.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
Like many seeking for prey, and so was i for a time.
intent concealed,,
desperate for the gift of the semen.
as adulterer urged rebellion by ignorance.
the rage, the rave of ego and bestiality.
deceived the Law for mere gain.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
It is broken cannot be fixed by logic.
this bowl is old, alluring by mascara.
This bowl was used,
i take exception on your list,
This bowl is free available to all.
the next victim can explore.
the bowl is cheap,
forced a dowry to conceal the shame.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
T'was sold for free at Ikoyi with ego,
Who is next?
A thousand many had the bowl,
I played along for a time,
ere this voyage of deceit,
I took a flight from restrain ,
hoping to make a jewel from the Flesh.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
This bowl is addicted to the red zones,
Incurable addiction i recalled,
The friends,
The internet,
The phone,
The TV,
The cinema,
And tattling,
The routines of unending dark flights
Incorrigible,
Venomous.
You may have the bowl if you would.
think no shame on me, I lusted.
This bowl is No longer mine.
Let it go
Once a street bowl,
and always so.
Find the bowl in your homes,
Let's hope the bowl recovers.
but a broken bowl is irreparable by man
at times it seems to be their only ticket out of the hood
young black men with athletic talents that are exceptionally good
be it basketball, football, baseball or any other type of sport
it's their natural athletic ability where they don't seem to fall short
but not all of them are gifted enough to have top-notch grades
they use what they got to lie in the bed of life that they've made
to get out of the projects, beyond the violence and the crime
to rise above their circumstances, away from the troubled and hard times
but the pressure is tremendous and there are only a certain numbers of spots
they will attempt to do anything to rise up to the top
many of them are overwhelmed, many get lost and confused
everybody wants a piece of them, they can't seem to win nor lose
awesome responsibility placed upon their untutored minds
many of them will misstep and get left behind
the prestige and money make a most seductive bait
a number of them will bypass college as they can not afford to wait
organized sports, the fast track to fortune and fame
but all it seems to have done is take the fun out of the game
it's not personal, it's business
and the athletes are just tools
to make money for those in powers
but what about education and school?
to turn pro, to get paid, to have the American dream
organized sports, it's no longer about fun nor about the team
The Devil's Hold
Into the devils hands you placed my infant form
with blind eyes and untutored minds you left.
The caterwauls of baby rang like an eerie storm
for the eve's respite you sought was paid a high tariff.
Memory, so kind and long gone, without redress
lays in ashes buried in the wavering wash of time
But, decades of snickering comments coalesce
making the adult children wonder at their crime.
Marred, scarred, scared and one too many times undressed
the ramming cat, the rutting dog, pointed allusions
The negligence of youthful parents never confessed
leaves Magdalene's curse, a cost not of your choosing.
Raise the tarry brush of hell and paint their damned souls,
far too many have fell within the Devil's hold.
On this Day
On this day,
the lonesome vine broke,
A cargo ejected at nature's will,
blood shatters from the womb
another life from Life brought forth.
On this day,
umbilical cord severed
the conception ripened
A body clothed in innocence
untainted from the womb of Nature
on this day.
The mind in obscurity wonders
The passage from unknown to the world
untutored, unlearned unweaned.
what's the mission here ?
On this day
A servant of time,
A product of Prayer
sustained through unceasing plea.
Live said He, Live,
From this day
ecstasy transforms into realities.
from the first cry,
the breath, garnished looks and smiles.
to uncensored path from dissipating paean.
And this day,
the whole earth waits for the manifestation,
Who, what, where, and when?
A fire brand Ready to burn.
Thou quickening power of the spirit of Life,
set the fire ablaze.
Ever seen a warrior beaten by an armless nincompoop,
Whom he could have maimed and vanquished?
A pilot swimming through murky waters,
Having ignored the benefits flights so furnished?
A gay prisoner of want who stalks fellow men
When damsels fast that he takes notice of them;
A sailor towards west when his itinerary should be bound towards North!
A singer of archaic lines when it’s available a novel anthem.
I saw a young man of age so green and untutored
Plunge into the sea of graft and improvident lasses
While all banners screamed that it was a no-go zone
For them that want to live when tomorrow passes.
How do you tether a goat and yet have it free,
Or how can you be there and still absent be?
No wishing of life loved the scent of death;
A flying bird isn’t perturbed by a mongoose’s chase!
Folly consumes like the teeth of rust
And no failure can quench its lust
To maim and bite and condemn;
To gnaw with malice from twig to stem.
You’ll lose your bag and still lose your leg;
You’ll suffer shame and incur every curse
For the sand has never staunched its want of water,
And none can inhibit the flow of gas!
Erewhile took hoisted oath crushed cod,
'pon Cecilia 'n' cramped Cynthia's nod.
T' his lusty lover he'd rehearsed
pored pledges gored b' lanky love's lurch.
Damp dell 'n forg'ry hewn dark deceit,
'n which sassy smirk 's draped - smothered spree.
Furred fabrics ergo "f cloning sewn
torn was b' bounty blitzkrieg b' time thrown;
"Trade thy love with me. I'll borrow",
thrived oft - offshoot "f th' ticker's sorrow.
But untutored mind 'n deceit lagged
"s her words smarter than visage nagged.
Anon did wielded wits 'witch him,
'n' anon sent he her 'way raging.
'20:07:25:11:00
Note:
a) of damp dishonesty
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Erewhile - long ago
ii) Cod - a man
iii) Cynthia - moon
iv) dell - young woman
v) ergo - then
vi) oft - often
vii) visage - face
viii) Anon¹ - immediately
ix) Anon² - At once
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) 'pon - upon
ii) 'n' - and
iii) t' - to
iv) b' - by
v) 'n - in
vi) 's - is
vii) "f - of
viii) b' - by
ix) oft - often
x) th' - the
xi) "s - as
xii) 'witch - bewitch
xiii) 'way - away.
It’s 1914, and Hollywood star Mabel Normand has just
helped new boy Charlie Chaplin to develop his “Tramp”
character. She is wondering if she’s done the right thing.
I gave him everything – even the walk.
He’s too priapic for his baggy britches!
Arriving here still tarred with charred old cork,
this fraud who jawed of Avignon and Sitges
while knowing neither, has the crew in stitches.
Dexterity is not the same as grace:
he’s shaping up for all-time rags-to-riches,
the parasite who rose without a trace:
but we can see beneath the comic carapace.
He’s carrying himself now like a star.
If glibness were the same as eloquence,
I haven’t any doubt that he’d go far.
The talent, if untutored, is immense.
I wish he’d just – when not before the lens –
acknowledge what’s been done for him. That loud
theatricality I tamed. The sense
of something intímate, less harsh, less proud,
I think I gave him. But his eyes are on the crowd.
He’s trying to direct us. We’re his bitches.
That script he wrote permits him to molest
some seven women, like as if his itches
are there to be indulged. The man’s obsessed.
I nurtured him and now, at his behest,
I’m served up as his plaything. I’m incensed!
The cuckoo kicks the babies from the nest,
but still the mother feeds him. My defence?
A woman’s love survives a man’s incontinence.
I
As things do return home like a refrain,
On way back from a country tour were we,
A leisurely long trip—my kin and me,
And met a quaint character on the train,
As I recall, in his late life, nigh vain,
His dress and demeanour indicative,
And we at sea the way he seemed to talk,
His deportment and dialogue of proud cock,
Who discoursed on any a theme on earth,
A Muslim sure from far, not a native,
Listening to him was, not his tale’s worth,
Yea, something sure was there that was not sane.
The Goddess of Learning and Destiny
Seemed to have blessed him— of ports so many,
Who said, forces were at work in the world
Far too secretly, underground, unheard:
Russians, say, have advanced closer to us,
Brit policies have been inauspicious,
Feuds among our leaders have come to head,
Confused and suspicious who see things red.
And flourished our newly formed friend in train
With phony smile: What might cause further pain—
More things happen under and ‘pon this earth
Than reported are as the news of worth.
The home-bound birds like us that had not seen
The world he had, struck were dumb with wonder,
What with his quotes on science, his comments
On Vedas, verses of Persian poets.
Our young ears, untutored to this knowledge,
Caused our admiring bone to turn attuned,
Sure, a magnet, occult power, an astral
Body some sort doubtless has him inspired,
We listened to him with keenest of ears,
Devout mind, he’d our heart all enraptured.
The train reaching a railhead, we waited
In a retiring room, tired and jaded,
As change of train weighed when heavy on eyes.
‘Train's running late', when someone made us wise,
Our wise man then set out a tale to spin,
And our sleep said goodbye with a wry grin!
____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of a noble order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only valid creed was,
window squinting prayer meets
We peep through grated beams in the dark confines,
Kept in chains by the tyranny of audacious jailers,
unending cynosure of profligates and imposters:
ruining the destinies of million wearied sufferers.
criminals fit for the gallows,
morons from the days of the colony.
dictators in military attires.
and simpletons kept in power for temporary ease.
our heirloom forced from us by old monsters.
cabals of criminals, greedy goons, men untutored in reputation.
Felons and rapscallion from the military barracks,
too old for modern ideas.
we are burdened along by colonial tyranny,
in a country where destinies are suspended in the gale,
and youths are forced into their own crimes of stealing.
we could not speak our sentiment freely.
we are fettered and riveted by their guns.
The sword above us, tyranny of archaic mind.
dreamy theorist acting as lords over multitudes of docile lots.
men made to cringe and fawn bowing and stooping to the
threatening of their guns.
They armed assassins and sufferers alike,
paid a trifling sum from the proceeds of corruption,
to keep the masses away from them as old baron loot the treasury,
this open prison of fancied freedom,
where marauders employed by the states with a gun to kill,
trans versing the south with AK47/.
terrorist renamed bandits by religious sympathizers.
from the porous borders of North,
comradely of Fanatics and bigots of the sword sect.
Clandestinely overrunning the land.
Freedom is a crime to fools.
those who dares becomes enemy of states.
assaulted by “operation python” dance.
or raided by Lawless DSS.
This is but a Jihad disguised as government.
The road is a trap of death,
we sleep as watchers waiting for the sword.
we starve amidst multitudinous resources,
they Lend to keep us in Bondage.
The crude in the south.
and all the resources are carted away to the North
to pay terrorist.
A state crimes condoned.
we groan,
we dare not speak as their armed assassin are
ready to silence the Voice of Truth.
one more Truth for the Jailer from the North.