Memo for Destroyer Poet A LINDA: 3 20 pm 23rd April 2013 Patis France

MEMO for Destroyer Poet A Linda: 3. 20 p.m., 23rd April 2013 – Paris, France
If you are Red   I am Brown
If you’re not
Then as one concrete painter using phonemes
                 to another
Now we speak in the common-denominator tongue
Of those who went across oceans
Yours you took across the Bering
From the frozen solid roof of the world
The common step-mothering-tongue
And the common heel-bone
Take this memo down I tell myself
For my long-lost sister
Now weary with chilblains
And walnut warts from the long trek
Tell her you’re sorry
You took so long
Tell her you read excerpts of her outpouring
In a lone-lost cave overgrown with moss
                                                               lost without cause
Mixed with the growls and coughs of shaggy beasts
And the lone mountain lioness’ scowling howl at the stars
In a dry season
Tell her you’re sorry not to have returned the compliment
For this’s the Way of the Community
That each rushes to fulfill a sacrosanct duty
Tell her
I read your spiraling lyrical threnody
         of the Soul’s age-old Odyssey
 through the bony interstices of breast-beating moans
and groans
Right there where it hurts most
in the guts
I saw how your people lifted themselves
                                                               on their fists
   after their arms and knuckles looked gnarled
I saw the claws of the lone eagle clutch your soul
                                                               in one fell swoop
         down concertina centuries
And make you swallow your tongue
         wailing in cloistered valleys of lilacs and magnolias
  to the rhythm of crescendo stamping feet
  and besetting winds
          cacophonous through wildly flapping wigwams
I felt the ancient beat of your pulse
         in the huskily refined whisper of your verse
   come seething harpies
                           unleashed at my throat
I saw wild stallions
         sleek and shoddy         manes aloft
     come steaming and fuming down mountain sides
          your fathers tamed
I saw generations of silent sturdy women
         kindle fierce fires
  while brawny braves rode away on bare-backs
         to bring the venison back
I now hear your gentle voice
         in dulcet drops tinkle down waterfalls
                  of your manifold genres
Yet I do not hear you cry
Nor do I wonder why
You are made of that stuff of breed
That can traverse ice without steed
And scale Himalayas down continents
To reach the other side of impediments
And lest I forget let me tell you this
Your lyrical voice will linger long in bliss.
    Every good wish.                

                           T. Wignesan 

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