I could stay for hours under the sun
to contemplate bouquets of primroses,
to listen to the buzzing of insects,
To contemplate their petals, the shape of hearts,
I could stay for hours if no one comes,
to absorb the happiness of such delicate flowers,
Ah, wasting your time is always winning it,
Wasting your time, it’s an art, it’s a work,
It takes the help of God and wild nature,
To understand the soul of things, symbols,
I could stay for hours in the sun.
Contemplating primrose bouquets.
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil
à contempler des bouquets de primevères,
à écouter le bourdonnement des insectes,
à contempler leurs pétales en forme de cœur,
Je pourrais rester des heures si nul ne vient,
à absorber le bonheur des fleurs si délicates,
Ah, perdre son temps, c’est toujours le gagner,
Perdre son temps , c’est un art, c’est une œuvre,
Il faut l’aide de Dieu et de la nature sauvage,
Pour comprendre l’âme des choses, des symboles,
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil.
À contempler des bouquets de primevères.
I bathed, one day, in the Dead Sea,
My belly floated like a piece of wood
The water was so salty, it stung the skin
It was necessary to go out and take a good shower,
I have not known Jesus, me, nor Jean Baptiste,
I have not known Simon, nor the small fishermen,
I have not been a saint, nor seen silver nets,
I have let the sun do its work of sun,
I bathed, one day, on the Dead Sea,
Between Syria and Palestine, looking at Israel pure,
My belly floated like a piece of wood
The fame of the place, has enlightened my soul.
Je me suis baigné, un jour, dans la Mer Morte,
Mon ventre flottait comme un bout de bois,
L’eau était si salée, qu’elle piquait la peau
Il fallut en sortant prendre une bonne douche,
Je n’ai pas Connu Jésus, moi, ni Jean Baptiste,
Je n’ai pas connu Simon, ni les petits pêcheurs,
Je n’ai pas vu de saint, ni de filets d’argent,
J’ai laissé le soleil faire son œuvre de soleil,
Je me suis baigné, un jour, sur la Mer Morte,
Entre Syrie et Palestine, regardant Israël la pure,
Mon ventre flottait comme un bout de bois,
La renommée de l’endroit, a éclairé mon âme.
The modern world is an awe-choice saturation
Of stuffness and people,
A punguage,
An allcode,
The hash of all cyphers, nodes and codices
Ever scribed, wrote and written,
Bitten off, stolen or torn,
The mash of all knowledge,
The thrash of all oars televisual,
The splice of all strings
From one edge of time to the other,
The open oeuvre of everything,
An omnithought of toot,
The sum of all inflexions,
Ancient and phonetic,
Yet provisional,
A mighty metaforest pointing
To the centre
Of you know what.
Outside and elsewhere
existence is a leaf on a deep blue river;
a long night has set it free to bob and tumble
as an upturned mirror caught in the gray rays
of an obscure sun.
I listen to the heartbeat of a giant turtle;
the soundless pulse of a mind roaming away from itself.
At such times, a body of flesh becomes a body of work,
an opus of all that can be held
between a left and right handedness.
Nothing has a name here, all anchors are cut,
the black cat of thought
leaves no pawprint upon the inner eye.
Somewhere, now buried in a silvered dew,
the world at large has shrunk beneath the gravity of its own presence.
On the surface of all seen things faces are bereft of identity.
Home seems far away,
a place where an awakening ghost waits for its own arrival.
All the works of a self-creating oeuvre are naming themselves ‘home’
but ‘home’ knows nothing of any journeys made between
these disinherited regions.
From behind a cloud of nowhere a frameless door swings open;
nothing enters, yet All That Ever Was steps out
to greet it.
Little by little by little by far,
high above I followed a bright
shining star,
something special in the air
no doubt a galactic affair,
symbols, trumpets,
resounding on Earth
a special occasion, a birth.
Oh to be in the heavens,
at this time of the year,
as a space shuttle is
used to man-oeuvre us
among superstars,
having visited Mars,
we are on our way
to the Milky Way
so iconic, so fascinating.
Trillions of stars,
a spectacular sight,
in the quiet of night,
creating a magical tale,
which will never fail,
to delight
and excite.
The Milky Way,
adorns and em-blazes
Our heavenly sky's,
perfect Christmas decorations.
For on the eve of Our
Babes first night on earth,
We will hear carols sung
by celestial beings,
and we heave
a contended sigh,
shed heartfelt tears,
for at midnight,
we shout Happy Christmas
to one and all,
Christ Is born, Christs birth
was God’s call.
John Milton wet to school at St Paul
destined a poet was his call
His greatest oeuvre, Paradise Lost
losing his eyesight,was the great cost
Limerick: Once a great and wise Commentator
Once a great and wise Commentator
Thought what escaped him escaped Creator
His oeuvre his whole life dreamt
By his comments he meant
The whole world loved him as their Tutor
(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, September 5, 2021
Life lay ahead,
tenuous, blind yet unafraid
as if a stone's throw out of sight
form and substance laid
opened wide to the Creator's thought in flight;
here I am formed and made,
a blip, microcosm upon inception
conceptual origin of light
the figment of oeuvre
from the very hand of God;
flesh and bone
heart and soul
authoring commencement
achieved satisfaction from His very spirit
as each of us find our reality
as we be breathed into existence.
For the Unseeeking Seeker
contest As We Be Breathed
8/13/21
Fecund sewer ingeniously knitted
An ornately crocheted potholder was made
Bragged her complete oeuvre at first
But its worthless in everybody’s sight
It may be futile or trifling
What can it flaunt is nothing
The Cuisiner's hands are sheathed
From scorching cauldron was protected
No acclaim, no reward travail
From first light to nightfall with ill
Hard work makes it smeared and filthy
At old age, it will be banished away
Long time ago; in an African land
In a house whose walls with fine flannelette sheets
Whose roof was well made
A house whose floor was well tiled
Lived a family that known no peace
A family that uttered disgusting terms
That could be described by all bad and negative oeuvre
Members so hostile and selfish to each other
Same people very harmless and poltroon
It was a family that known no peace
And now the villagers so tired of it
Many fasted and prayed for it;maybe it was a spiritual issue
Elders gave them infallible advice and cautions
And a glimmer of hope was seen
And that was a family that known no peace
Rate of libido decreased among the sons
Hearts now decorated with pompom
And their old behaviours were becoming a stale
So wise as they were; one word was enough for them
And that was a family gaining peace
Change was becoming a manner; the East met West
As they now hugged each other with love
Holding each other's hands like a handrail
I stood at a distance watching them break their smiles into tears
It was a family that gained peace
If I gave you my heart
Would you treat it as a priceless part?
Would you love me in return?
Or would you set it on fire and watch me burn?
Would you value and cherish?
As a pure thing without blemish?
Or you treat it as trite?
As though my love will never suffice?
Would you handle it with devotion and care?
Or rather like another 'chose sans valuer'?
(After all you always did prefer her,
From her fairer skin to her darker hair..)
If I gave you my heart
A beautiful 'oeuvre d'art'
An embodiment of my strengths, fears and aches,
A cradle of fortitude yet with a tendency to break
Would you allay all my fears?
Would you help seal the cracks?
Would you love me back?
Or would you just be another avenue of tears?
#BlueRain
2016
That pensive look on her sweet face
Just like a child of mine.
Her eyes seem to follow you with
Dominion that's divine.
Northwest light on soft blush hued cheeks
Her grey-green eyes lay bare
Perhaps a secret rendezvous
In enigmatic stare.
Wet lips stained as if with cherries
Delft blue scarf hides her hair...
In penchant blossom of her youth
Portrait of beauty rare.
From her left ear hangs gracefully
One solitary pearl.
Melancholy hints, she may be
A woman, yet a girl.
May 3, 2017
Note:
Johannes Vermeer's 'Girl with a pearl earring'
c.1665 Mauritius Museum, The Hague.
The Dutch artist was born in Delft in 1632-1675.
One of the key paintings in Vermeer's oeuvre,
this portrait resists all attempts at the precise
identification of the sitter. It's charm, perhaps,
lies in the fact that it is an evocative expression
of timeless female beauty. I viewed this masterpiece
in 2009. She has the entire wall to herself.
Looking for
someone great
whose work
he won't denominate
his Œuvre;
something plainer
smoother for
this simpleton's
simple tongue
2009 July 4
of mice an men aye n'er doth quit
dialing countless times google
fascinating to this human caboodle ling kit upon porcelain goddess,
most brilliant ideas congeal in me mind, and thou' loo pee did lit
this sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
soon after traipses superhighway road viz imagination
fired with fleeting thoughts that hit
sweet soft spot futilely attempt to net ideas in me mind flit
i yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves magically con verse
interleaving like boughs of - arbor shielding this solitary soul
wherein shafts of sunlight dapple cerebral canopy
affecting dark shadows at the edge of night to disperse
from outer limits of the twilight zone
ebbing and flowing in tandem & nsync
with circadian metronome this trolling
troubadour lost in space transformed
into edenic serenade from Mother Nature
while unseen terrestrial oeuvre
reassures don’t fear the reaper’s scythe silent curse.
The light breaks free from winter’s bone
to cast its warmth; to life atone,
to warm the dark; to thaw the chill,
to synthesize through chlorophyll,
a dormant seed to resurrect,
and coax a soul from introspect.
Awake! And breathe the wafting spice
of lilac buds and wild rice,
the lavender; the orange puccoon,
the sweet of honeysuckle bloom.
An overture, the sparrows sing,
to celebrate the oeuvre of spring;
while wind and weeping willow dance
to promises of new romance.
Come alive! Draw in your breath,
let winter die a noble death.
The seeds of yesterday are strewn;
it does not do to weep and croon.
If you seek, so shall you find,
as true for darkness as divine.
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