A cure for forty death-dealing cells
Impotent at birth
Impotent at death
and only somewhat potent in between
Why were you born without your own consent
What was the karmic guilt of your first birth
and what about those maimed in the mind
crippled in the womb
eaten by meningitis
by herpes
by syphillis
by aids
What are their chances of mending their karma
And what about that baby born without a brain
How is it to be blamed
for not giving its organs to some transplant bank
Who cares if you live on
If you die
who cares
and for how long
Does one have to care
being but ephemeral
(© T. Wignesan, April 2,1992, Paris - from the collection: back to background material,1993)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Related quotes
Womb to womb to tomb
I am born unto this womb
To be born again unto another womb
Before I take birth once again unto another womb
Then as mark of respect
A tomb shall man place on that womb
To remind the world
That this day a man
Was, born unto this womb.
Before another birth I seek
To live another life in another womb
In the seas of life I shall swim
Before I am once again ready
To take birth unto this womb
To be born again unto another womb
Before, I take birth once again to be entombed.
©cyclopseven. All rights reserved 290108.
poem by cyclopseven Ram
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Born to die at Stromboli
« Think, the world remembers only the poets. The name of a country depends on how its poets behave. »
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, the Philosopher-President of India*
Whoever dies at his Stromboli
needs no excuse to be born
as those who sail their ships
to the farther regions of the mind
even if they lose their way
finding their way back to sanity
While those who invent the Soul
construct pyramids
cathedrals
stupas
to raise those royal patrons
who raised them
to the skies
or even
those who lived to soothe others
with televisions
cars
innoculations
like those who raised townships
settled industries on reclaimable land
Much like those who gave their names
to bills of rights
to streets
faculty buildings
political dynasties
All these and more may need no excuse
Such even centuries hence may not accuse
But where alas is the poet
the painter of million melodies
assailing the living tastes of times
and bounded traditions
they that need to be examined
explained
exclaimed
declaimed
Men who have strayed from the volcano of their birth
For fear of leaving no revenge nor challenge on this earth
Note
* The philosopher's parting words to me in New Delhi when he was the vice-president in May 1961.
(©: T. Wignesan, May 30,1987, Paris, from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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Too late for amends
It is as though an unjust hand punished you
As if the Adlerian guiltless position in the constellation wasn't enough
toppling you from a pedestal
You were groomed for position
for heading a family
vacated by the head himself
out of time
So they protected you
pampered you
the custom required it
there were sisters whose dowries you were supposed to earn
there were grounds whose circumferences you were designated to crush
there were centuries and goals you were bound to knock with stick and bat
there were exams you were deemed to sail through
there were jobs you were merely to inherit on merit
The second son was sacrificed
He was too close a second
They turned a deaf eye to your sacrificial deeds
the suffocating cries
'Work on what has been spoiled by the father and the mother.'
-Hexagram 18-
Other hands worked on the second son
Other sacrifices nearly came to pass
Fierce jungles
swirling muddy rivers
stalking cobras
poisonous thorns
aboriginal hunters
even your suffocating arms to lock the broken neck
fresh from a hanging
These worked
where the mother and father failed
and instilled a wish for survival in your Abel
How could you be blamed for being the first born boy
if the second took longer to arrive
or instead came as a baby girl
Neither parent may be faulted
How could either have known or foreseen
Your traversing of the desert
alone
often in shame
in fear of being found out
You kept your back straight
You honoured your position
You wore that air of masterfulness
in your stride
in your respect for the meek for the fairer sex
in your willingness to come to the aid of the needy
in your alas mind's reach
bereft of the means to give it authority
In your own mind
you had wandered far
as far and beyond the distances of your strides
within three posts four walls open ground and air
you never bothered with approving thumps on the back
nor the little-watched heroic actions on some turf
nor did you recount these match-winning feats
in a thirst for applause
You were the quintessential sportsman
You played your last game alone
far away from your folk
You had no wish for a farewell
Yet you are mourned in pain by all
Dedicated to T. Ganesan (1931-1985)
(© T.Wignesan 1993, Paris, April 14,1993; from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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He Was Born In Ussr
He was born in USSR
At the hospital there
At 5: 30 am
And that was the time that his mother gave birth to him
But I remember that she said that giving birth was very hard
And I can say to that
Thanks God that men don't give birth
Because I don't think they would want to go through with it
Knowing that there is pain in giving birth to a baby
But when he was 13 he moved from USSR to United States
So that he could get a god education
And a good job in his life
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Where is that ‘she’?
Sexy but impotent; who wants?
Sexy but adamant; who seeks?
Potent but shabby; who cares?
Yielding but ugly; who greets?
Sexy, potent and yielding, where is she?
25.04.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Falling Thru The Cracks
wild eyed man in the parking lot
got a pistol in his hand
his old lady holds the baby
motor running to the van
factory shut down, aint no work
havent eaten in three days
good hearted man gone desperate
somebody's gonna have to pay
what the hell! who cares?
lives falling thru the cracks
born too early, born too late
on the wrong side of the tracks
fighting for every breath you take
just fighting to survive
falling down and getting back up
just trying to get by...
she pours herself another drink
dont temember how many she's had
dont know whether she's crying
cause she's mad or she's sad
her feet hurt from her day job
her back hurts from working nights
her baby's sick again
and they just turned off her lights
what the hell! who cares?
lives falling thru the cracks
born too early, born too late
on the wrong side of the tracks
fighting for every breath you take
just fighting to survive
falling down and getting back up
just trying to get by...
what the hell! who cares?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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He who creates re-creates himself
for René Passeron
You may not grow old too soon
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time
the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess
anchor
expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
Dedicated to René Passeron
(©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. 'Poem of the Month' at Alongstoryshort site, April 2012.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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My Baby Just Cares For Me
My baby dont care for shows
My baby dont care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby dont care for cars and races
My baby dont care for high tone places
Elizabeth taylor is not his style
And even ricky martins smile
Is something he cant see
My baby dont care who knows it
My baby just cares for me
I wonder whats wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
He just says his prayers for
My baby just cares
For me
(walter donaldson/gus kahn)
song performed by by George Michael
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death and Birth
Death leads to birth rather than birth, to death.
Birth is close to death and not vice versa.
Every birth is at the result of a death.
Death to birth, not birth to death, is the path.
The death of clay is the birth of a pot;
The death of the pot is the birth of clay.
Ice melts to water and water forms ice.
In each conversion, occur death and birth.
The death of a night is the birth of a day;
The death of a day is the birth of a night.
New Year means the death of the old year too.
In each transition, takes place death and birth.
The death of a seed is the birth of a plant;
The death of gametes is the birth of an embryo.
Salts die to form cells; cells die to form salts.
In each growth, form death and birth of matter.
The so called death and birth is nothing but
Deaths and births of forms made of matter.
The matter itself does not die to be born
But is converted to different forms.
Elements disappear to form plants.
Plants as food add to the animals’ flesh.
Plants and animals on death liberate
As elements, serving through worms and germs.
When a child is born, there’s no birth of life.
The embryo transforms into a child.
When a man dies, there is no death of life.
The body disintegrates to salts.
Matter, energy and life have no death
They have got one birth since when they’ve been.
They interact and come different stages
In which the pattern is death and birth.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Man reaches the tragic end.
Half of women are born as impotent.
The other half is taught to be impotent.
Men swim for water in the sea.
Which man had ended his life on happy notes?
17.06.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Baby Just Cares For Me
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Brad Pitt is not his style
And even Jennifer Aniston's smile
Is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me
Baby, my baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
He don't care for high-tone places
Georege Clooney is not his style
And even Queen Latifah's smile
Is something he can't see
Is something he can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Second Birth
Through faith, to God we show true worth
His Lamp then leads to second birth
But not a birth as most presume
We need no more a mother’s womb
The Lord Himself will dwell within
His Holy Flame convicts of sin
The eyes of God compute each thought
In all who trust His true report
With peace and joy He comes from high
The answers to what, to where and why
Power; through grace that none should boast
God’s Guiding Lamp His Holy Ghost
This second chance to live, is free
The price was paid on Calvary
In truth; Christ came to die on earth
That man may live through second birth
Upon the tree Christ bore all shame
That man may bear a brand new name
God’s blood seeped neath the cursed ground
So guilt in man may not be found
In Jesus’ death is Heaven’s door
God opened wide when curtains tore
His precious blood cleans spot and stain
So God may hear from man again
When Christ man laid within the tomb
It served God’s purpose as a womb
When Christ arose from neath the earth
He stood as first with second birth
In Jesus Christ, the same we’ll share
When all life’s cares to Him we bear
When humble hearts see Heaven’s Door
We’ll enter through and die no more...
poem by Michael P. Johnson
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My Baby Just Cares For Me
As sung by nat king cole
Words by gus kahn and music by walter donaldson
Sung in the file whoopee by eddie cantor
A #4 hit for ted weems in 1930
A # 29 hit for the hi-los in 1954
My baby dont care for shows, my baby dont care for clothes,
My baby just cares for me.
My baby dont care for furs and laces,
My baby dont care for high-toned places,
My baby dont care for rings or other expensive things,
Shes sensible as can be.
My baby dont care who knows it,
My baby just cares for me.
(instrumental interlude)
My babys no crosby fan, dick tracy is not her man,
My baby just cares for me.
My baby dont care for mr. tibbits,
Shed rather have me around to kibbitz.
Roy rogers is not her style, and even clark gables smile
Is something that she cant see.
(oh, you lucky so-and-so)
I wonder whats wrong with baby,
My baby just cares for me.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Date of birth
Third April is
My date of birth
I do not agree
And you to agree.
And you observed
Third April as
My date of birth
I did not attend.
Third April
Is not actual
As you think
My day of birth.
It is correct to say
I have not taken any
Birth at any time
And assume I have no death.
Third April is
Just is imaginary
I am not you to think
Think and act accordingly.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Embryo
You who sexless heard the pounding of the sex
nerves conditioned to the tune
through all the slushy push of distending flesh
in the ooze slime of semen vaginal fluid
Your eyes turned inward
heart brimming to the flush
fed by your central runaway generator
though
your frail limbs were hardly sketched
in the clasp of a Reichian curve
through all the terrifying pounding
More terrifying still
Now YOU see the crook of the aborting metal
the surgeon's staff
dig into your behind
puncturing
the gossamer sack of your promised dream world
avoiding at every thrust
the inevitable dismemberment
charred chicken wings coming apart in cinders
JOLT of the bend in the crook
your eyes to the back of you
a ninja without arms or legs
whirling upwards
flying in the face of crookish metal
by the grit of your teeth
FIRST your spine goes
shrivelled skin over mashed bone and marrow
the nerves a calligrapher's skein
vaguely stretched over your incumbent's drawn face
TILL your seminal fluid
stains the blood
splashing through every thrust
of the abortionist's clinical will
YET you resist
STILL clinging to your umblical chord
the silent screams of your unformed mouth
reaching no where
the mother sprawled on the trolley etherised
In the distance a faraway distance
a vague throbbing
away from prying eyes
a ringing call unanswered
and you let go...
see your will turned to mash
Only your long sleep nurtured your dream
a singular dream of a snuffed world
YOU HADN'T EVEN BREATHED
Notes
On seeing an ecography of an abortion on the FR3 French TV programme: 'La Marche du siècle: Contraception et avortement', March 4,1992 at 20.40 hours. Professor Etienne Baulieu, the inventor of the oral abortive pill, was the guest of honour.
[© T.Wignesan - March 10,1992, Paris, from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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My Baby Just Care For Me
(1928) Gus Kahn, Walter Donaldson
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
Is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me
Baby, my baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
He don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Liberace's smile
Is something he can't see
Is something he can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me
Original lyrics
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows it
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for
he don't care for high-tone places
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
Just says his prayers for
My baby just cares for me
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas 2010
Christmas is the time that tells
That God was born a baby boy;
And He was called ‘Emmanuel’
(‘God with us’) , and brought us joy!
Christmas is the time that tells
That love of God was born on earth,
Becoming flesh in virgin’s womb,
Proclaiming the ‘King of Kings’ birth!
Christmas is the time that tells
That Word that was God became man,
And dwelt amongst us for some years,
And suffer in all ways, He can.
Christmas is the time that tells
That peace returned to heart and soul,
And brought back hope to sinners too,
Who aim toward a heavenly goal.
Christmas is the time that tells
That prophecy of birth of Christ
In Scriptures came to be fulfilled,
As angel choirs sang in Highest.
Christmas is the time that tells
That God chose poverty at birth,
To know how tough life on earth is,
And showed how woes can become mirth.
Christmas is the time that tells
That Christ was born to save mankind
From sins of present, future, past,
And peace came back to heart and mind.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 07-12-2010
poem by John Celes
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Who Cares?
Let it rain and thunder,
Let a million firms go under.
I am not concerned with
Stocks and bonds that Ive been burned with!
I love you and you love me
And thats how it will always be
And nothing else can ever mean a thing
Who cares what the public chatters
Loves the only thing that matters
Who cares if the sky cares to fall in the sea
Who cares what banks fail in yonkers
Long as youve got a kiss that conquers?
Why should I care?
Life is one long jubilee,
So long as I care for you
And you care for me!
Who cares how history rates me
As long as your kiss intoxicates me?
Why should I care?
Life is one long jubilee,
So long as I care for you
And you care for me!
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Born To Be Loved By You
Borne again.
Because have you at just being borne again.
At last I feel that Im alive and more.
This is the moment Ive waited for.
Born to be loved by you.born to be loved by you.
Born to walk with you.born to talk with you.
I was born for you.
Born to be with you, only you.
Born to be loved by you.
Born for you, born for you baby.
Born for you, born for you baby.
Born for you, born to be loved by you
(you and only you) born to be with only you.
I look at you and all at once I know that dreams come true.
For there you are the other part of me.
I have found my destiny.
Born to be loved by you.born to be loved by you.
Right or wrong for you.weak or strong for you.
Faithful or untrue
Born chained forever and far beyond.
Born to be loved by you and only you
No one else will do.
Heart and soul,born to be loved
Born to be loved.born to be loved by you.
(you and only you,born to be with only you)
Born for you.born for you baby.
Born for you.born for you baby.
Born for you, born for you baby..
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So long, too long!
So long, too long!
Back in the days and back in time;
Struggling from the roots of Africa to identify myself;
But, born in 1961! !
So long, too long!
From yesterday with my muse of love;
And like today with the problems of the earth,
But, is this the future? ! !
The African story,
The African struggle,
The African muse,
The African experience,
The African hardships,
With the hustle and bustle to identify myself to the status of this world;
But, i am still moving on without giving up! !
For, nobody knows tomorrow.
So long, too long!
But, all the fingers are not equal;
And like the movements of the snail and tortoise,
However, i will surely reach there when you also do get there.
This life,
This muse,
This continent,
This mind,
This writer and his story! !
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is my life,
This is my muse,
This is my mind,
This is myact,
And, i am now presenting my love to you;
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
1961,
Born in Africa;
Yes, from 1961 to the present time! !
Struggling to make ends meet;
And, like the life seen in the slums of Africa!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Africa, Africa, Africa, Africa! ! !
The land of my birth and my homeland;
But, i am still finding my way through the dark forest to represent myself to the world,
With hopes and dreams every now ansd then without giving up!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Back in the days,
Oh yes! ! And, like the days of yesterday gone by;
But today, you can read my lines to know who i am!
And like the muse of sweet love in the land of peace,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is it,
This is me,
That is it,
That is my muse,
Here i am and, this is my mind! !
With the sweet love from my heart brewed in the African Pot;
Touching the minds of many and, ready to educate others,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
Come and enter into my world so sweet with your love,
Come and taste the muse of my love with your mind,
And like the aroma of sweet love from the bed of roses;
Where, the delight of love is crowned with peace and care,
But, this journey on this earth started from my mother's womb.
Oh yes! ! in the land of Africa to represent my muse;
Out of the womb of my mother to cry out to the world! !
And like the tears of love in the land of beautiful flowers,
However, it has taken me so long, too long!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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