Komori
The komoris' eyes fix the camera
from around
and in the straining double bandoliers' hump
the babies shaven heads strain
The body dares not face the camera
The frontal posture is not for the servant
heads turned bent regards meek and in stress
hair hastily gathered in the dark
now straggly with their loads
and in the eked-out smiles
the years of sleeplessly fading pallid faces
the rough cotton kimono
drab thick resistant to baby-faeces and crachat
And in their stilted sandals
their meagre dignity in a stoop
the bare adolescent feet still showing
Whose mothers are whose children?
Notes
'KOMORI is a generic term that consists of a noun, ko (a child) , and a verb, moru (to protect or to take care of): Japanese use it to refer to any person, male or female, old or young, who takes care of children. (...) Like their European counterparts, nursemaids and nannies, komori began to appear in what Michel Foucault has called the 'discourse of power' in the late nineteenth century...'
from Mariko Asano Tamanoi's 'Songs as Weapons: The Culture and History of Komori (Nursemaids) in Modern Japan', in The Journal of Asian Studies,50, no.4 (November 1991) : 793-817.
[© T.Wignesan - March 9,1992, from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999]
poem by T. Wignesan
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Related quotes
Bikku under the Bodhi Tree
yogi under the banyan tree
yogi under the bodhi tree
bikku under the banyan tree
waiting for release
bikku in blissful nibbhana
yogi in extinguishing moksha
Penniless poet under the tenement roof
Jazz organist under the pavement sky
Struggling novelist under the Riviera blue
Russian ballerina under the American umbrella
Apprentice painter under the Sistine Chapel
Sculptor Underground
waiting for the agent's call
burning Anne Frank manuscripts in an air-raid fire
singular melodies drowned in the descending drone
Kafka writing without a morrow
van Gogh dabbing his tormented palette under the Arles sun
Sartre turning the Nobel Prize down for teenage girls
Siddhartha abandoning his body's palace for the people's pain
the common man unable to abandon his workload family
bikku under the bodhi tree
his body shrivelled under the saffron robe
his begging bowl filled by karma-earning hands
the last trichinosis-filled moksha meal
bikku rising on a thousand-petalled flower
bikku piercing through the cakras' splendrous colours
bikku on a burning pyre
(©: T. Wignesan 1992 & April 29,1997, Paris, from the Sequence/Collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent' and in the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Forgive us please our enormous bilious hubris
The quasar-lit heavens smile only down upon us
For Our Master he presideth over the Universe
Our Architect-Father he beds down in the blackest holes
Our temple bells and lodges' knell toll only for Thee
While Thou slips from one parallel universe to another
Yeah, notre terre qui est à Votre taille
The muezzin's cry reaches far into the darkest cloud
From turret to galactic turret resounds the prophetic call
Colliding antennae make a murky Baghdad morass
The fallout heralds the bigcrunchy messianic massage
Our Master who art the shine on the Brahmin's head
Which knows no limbs feet chest nor shivering loins
Forgive us our cowering at the spewing Purusha mouth
For Thine is the thunder exploding forever and ever
Did not a bodhi prince once keep a damning silence
He saw no need to undo Thy mighty male tie
Lest he's forced to traverse this soil again in rags
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
As for the other fully bearded nodding mates
They are those who first invoked Thy game
They've now bought the world over in Thy name
But prefer to run the banks ‘ere Thou cutteth the rates
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Is the epicentre of the roiling boiling might
Where domes echo for the right to languish at Thy side
And watch the Goya geek chew the heathen to shreds
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
All the stars you see out there in the ever-ever
Are but the conjurer's balls dancing up in the air
The illusory waking dream of the never-never
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Give us every day the fireworks in the sky
For Thine is the show and ours the joy
For ever and ever spinning a lie!
(T.Wignesan, November 3,1997, Fresnes-Paris (Rev.2012, Paris)
©: T. Wignesan, November 3,1997, from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems,1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Sing haughty Yacht-y Yea
bayboats purse seine whey
journey yearlong gay
laddy inured dryup
haughty yachty yea
mildred mayhem dewlap
naughty jaunty jay
car sons caught in capers
haughty yachty yea
vicar baking in butterfat
orphan boy screwed in larder
bluejay frollic jane
and a haughty yachty yea
bombs in bay bombard
dickson singsick cockpit
french chicks s'envoyent en l'air
oh a haughty yachty yea
idols jailed in temples
choked in garlandy incense
priestly eyedance pose
yes a haughty yachty yea
masons' mildewy masters
with compass stone and pilasters
plan solomon's might on earth
yea sing haughty yachty yea
royal houses love in stables
lords and ladies love in regalia
loving ones love in limbo
cry haughty yachty yea
dote on damsels in december
hey yachty haughty yea
make them deliver in september
ho yickety yackety yea eh
[©T.Wignesan - Paris, May 4,1997 - from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999]
poem by T. Wignesan
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You Said: Why Can't I have My Day
a cherished paper-cutting
for
those who forgot to care
and for you
too late
a cribbed account
in pale bold face
on some crowded backpage
which lapped up the soya stains on the takeaway counter
some faded picture of you
crammed in nubile twists of fronting elegance
in meagre-columned glossy pages
you said: why can't i have my day
why should a destitute Greek prince
lord it over the world
just by tying a knot with his regal cousin
your eyes recognising too late
a world you may never see again
a world you may not be seen in again
all your self-suffocating words
and all those poured in contempt
on you
through you
for you
to feed those who grudged your fleeting glory
Now now that all may be forgotten
now that no bile inhabits this carcass
over some too pulpy a fruit
a taste of you
from freshly-turned earth
bloody juicy earth
our teeth caught
clinging to your bleeding shredded flesh
of cells into cells
of us into our selves
___________________________________ _________________________________________________ ____
(© T.Wignesan, Paris,1987; from the collection: Poems Omega-Plus: a less than obvious sequence,2005)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Future of the Country
Tears in the eyes,
Fear on the face,
I often see children working,
Roads being there workplace.
Unwillingly doing work,
By the fear of being scolded
Or beaten by their employers
I see children working for bread.
Messy hair, torn clothes,
Children walking bare feet
And working really hard
Not caring about the rain or heat.
Children doing all sorts of jobs
Including selling and begging.
I have also seen children
Cleaning cars for an earning.
I feel sorry for them.
I feel it is very unfair,
That people make children work
When they should take their care.
Children are delicate,
We must care for them.
For every child in the world
Is as precious as a gem.
At least thinking about the country,
We must stop child labour.
We must stop burdening the children
As they are the country's future.
poem by Sneha Khedkar
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Yvonne
Who’s gonna take care of the children
Now that she is gone
Who’s gonna see that all the little babies
Will somehow get along
Who’s gonna take care of the children
When the time has come to say goodbye
When the little babies start to cry
Who’s gonna be right there to wipe their eyes
Now that she is gone
Yes I know that it’s a hurting tragedy
But death to everyone is guaranteed
Life isn’t promised to any one of us
So we must learn to deal with reality
Who’s gonna take care of the children
Who’s gonna be there when they call
Who’s gonna help them when they fall
Who’s gonna take care of the children
When the little babies start to cry
Who’s gonna be right there to wipe their eyes
Who, tell me who, please God tell me who
I’ve tried to do the best I can
They’ve all been fathered by different men
Who’s gonna take care of the children
Dear God you know I love them so
I gotta take my son and I must go
Yvonne, I’ll always love you
I just can’t stop thinking of you
Reach out, please tell me girl
Who’s gonna take care of the children
Now that you are gone
poem by Mustafa Marconi
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Children
The boy cried out
Gaily on the ground
At the joy
Of something he had found
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together
The days are getting warmer now
The nights are getting shorter now
And you know we can make it cause you know were alive
But we dont have to take it, any way well survive
If I were you
Id throw it far away
But if you were me
Youd tell me I should stay
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together
Aw, come on children, get your heads back together again
Again, again and again and again
Again, and again and again
Again, again, again
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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On Authors, Critics and Readers
Some leave behind a hard-won name
Others only fame
A few the sweat and tears of their passage
Snatched from the rigours of their age
Yet none the folly of the game
Fiction is licensed perjury
The coward's excuse for character
Courage revelation originality veracity
All conspire to make for a writer
All mirrors distort
Reviewers like haïr-dressers retort
And mistake the fall of water for the harp
A mere critic can only carp
If what you see is repugnant
close your ever envious eyes
and you'll even see in darkness
and the reason for your blindness
(© T. Wignesan, Paris - 2006. Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Radically Chinese
one
stroke
a point
leftstroke bent
hooked
two
a cover man
man enter eight borders to cover ice
table receptacle
knife strength
wrap spoon basket
box ten to divine
seal
cliff
private
also mouth enclosure
earth
scholar follow
walk evening
great woman child
roof inch small
lame crooked corpse
sprout mountain stream
work self
napkin shield
tiny shelter
move on
join hands
a dart
a bow
pig's head feathery
to pace heart spear door
hand branch
tap writings
measure axe square
not sun
speak
moon wood owe
stop evil kill
do not compare
hair
family
air
water
fire
claws father
change a frame
a strip
tooth
ox
dog
dark jade
melon
tile
sweet produce
use field
bolt of cloth
sick back to back
white skin dish
eye
lance
arrow
stone
spirit to track grain cave
erect
bamboo rice silk earthenware net
sheep feathers old
plough ear
brush flesh officer from self reach
a mortar tongue opposed boat
a limit
colour grass tiger
insect blood do clothes cover
see
horn
words
valley
platter
pig
reptile shell red
walk
foot body
cart bitter time
stop & go
city new wine separate village
metal long gate plenty
reach to a bird rain
azure false face
rawhide leather leek
sound heading wind
fly eat head fragrance
horse bone high
long hair fight wine cauldron ghost
fish bird
salt deer
wheat
hemp
yellow millet
black embroidery toad
tripod
drum rodent nose
even teeth drag on tortoise flute
Dedicated to: Eric Mottram: 1924-1995 (not because of any debt, felt or incurred)
(©: T. Wignesan,22-23 November 1995 - from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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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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Meanwhile, In Another Part Of The War
On the street of the concrete refugee tenements
That have collapsed into the smoking holes
The Israeli rockets blew open at dawn’s early light,
The sundered limbs and torsos of a Jenin family
Lie with the shards and dust of their household,
Three generations, shredded like paper dolls.
There are no heads to be found. They never had heads.
If they had heads, the Israeli spokesman assures
The State Department, the U.N., the Believers,
The CNN camera, with his shy smile, in
His Noo Yock twang, they wouldn’t have been
Where the terrorists were.
“Of the three-month-old infant,
Crushed in its cradle, and the eighty-year-old
Shepherd who retired twenty years ago when Israelis
From Russia drove off his flock at gunpoint,
And his son’s wife, and the schoolboy, all buried
In the holes the rockets made, which ones
Were the terrorists?” A voice off-camera asks.
But the spokesman shrugs and smiles
Shyly. The cameras and the microphones
Are already turned off.
There were survivors. One, some say
The mother of two victims, has volunteered
To take the bus to Jerusalem.
poem by James Phillip McAuley
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Adopted Children
Adopted children of the world! !
Through many years and the act of negligence;
Bit, how can i locate my child today?
Now that i am rich;
For, i did not care for him or her and,
He or she was taken away from me! ! ! ! ! ! !
All in the name of poverty;
But now, i am very rich!
And, i want to take care of my own child.
Once again,
Oh yes! ! ! !
For, i am very sorry for not taking care of my own child;
And this has been the matter at hand since all these years!
However, the rich takes advantage of the poor! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
But now, i want to see my own child and take care of him or her.
I don't care how long it has taken! !
For, he or she is my own child;
And, i gave birth to him or her,
But, the society took them away!
However, i am now fighting back today to get them beside me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dance In Awe
Dance with me my angel
in the abundent blue called sky
when the sun does wake, or the moon does shine
dance as if no one can be seen
only with the clouds that ignores the eyes of many
but caches the beauty of some
lifting them up to the dance floor called heaven
and prooving that once a person had the power to dance
divine spirits do watch brilliantly in awe. at the beauty of the livings movements
at the angels sweet footsteps and heartbeats we whisper
just close your mind to impossibilitys and open it to your heart
move as if your heart could divinly dance
only with the steps, only to the notes that fit together as if an angel could write
this writing could fly to the minds of the living below
caution of the beauty shown above their heads
and showing them that in fact this beauty can be seen
if only if only they were to look into the morning sky
and see these brilliant clouds
see the movements of the angels breaths their feet
shaking the world with not fear but with love
and poening the eyes of the ones who could not see
showing the dance of the angles above
poem by Kristinahh KIMBER
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The Human Shape
Racially pure European and Asian
men have straight hair growing
from their heads.
Some other men have hair that's
curly, growing from their heads.
But hair shape is not the shape that
really matters.
Because it's the shape of the human
forehead that makes you a man.
Rather than a chimpanzee.
Whether your skin color is white,
brown or bread-crust tan.
poem by Philip R. Garges Jr.
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The Tears of Masho
She gave her child away
She had AIDS, they say
Her children should have
Parents to care of them
when she by death
should say goodbye to life.
And her dear own child was
sent to adoption
to a far away land, to a land
she had never been before-
A strange paradise
for her child and which
She as mother could not reach
by her bare feet or sandals.
She did not get the
address of the new parents
She could not write
them in her own tongue
She was not even allowed
to see the last glimpse
of her dear own child,
to give her last embrace
and words of goodbye.
And this child, Masho, who
used to be cuddled by her
own dear mother,
cried day and night
in the new land thought to
be a new paradise.
She watered her pillow
with her own tears and longing.
And she could not understand
why she had to leave her
own mother and playmates
in her own village far away
just because her mother
is condemned to die
by AIDS, they say.
_________
Response to the debate of adoption of children in Denmark, to a particular case of the Ethiopian child, Masho. November 27,2012
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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War Vets Dream
When he came from Nam he had a plan
That not many people would understand.
To help children see that not all in life
Was destruction and poverty.
With death and bombings all around
All he could hear was the children s sounds.
With tears in their eyes and not understanding why
Why so many bodies on the ground
And not a one making a sound.
All he could see was these faces of despair
Children did not understand and could not care.
These visions of the war would
always stay in his mind
From that day forward till the end of time.
He vowed that he would do all that he can
To help all children and his fellow man.
When you see the ravages of war
And a country torn apart
And its people scattered
Then staying alive is all that matters.
He knew that he could not stop this genocide
But he knew for the future children he had to try.
He wanted to create a place called “children s world”
A safe haven for every boy and girl.
A place where children could be children
And war they would not see.
Where they could be with friends and their families.
A place with a roof over their heads
Hot food and a bed.
He knows with time this dream will come true
“It just depends on people like you.”
poem by Louis Rams
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Gone Too Soon
Grilled and barbecued babies,
In a land called Japan!
He who have ears,
Let him hear this message.
Gone too soon without a trace,
In a land called Japan;
She who have ears,
Let her hear this message.
Wine is a man but,
Beer is a woman;
Life is all about us but,
One man's meat is another man's poison.
A very sad state,
Where babies are barbecued for food;
I don't need medals to crown my intelligence,
All that i need is love.
Gone too soon,
Gone too soon!
The Blackman's stress is under his skin;
Gone too soon,
Gone too soon!
The Whiteman's stress is on his face;
Just as it is seen by nature.
In the land of Japan!
Today is the day,
Tomorrow is another day;
But, yesterday is gone too soon.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Lost Children
Down the hall their voices ring, their feet are on the run
Phantoms on the winter sky, together they do come
Faded lips and eyes of blue theyre carried in the wind
Their laughter filled the countryside but theyll not laugh again
All the games are ended now, their voices have been stilled
Their fathers built the tools of war by which they all were killed
Their fathers made the uniforms showing which side they were on
And the young boys wear the middle name for guns to pray upon
Youve seen the fires in the night, watched the devil as he smiles
Youve heard a mothers mournful cry as she searches for her child
Youve seen the lines of refugees, the faces of despair
And wondered at the wise men who never seem to care
Goodbye you lost children, God speed you on your way
Your little beds are empty now, your toys are put away
Your mother sings a lullaby as she gazes at the floor
Your father builds more weapons and marches out once more
Down the hall their voices ring, their feet are on the run
Phantoms on the winter sky, together they do come
Faded lips and eyes of blue theyre carried in the wind
Their laughter filled the countryside but theyll not laugh again
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golden Secrets in the Flower
'...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track.' C. G. Jung
'The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal.' Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower
petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought
or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don't mean what they see
(© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3,1997 [Revised May 2003] -from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems.1997)
poem by T. Wignesan
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