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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Related quotes
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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Teachers' Day
THE TEACHERS’ DAY
We celebrate 5th September as teachers’ day
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was born on this very day
He showed the Indian nation the right way
His debt how can we repay?
He is a universal teacher
And a man of inimitable stature
Wisdom and simplicity are the hallmarks of his feature
Incomparable oration is his nature
He rose to the nation’s highest post
And tried to build a bridge between east and west
His philosophical teachings are the best
And his knowledge of English is very vast
He is Plato’s philosopher king
As President honour and dignity did he bring
He brought religion a new meaning
His glory and greatness I would like to sing
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
INDIA
poem by Venkata Lakshmi Narasimharao
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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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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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Many People Lives In Thy....
Many people lives in thy soul.
The painter paints the
Words, the singer sings
the lyrics, the philosopher,
dives deep into its thought.
Whom do you love most?
The philosopher within,
Drives your mind….
The poet, writes the feelings;
The painter gives color to it…
The singer putting life
To the lyric makes
More adorable……..
None can be left alone….
And all of them create
The sense of God…..
None can be left alone!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Block Fall from the Zyklon Door
When you have passed nonplussed
by rumours
of ovens
of being burned alive by the horde
calcinated bones in torrid ashes
teeth without a name
pebbles in the sands of hate waves
When between you and the other side
is the block-flesh thrust through to Himmelweg
too late
you smell the Zyklon trap
about to be sprung on your innocence
your children looking to you for a way out
not daring to believe
you have left home without an answer
You can only wonder at how they led you
each child's hand ensconced in its mother's
the old and the infirm weeded out
the pill in the nape
of men rushed ahead from their charges
huddled
slapped jostled
whipped
for daring to ask with rifle butt
whacked
jabbed bundled
trundled
the eye searching hazily the breach under the helmet
benumbed fate
squashed hope
in the last faltering meek steps
It's only
when you're on the other side of yourself
between you and the block-flesh
forming on the other side of the zyklon door
You may wonder why you let your anger go
in safekeeping
Dedicated to those sacrificed in Concentration Camps during World War II.
(© T.Wignesan 1987: July 2,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993])
poem by T. Wignesan
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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To the spirits of Abn 'Arabi, poet, and Averroes, philosopher
The philosopher asked the poet,
Does what the poets and the mystics
find in their hearts, agree
with what the philosophers have discovered
or reasoned to be true?
The poet answered
Yes, and No
and between the two
is a place, a space, where
the mouth is silent,
the pen hovers poised above the paper,
the eyes sparkle,
the heart leaps and rejoices,
and the mind soars on journeys
beyond anything that was known before
and lives experiences never before experienced;
finds words behind words
that were never spoken before,
sounds behind sounds
never heard before,
a knowledge beyond love,
a love beyond knowledge..
a place where poets and philosophers
meet together in a world of wonder.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Saying the unspeakable
Such as President Obama
may not say it; but I
who am nobody, may speak it:
the God of many names and One
does not wish division;
you and I (there are no others?)
do not wish division;
who makes division?
Why do all seek an ‘enemy’?
The dispossessed invent an enemy
on whom to blame their plight;
the rich invent an enemy
to excuse their greed;
those who worship God under one name
make enemy of those who worship God
under another name;
even those who worship God under the same name
make sects in order to invent an enemy;
is it because it is easier
to make an enemy than a friend?
is it easier to fear
than to love?
is it easier to hate
than to love?
is it easier to count to two
than think of three or one?
do we feel more powerful
if we have an enemy?
and now we fire at enemies
invisible beyond the horizon..
are enemies more attractive
to our life than friends?
Tell me, poets, tell me, sages;
tell me, saints; oh tell me God;
tell me, arithmeticians:
when division multiplies
our enemies, why do we
so love division?
The God of many names and One
makes division in Himself
with love and without hate;
you and I (there are no others?)
love each other all the more
in the sameness of our differences;
does human kind
now hate itself so much?
who thinks division, loves division?
makes an enemy of otherness?
forgets that God is One?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Teacher’s Day in India
Teacher’s Day in India is today-
Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan’s birthday;
A great educationist, Indian;
A former President of our nation;
A teacher par excellence;
An exemplary role-model to all.
Let’s celebrate this day
In a special way,
By remembering our teachers,
Who’d taught us all these years.
A teacher is a tutor;
A teacher is a scholar;
A teacher is a special friend;
A guide and philosopher
In students’ lives- a Godsend!
Our teachers are great minds;
Our teachers are rare finds;
Their love and precept binds
As students’ life-years winds!
God bless our teachers (dears):
God give them healthy years;
God meet their wants sans fears,
And make them mighty seers.
Like parents, he/she rears;
God rank them as great peers;
But keep them free from tears,
When their life’s end nears.
Dedicated most respectfully to
all our beloved teachers
on 5th September,2006
Copyright by Dr John Celes, India
poem by John Celes
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The First Poets
The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.
The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.
The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.
The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.
Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.
Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.
The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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To Friedrich Holderlin, poet
Here in this river valley below the Alps
which mimic high Olympus’ watching spirit,
everyone’s a silent poet of nature:
lakes; rivers; green fields; steeper goatfoot pastures;
forests; bare gaunt rocks and snow;
and the poetry of seasons of the year.
Once to see the seasons through, is to be
a little nearer God; to know
how gods measure out the earth.
Here inside the wooden room,
the measures, not so clear:
measured out by sterner, darker gods
whose seasons are not so predictable:
storms, tempests, thunder, flood
may last until we learn
lessons we do not yet understand.
Outside the window now
the last rays of evening sun catch
the metal spire of the nestling church;
its metal lightning conductor running
down its walls to that patch of earth
whose signs of scorching warn the devout soul..
Here inside the room, the poet too:
aspiring spire, lightning conductor;
rattling between heaven and earth,
torn by view of outside, inside..
Poets are only responsible to their words
when lining up their obstinacies
in the mind, on paper:
after that, must send them on their way:
the words mean more, or less, than the poets knew
while writing them; someone else may make
better use of them. This too,
the measure of the gods, of God.
*
Friedrich Holderlin, bi-polar poet-philosopher,1770-1843; correspondent of Goethe, inspirer of Rilke, subject of much discussion by philosopher Martin Heidegger.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Degrees Don't Love You
Degrees don't love you so you never went to school!
But your mind writes like a Philosopher to teach many;
And the truth is, Degrees are obtained under a Faculty.
Degrees are obtained after the length of studies,
But without one's Philosophy there is no Faculty!
Because one has to create the ideas for others to follow;
And out of Philosophy came the branches of Faculties.
You don't need any Degree to identify yourself,
Because you have the ability of teaching others;
And Philosophy is always above Faculty! !
For, you are a Philosopher with the magic ink of your mind.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dream For The Future
Oh that chaos would settle down
underneath these skies,
then we could look at this sweet earth
with angelic eyes.
There will come a day when all
sins of men shall be
swallowed up and cast aside
for all eternity.
For much too long has man forgotten
the reason he was born.
So the chaos and fear that's with us still
will be plucked out like a thorn.
The poets of the body and poets of the soul
shall choose their words with care.
And describe to those who come after
the burdens of those who dare
to repeat the times that were with men
in times when most were blind.
For the clock now chimes the moment
when every man will find
that spiritual adventure belongs to him
and will not be denied.
The cries, the hurts, the pains of all
will finally subside.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Presidential Stand
the world economy has gotten out of hand
president OBAMA is the first to take a stand.
he told the republicans: i will do whatever
i have to do 'with or without you'.
we can not stand idlely by and see our nation die.
there will be controversy on what will
and what will not work. but if we do nothing
to help the economy.
'it will show we failed in our history'.
the president has problems galore
and different solutions he has in store.
he is doing what no president has done before.
by grabbing the bull by the reins
and riding it all the way.
will he fall or will he stay?
we must help him make the corral smaller
so that he does not fall to the ground.
then no solutions will be found.
our nation and all the world is watching him
and if we don't help, it's a crying sin.
what will it take for this nation to see
he's the first black president in our history.
it seems like he's fighting a losing battle
with very little support from his peers.
who are still living in fear.
the politicians think:
what if i help and it does'nt work?
i will be the political jerk. i will get so much slack
and there won't be any turning back.
but! if his plans do succeed, on his plans i can feed.
i can ride the waves to the top, and knowing that i will not flop.
the public always remembers the bad
and very rarely the good.
either way it will go into our history books.
of the stands that we took.
i would prefer to be remembered as the afterthought
briefly in their minds, rather than not at all.
because i did'nt have the gall
to stand up for something thats right
and help him to continue the fight.
so it is up to all of us, and 'in him we'll put our trust'.
no one person can do it all by themselves
and we know this very well.
for everything that he has fought
as politicians we should all give our support.
we must do whatever it takes
to help the country, before it's too late.
poem by Louis Rams
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Poets In Danger
While i was on stage,
I received a wonderful message,
long enough as a passage,
saying that poets/poetess in danger.
why?
As they think too much,
nothing they can match,
problem solvers of every each,
Finding, calculating and revealing problems.
they forget themselves,
for the World to save,
looks crazy the way they behave,
finding solutions for the World mistakes.
That massage came from me,
the inner part soul of me,
telling the poets and poetess,
your efforts won't die in vein.
poem by Dickson Mseti
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Oh To Be Back Home In Ireland (To Jo)
Oh to be back home in Ireland now that April winds are blowing
And the weather getting milder and the green grass is a growing
And the breath of Spring is in the air and daylight hours grow long
And the skylark o'er the heather sings his merry April song.
Oh to be back home in Ireland the Country of my birth
The Land where I was bred and raised the greenest Land on Earth,
Land of the grassy valleys and scenic heather hills
Of murmuring brooks and rivers and rippling mountain rills.
I have travelled thousands of miles from my home in County Cork
I have been to London City and westward to New York,
I have seen the lights of Paris and the seven hills of Rome
But my heart is always yearning for my Country and my home.
And it's oh to be in Ireland now that April days are here
And the wildborn birds are singing in the Springtime of the year
And the wildflowers are a blooming and new leaves grow on the trees
In the Country I was raised in way beyond Atlantic seas.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To a Mistress Dying
Lover. YOUR beauty, ripe and calm and fresh
As eastern summers are,
Must now, forsaking time and flesh,
Add light to some small star.
Philosopher. Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd,
Their light by hers relief might find;
But Death will lead her to a shade
Where Love is cold and Beauty blind.
Lover. Lovers, whose priests all poets are,
Think every mistress, when she dies,
Is changed at least into a star:
And who dares doubt the poets wise?
Philosopher. But ask not bodies doom'd to die
To what abode they go;
Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy,
It is not safe to know.
poem by Sir William Davenant
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My President Will Defeat Your Candidate
My President will defeat your candidate
In November.
Remember
That I told you so; I can't wait for that date.
My President is fair, competent and has common sense
My President is realistic, just and is full of intelligence.
As a matter of facts, he has destroyed many bad seeds.
He is a well disciplined man who keeps his word.
He loves the people who face the quotidian sword.
In spite of the down turn, he practices sound economic policies,
However, it is a continued gamble when dealing
With unpredictable indicators. It is like going
To the casinos of Las Vegas or to the shores of Atlantic City;
Such is the market, such is the greedy economy.
Sometimes, you win and most of the times
You lose real dollars and myriad of dimes.
At times you also lose your soul and your spleen.
The government is a facilitator; it does not create jobs,
Only the private sector can genuinely create jobs.
My President is a pragmatist not a thaumaturgist.
He does not mince words; he put to sleep the terrorists.
I have no doubt that
My President will defeat your candidate.
You can behave like a fat cat
All you want; please mark the date
Of the reelection of my President.
Remember,
This November,
The hard working people will be triumphant
Again,
And again.
poem by Hebert Logerie (February 2012)
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