Long Well bred 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
My co-worker posed a theory to me
That our boss was born one hundred years later than she was supposed to be
Neither of us could exactly put our finger on why, but I had to agree
No makeup, unbrushed hair, bad teeth
As though she just awoke from a long, troubled sleep
Her mannerisms seem out of sync somehow with contemporary company;
Solitarily sorting books in the back room of the used bookstore she manages each day
to remain distant and dazed, as though unfamiliar with a world that has dramatically changed
Nobody knows how old she is, but I’d guess upper-middle-aged
She never seems relaxed or at home with where she has landed, always looking around as she walks through a room or doorway, ever vigilant
She shows up each day looking like last night was another rough one, but her speech and ways seem oddly quaint and well-bred,
strangely legalistic and more formal than needed in this squalid environment.
She simply doesn’t seem at home in this place;
She can stand two feet away from me and a co-worker as we’re sorting while joking and, while our hands are busy working, our minds are away playing,
But she is immune to the general contagion of the strange repartee and laughs exchanged, seeming to hear nothing we’re saying.
Never laughing herself nor conversing, guarding her thoughts, observations, and history from judgment, and getting lost in her own world such that the sudden awareness of the presence of another person can induce a violently startled jump the other way.
And I know what that’s like, as I’ve spent many years in that state,
so it is painful to see it in another neglected appearance
and another needlessly nervous wreck of a person who is
wishing to just go home or one day somehow escape this place
where her body has ended up by way of a misdirected fate.
But today she took my co-worker and I by surprise when, after being shown a book with a cover featuring a picture of Jesus playing golf, she smiled widely and lively, and she replied,
“That’s ridiculous! Everyone knows Jesus only played tennis!!”
It was just a small joke, but it was like seeing a rainbow in the refracted light on a dark sky
It gave me hope that, despite being meant for a time perhaps one hundred years ago, in this day where she was nonetheless sent, she may someday come home.
You might see me in the back streets
By the light of the full moon
With my look refined and cunning
I will almost make you swoon
Don't treat me as an enemy
Or fear me as a foe
Don't use evil words against me
I'm a well-bred soul, you know
I'm a smooth, suave, refined old chap
A four-legged paradox
Oblige me for a moment, please
- I'm an urbane urban fox
You've seen me on my rounds
But I'm not heading for your bins
No - you're far too quick to judge me
Though, I confess - I have my sins
One must eat to live, of course
I'll not claim to be benign
But I am a gracious, civil guest
Where're I choose to dine
The hen house holds a great appeal
And I know how to pick the locks
I do that with true style though
I'm an urbane urban fox
My poise and affable demeanour
Give me access to any Mayfair club
I'm a cut above the rural fox
Who seems happy with his "pub"
I'm not one to judge, of course
I'm far too cool for that
But jeans and a checked shirt?
No! I choose a jacket and cravat
No pints for me - it's G & T
Or Martini on the rocks
Oh yes, darling, I really am
An urban urbane fox
I can capture your attention
With my wit and sharp brown eyes
I'm keen to make a business deal
Should my nose smell enterprise
My fur is sleek, groomed and neat
My tail swishes to impress
My paw is keen to shake your hand
When I'm ready to invest
I truly never miss a trick
When opportunity knocks
I'm cordially yours
I'm an urbane urban fox
I enjoy reading high-brow lit
Classical music was written for me
Opera sets my spine a-tingle
So does ballet, naturally
I go shootin' with my country pals
As for skiing - I'd rather not
I find dancing is a pleasure though
I love the Charleston and Fox Trot
But don't class me as a Liberal
I am rather orthodox
Let's steer clear of politics
I'm an urbane urban fox
I'm polished. Well-mannered. Chic.
Rich beyond compare
Elegant and gallant
And oh, so debonair
But yes, I walk the city streets
In the hours before the dawn
There's something about the smell, you see
To which I'm somehow, strangely drawn
Don't judge me for that, please I'm just
A four-legged paradox
I thank you for your time
- With love. Your urban urbane fox
Written 10th April 2016
Once a friend of mine invited me for lunch
A celebration he planned for his book launch,
The book was on traditional Indian cuisine, I knew
No very different from its modern cousin or new.
I was hesitant to join for my stomach was upset
He pleaded with me, let the plan not get upset.
I must join the friend’s party, how could I say no
For it was a special event in his life, I should know.
He would take care, being an accomplished chef
For me, he assured, food would be entirely safe.
I decided to not enter into a friendly row
But to go, occupy a chair in the back row,
Enjoy the lunch as best I could to the last course
And not utter a word about stomach, of course.
I went for the lunch on a winter day quite chilly
Vowing to avoid the food items with lots of chilli.
Through morning my friend made things all ready
For the party he threw, guests had arrived already.
While cheese and toast rested untouched for a while
We proposed a toast to his success as a chef of style.
Matching the rhythm of our warm and soft whine
Rose red wine rose and swirled in shining glasses thin.
I was delighted to see on the table dishful curd
So much good for my stomach, I shouldn’t discard.
The fat naan was so liberally buttered all over
None possibly would have eaten in their life ever,
Flat bread made of finest flour of well bred wheat
Looked like blooming flowers on the floral plate.
The flavor of famous basmati rice as it would rise
I would favor to have it instead of bread to be wise,
Sprinkle of spring onion with smell of spring in fish curry
Added to the gastronomic delight, a treat far to carry,
Meat in gravy with basal green layer of fresh basil leaf
Could meet the culinary acumen of any expert chef,
The salad of beet root, leek, lime and touch of olive
Could beat any such combo in the world, I believe.
Before scoops of ice cream could bury the red berry
The dessert disappeared as if in desert heat in a hurry.
My friend’s hospitality won the hearts of one and all,
Thanking him amply we departed before the nightfall.
We expressed the appreciation for the food aloud
As much as our satiated minds sincerely allowed.
December 3, 2017.
Upon the first date (decades ago) with the gal,
whose troth aye did pledge allegiance to wed
we agreed to dine at an ex-mex eatery
in north Wales, Pennsylvania, where angels feared to tread
carefully scrutinizing bon appétit the menu selection,
a touch of Latin lick QED
all American version sans south of the border cuisine –
Quod Erat Demonstrand – translations spit out in rapid fire Hispanic
by a beady eyed inked kid named Ned
whose couture favored a punkish style
with spiked gelled green hair, piercings galore and
necklace with a genetically modified sizable
entombed glass encased amber ked
which beastly fully intact organism with a miniature grisly bear like head
momentarily hypnotizing me tell nudged out of trance sans this egghead
who make a selection by randomly
landing finger on an item feigning to be well bred
unbeknownst to the arbitrary choice this senior made
within an ample number of mouthfuls
of beans and rice that quelled hunger pangs
mine lower gastrointestinal tract,
felt a bubbling sensation played
though impropriety struggled with gaseous mounting perturbations,
what promised to be hot malodorous, would induce an air raid
from this “wind bag”, whose saving grace divine, when wallet of suede
discover herd visa vis tubby devoid of cash, thus and excuse to beat the tirade
of volcanic eruption found me bolting
out the restaurant door fortunately not waylaid
and madly dashing (like some comet fiery dancer)
performing a cheeky number hopping on one foot than the other –
since forceful blast triggered kidneys to be tapped, thus prancer
two step extemporaneously incorporated while await the ATM to disburse cash
legal tender coveted akin to Cupid sprinkling spell of romancer
while expulsion of noxious fumes from thine sphincter from this hob er dasher
brought relief as aye nonchalantly strolled inside
the cozy diner and slipped into me seat
disinclined to relate vents to future spouse,
the bodily aeration and stream of urine from me magic flute
which amazingly synchronized with the Maximus glute
from consuming food triggering tushy to toot.
Buying corporate profit tickets
to this June's PRIDE event
does not feel therapeutic,
where once lived public trauma.
Another annual rite
of well-bred socialization
political masturbation
with no flavor of resistance
to white-washed Capitalism's greed,
to straight Patriarchalism's need
to rapaciously breed
to gluttonously feed
on humble margins
of truly empowered
LeftBrain dominant humanity
not RightBrain depressed
demonically repressed
satanically oppressed
devilishly suppressed
Right supremely unimpressed
by deeply felt insanity
born a profanity
against Earth's Straight
White
MonoTheistic God
False idol
of patriotic
nationalistic pride
parades before
and lingers after
sins against EarthMother's uncapitalized
poor in spirited nature
Our planet's
traumatically wounded child,
x-rated
x-rayed
x-cised
by homophobic
feministphobic
Afrophobic toxins,
divinely inspired hate,
monotheistic vengeance-is-mine
militaristic fate.
This, and future, summers of inclusive love,
I would give away invitations to proud PASSION,
co-passion
compassion
compassionate integrity
passionate enquiry
of Left erect
correct cognition
greets Right flowing
enlightened growing
synergy glowing
sacred felt reconnecting
concelebrations
Of timeless
dipolar co-arising parades,
out-rageous raving displays
of globally spectral
spectacular
spiraling circular rainbows
of regenerating strings
and co-passionate things
Sacred hope promises
form ribboned resonant faith
for love
of EarthTribe's holy
co-emergent DNA diversity
deeply held
in silent summer whispers
Inviting year-round
and full
and sweaty wet PASSION plays
stories
narratives
epic songs,
starred night light
and lunar displays
Flowing Right
Left strength
universally full
uniting Color
Healthy polycultures
wealthy multicultures evoking
not revoking
compassionating
never mindlessly sedating
fully woke
out celebrating
Earth's PASSIONTribe.
His voice the hiss of serpents,
he acknowledged the pact unmade,
but now he was here to tell him
how the debt would be repaid.
"All your sons, and all their sons,"
the devil's eyes glowed red,
"will perish while still very young,
yes, all of them, cold and dead."
With that, the devil vanished,
not long after, Joseph died,
and Jack, now the eldest,
found his career on the rise.
He married a well-bred woman,
she made a beautiful bride,
but their first-born child, a son,
very quickly died.
But how the public loved him,
the White House was Camelot,
but Satan hadn't forgotten,
and guided Oswald's shot.
Next in line was Bobby,
and he soon, too, was slain,
now Edward became paranoid,
though justified, ashamed.
Edward wasn't pleased with God,
the curse of his surname,
he knew someone would kill him,
if only for the fame.
And, one day, those fateful words
slipped through his lips as well,
the devil appeared as a gent,
and with a pact to sell.
Now, Edward was not evil,
but perhaps a little weak,
vehemently he refused, at first,
but Satan continued to speak.
The devil knew his weak spots,
affirmed he'd soon be dead,
then offered an alternative,
made up of hope and dread.
"You will live a long and worthwhile life,
and your children will live, too,
but in exchange for these gifts,
there are two things you must do:
You must find a young and innocent girl
and give her soul to me.
You, alone, must take her life,
but you'll escape scot-free.
The other thing you must give me
is your most passionate dream,
that is, to become president,"
the devil's smile obscene.
Well, Chappaquiddick happened,
and he got off scot-free,
I think he tried to be the best,
most honorable he could be.
But Satan keeps his promises,
and John-John's plane went down,
and now the pact is finished,
for there's no more left around.
©Danielle White
I once dated a weatherman
At first he had a sunny outlook…
He had our future all mapped out
But he suffered periods of deep depression so our relationship got rained off
I once dated an optician
He said he could see our future was together
But soon I stopped wearing rose tinted glasses ...
He was always smashed and making a spectacle of himself
I once dated a librarian
He claimed he was an open book
But I couldn’t cope with the periods of intense silence
So the writing was on the wall and I threw the book at him
I once dated a farmer
He ploughed straight into our relationship
But I discovered he was a muck spreader
And when he started playing the field I ditched him
I once dated a baker
He was very upper crust and well bred
But he couldn’t get his dough to rise
So I toasted his future and said goodbye
I once dated a hairdresser
He was very trim and didn’t have a hair out of place
But he was always making cutting comments
So I cut the relationship short
I once dated a doctor
He had a wonderful bedside manner and he made my temperature rise
But he became very cold and started injecting poison
I lost my ‘patient’s’ and got sick of him so I gave him the cold shoulder
I once dated a barman
He wore very attractive glasses
But he was always on the pull
So I gave him sort measures and 'called time' on our relationship
I once dated a retired policeman
He was an arresting sight
But when he took down his particulars
His truncheon was all floppy – so I bailed out
N/A in Just make me laugh Contest judged on 08/30/16
Submitted to take the dagger from my heart please contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
27th August 2016
Lamentations of a proletariat
Loaded to the brim, withouted in a pack of "obersver-non participants"
folded like a wrap, yet forced to lack in the ranks of "server-run-anticipants"
dare to pass a comment and... a knife to your jugular
they claim to pass, yet, your life was the formulae
all work and no play
work work work and no pay
take home pay? No way
oh! how they dread our own payday!
Bourgeoisies, yes! They ply overseas
their remnants, our works, they oversee.
We build the roads, yet can't posses the cars that ply same.
Decyphering the codes, the confessors, the liars...we've been long in this game
Suffering, yet been forced to smile -"all is well -my foot!"
Oh! My root! My precedence...their loot!...my antecedence
their brute, they rule...when they loot....we mute
we've been stripped of our patience - robbed of our conscience.
we've been hit, smite, spite, ...despite, we still fit
they've been well bred, well fed, yet still got a lot to mend
even when we miss, they don't give a poo!
Though we do the roughs, their signatures they append.
Oh! This road i ply, puts food on my table, shows me the bills and ...i babble
Yes! It puts coin in my pocket
girds my loins with debts "a regal quarter"
"heads will roll"...let mine not be included
lest my judgement became beclouded
i've been spent, feeble is my might and...
Last time i checked, ain't no other option in sight
the unfortunante me
i found myself in...
we seem to be tied up!...
but i know we will triumph
a song been loaned,
without a collateral
A seed been sown
Via the lamentations of a proletariat
The esteemed guests streamed into the candle lit
Foyer and dissolved into a sea of idle courtly ritual,
Landowners, majors, magistrates, slender maidens
And fair matrons all slithered into the modestly gilded hall so
Discreetly adorned by understated gluttony. Their lofty manners,
Their shield ; their feigned courtesy, disguise for icy hearts.
Only a thin veneer of silky decorum coats their acrid tongues,
For them, honest men are but emotional beasts to be
Snared and skinned by slander most gleeful and vicious,
Leaving in their wake their perverse masterpieces—
Hollow shells that would make a taxidermist proud.
Petaled confetti is set adrift upon powdered faces and intricate wigs lost in Laughter, Chatter, and the Clatter of soles ; and as Measured gaits of the Minuet Mingled ‘Mongst The Music and Morphed into the Milieu, well bred ladies politely pricked with veiled Slights of envy, and the men indulged their ornery humor, turning giddy at the sight of Misery, their openly secret delight.
Meandering through the dense meadow of decadent masters are the servants who carry Silver platters of pheasants and plum wine. Their obedient stony facades hide hearts That lust after larceny. Birds of the same feather, separated only by station.
Alas! Heaven cries as it looks down to judge…….King Yama lets out a sigh and asks:
In this hall of monsters, who is modest still?
In this world of wickedness, who is upright still?
In this land of lies…..who is honest still?
Poem released into Public Domain
Original published on my blog: purelandsutras.wordpress.com