The Speaking Tree

The Speaking Tree

One Day of Holidays in Waren, 2006

Every year my wife and I spend at least a few days with her parents in Waren, in Germany and the following poem depicts one of those hoildays in 2006.

One Day Of Holidays in Waren, 2006

Not laden at all with profound meaning
The words flow freely with consummate ease,
Unlike most poems of the past, heaving
Heavily of a soul pummelled and teased;
The radio is rattling on in German,
A language that I hardly understand;
My wife’s pottering around - she’s German,
House proud, efficient, and soap-sudded friend!
I am writing at random you know, not
With any rhyme or reason that is, but
To kill time with a modicum of wit
In a large room full of sunlight that is;
The weather has been quite irascible --
I would say most often cold, sometimes hot,
Sometimes absolutely impossible,
But, that is Europe, in case you forgot!
Wait a minute, I’m hearing my wife call,
The hot, ma-in-law-cooked lunch is ready,
She bawls; so run down with care, hands on the
Wall by the wooden stairs, so slippery
That one could trip and fall, so easily;
Soon I am settled in my usual chair,
At the well set dining-table that’s round,
In the well arranged dining-room that’s square,
Where softly the pa-in-law’s Bose Radio,
Emits day’s news in stereophonic sound;
All is quite well with Germany, I hear --
Economy is fine, unemployment’s
On shorter line; there should be no fear
That Schroeder has gone and Merkel is here;
Fear? O, but why, indeed, should there be
For a woman chancellored Germany,
Though the first time ever Fatherland has
Mother at the helm of its destiny?
Thus assured, with deep felt security
We pick up the monogrammed cutlery,
And with finely honed skill of decades old
We dissect the gravied roast delicately;
Then over conversation convivial,
Covering topics platitudinous,
Some one broaches ‘a horse-ride tomorrow’ --
Even horses need constitutionals!

Though not one born for horses, as they know,
I am still invited for photographs,
Which of ‘Feld und Wald’ I shall take, not half!
As away on horseback, riding they’ll go.
They’re prize-winners, the photographs I take,
Or so, of course, only assumed by me;
Do judge for yourself, they are on the Web --
Not for the plebs, but the cognoscenti!
I have gone on and on, O, goodness me!
It is well past noon and time for a nap,
Alarm for tea is set to half past three,
In a restaurant by the bakery;
Hot chocolate and cheesecake, naturally,
“Bad for blood-sugar”, I am told, “ Very!”
And I believe it, too, as time unfolds,
But friend, I am on holidays, you see!
Then, the rapturous fields of yellow rape
On a drive through the country-side go by,
Till it’s time for a lesson in German,
On German bread, cold-cuts and pumpkin pie;
Post dinner, the family sit and talk
Over wine, while I, as you may recall
The slippery stairs my hands on the wall,
Up to my room for CNN repair --
In the Philippines there’ll be hurricanes,
And the News ain’t good for Americans!
Sad! The busy day is over, it’s night,
On the whole, I’d say it’s been a delight;
My dearest wife will soon be in bed --
Better switch off the light and say, Good Night!




From THE UNSUNG LOG by Ronnie Patel (C) Ronnie Patel 2009

FAREWELL TO HANS KASTEN, A FRIEND

Farewell to Hans Kasten, a Friend

Like the far horizon stretched for the setting sun,
The legionnaire lay languishing bedrugged in bed,
A soldier of old fading, whose days were but done,
A grand, tired legend horizontally spread!
Oblivious, at times, to all presence in the room
He lay, a confirmed atheist cradled by God
(Who had long salved his soul in a silken cocoon)
Now, but in fond farewell to his withering sod;
Yet, as the bright celestial orb shining of light,
But fast in its routine perennial ends the morn,
And we, but dimly prepare for the light of night,
The other side brightens by the birthing of dawn;
And so too, will rise this slow, setting son of old,
His life ever impregnated with splendid deeds,
Leaving family, friends and memories untold --
With a Farewell, Adios, Aloha, Godspeed!


Berlin: Wednesday, 19August 2007


Note: Johann Carl Friedrich Kasten IV: a Hawaiian born American of established German parentage, religious rebel and a confirmed atheist, distinguished soldier of the Second World War, protector of Jewish comrades-in-arms, victim of excessive Nazi torture as a traitor bearing a German name, but fighting for the enemy, twice an escapee – latterly from Berga, finally sent to Belsen just before its liberation by the Allied Forces, a War Hero of the USA, patron of the arts, and eventually a much married, much travelled, wealthy businessman settled down in the Philippines for nearly sixty years. On 26th July 2007, I left him and his family in the Makati Medical Hospital in the condition, as described in the above poem. He passed away at home in the Pacific Plaza, Makati, on the 9th August 2007; his ninety-first birthday fell, along with his wife’s, Florinda, on 18th August 2007.

MOUNTAIN WAS MOUNTAIN!

Mountain Was Mountain!

Mountain was mountain, water water,
Once upon a time for me,
But then they forced me to grow up
And fondly drummed words into me;
My mountains became beautiful,
Tall, rugged, majestic and strong,
My waters became languid, placid,
Turbulent, still, flowing and calm;
But this not enough, I added labels of names
To my beautiful mountains and turbulent mains;
Then I saw regions round mountains
Or ones by the waters washed,
All peopled by humans
But to humanity forever lost;
Nations emerged, some friendly, some not
Seeing truth in their symbols of difference,
Goriest wars bothered them not,
As to their symbols they owed allegiance;
My mountains became symbolic
Of people who loved and hated,
My waters too were people,
Some starved and some were sated;
If only I played with their symbols,
As grown up I would be accepted,
Lunatic, heretic, libertine and mad,
If their symbols I neglected;
Well, to hell with it all,
Back to the beginning I go free,
Out of this confusion, this world of illusionS
Only so plain to see
That mountain is mountain and water water,
Once again, so really for me.

From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel (C) Ronnie Patel 2007

CONSCIENCE

Let me your long sleep intrude like the first
Ray of light that sunders the dark of night;
Let me whisper in your ear like the first
Birdsong that greets the dawning of the day;
Hardly harbinger of the scorching Sun,
Or the full melody of enchantment,
I am yet as intensely made and done
As the bird and sun of timely portent;
I’m the inner voice, the alter ego,
The quiet, intrinsic part of the soul,
The quintessence of life never expunged,
Ever pointing of the path to your goal;
Heed me, but well in your meandering,
Oh, wandering self, away from the ways
Set within your earthly scope, and wandering
Still, find me beyond fear, beyond hope!

From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel (Copyright Ronnie Patel 2007)

Delusive Delights of Reflections

The mind wanders in the rib-caged confines,
For a while on a longish leash, tethered
But fast to the blessed time- post of life;
Never seeking out, ever willing in –
Prisoner, in gratitude imprisoned!
But within him the powerful Spirit lies:
The denier of cloisters; severer
Of tethers; the instant liberator
Beckoning him to cast off the ties
That have eaten into his very soul;
Yet, sedated in incarceration
By its temptations and seductive wiles,
Man seeks not his own soul’s liberation,
But with a mirror clasped in hand, revels
In delusive delights of reflections!


From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel (Copyright Ronnie Patel 2007)

Oh, Worry Not Your Brow

Oh, worry not your brow
For the loss of youth --
Never there to lose or gain,
But live on, and ripen
With passing years,
Gaining nought but
Wealth of joy and tears,
In the newness of which,
Lies not youth or age,
But the wonderment, ever,
Writing another new page!

From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel (Copyright Ronnie Patel 2007)

Dumb Charades of Much Despair

When brainwashed mankind blindly follows received doctrines and unquestioned information, it is sucked into a kind of dumb charades, often inextricably, conveying nothing but despair for itself.

Wanton, how man has your grace forsook,
Spurring earthen toys to games of war;
When your name he has erringly bled
In the careless ooze of unctuous gore;
With false truths, and no regrets,
His rallying calls on trumpets blare,
And, following blindly, the man-herd
Plays its dumb charades of much despair.

Such is the Embarrassment

A self explanatory poem that underlines in my own words the age old thought of the insignificance of Man in the entire scheme of Creation, known and beyond. By calling all that compounds Man -- his drives and achievements, an emabarrassment, the suggestion is clear for him to eschew every sense of importance, arrogance, and pride.


Such is the Embarrassment

As wispy, vaporous risings that
Permeate a patch of time and space,
To end, but banished into the vast
And boundless void, all history of
Deeds and graces of every man and
Hominoid will perish, with useless
Strife and struggle for all his beliefs,
His shibboleths and spectral wraiths;
Such, indeed, is the embarrassment
Of human importance, fame and faiths!



From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel; (C) Ronnie Patel 2006

Detritus of Human Failure

This poem was inspired by the continual warring in the history of man; with the most recent issues of Israel, Palestine, Iraq, and Lebanon, and, of course, the USA.

Detritus of Human Failure

Listen to the thunder of the cannons of war;
The undying conflicts of man in relentless
Pursuits of truth and justice, edifying days
Of nothing but the drudgery of dreaded souls,
And despatch of the deluded to unmarked graves;
Bathe in the rubble razed by the whirlwinds of war;
Coursing consortia of clouds of global havoc
That mock the misguided man, without a saviour,
Rise and hover over his soul’s parched, arid lands,
And rain, but the detritus of human failure;
See the ugliness in the willful wage of war,
Crying vengeance and retributions much provoked
By the sickening senselessness on either side;
Oh, man of much fond faith in priests and presidents,
For once rid of them, and ever in peace abide!

From the Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel; copy right Ronnie Patel 2006 (in continuum)

The Wretched Reflections

The Wretched Reflections

Oh stop, but at once, this foolishness
Of senselessly staring into me,
As though I were some strange oddity;
Come not any nearer, no further,
Lest, unready, you the mirror break
And step right into reality;
Not free of the life of illusions,
Not free of all the reasoned out truths,
Live on, make a lifetime of it yet,
Till the mirror but shatters itself
And with rare grace into me you step,
And cease to be your own creation;
We are nothing but by mirrors made,
And nothing to nothing we shall go,
When God, you and I shall cease to be
The wretched reflections anymore!

From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel; Copyright Ronnie Patel 2006 (in continuum)

Oh, Calcutta! (2)

This poem describes, but endearingly my my regards for the great city.

My Vermilion Spittled Calcutta, Green

Urinous pavements rise at every step
That clangs and clangs a most clamorous din;
Lewd and lushly lavish, bacchanal cries
Merge with sibilant sighs of silken sin;
Triumphs sexual and capitulations
Fully throated, or in breaths mumbled, brim
Slither and spread on your polluted air,
My vermilion spittled Calcutta, green!
But you are still the land of Bangla songs,
Where the great Ganges brings its richly flow,
Where the gentle hands of Teresa touched
The souls neglected by the city's throw;
Theatre Road’s now Shakespeare Sarani,
The great English bard commemorating,
The name of Satyajit Ray, by any
Measure brings movies worth remembering;
New Market, the Races and Bengal Club,
Salt Lake, the Sunderbans and Chowringhee,
The sacrificial goats at Kali Ghat -
A mix of Anglo-India history;
O! The majesty of encrustations,
In the great corner cut of Indian soil,
Once, a jewel in an imperial crown
And the pride of Tagore-Ananda toil,
Now gaunt and forlorn with clothes in tatters
You stand no less the Lady you had been,
Your graciousness untouched by unkind time,
My vermilion spittled Calcutta, green!

From The Unsung Log by Ronnie Patel (Bookworth & Patroy)
Copyright Ronnie Patel 2006 (in continuum)

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Oh, Calcutta! (1)

The following poem is dedicated to Calcutta, the amazing city of rare wealth of talent and hospitality; and to my (late) friend Vimal Bhagat.

The poem was written in 1987, when I was guest of the well known thespian Vimal Bahagat for nearly two months, rehearsing the Pavel Kohut's play: POOR MURDERER. In 1993, on hearing the news of Vimal's death, on the first evening of my own production of D. L. Coburn's: THE GIN GAME with Pauline Hahn (ex Hollywood), as supper theatre at the Taj Coromandel Hotel, Madras, I had dedicated the performance to his memory with a brief announcement. And today I think of him, again!


Calcutta: The Dark Hour Of The Night

The dark hour of the night descends,
The hour of the cat and the assassin,
Of the silent lurkers hop-scotching
Over piss-runs from abused walls,
Ginger footing on jagged pavements;
It is the hour of fiendish screams
Of feline copulation on roof tops,
Of human sighs in sexual relief,
Or of semen trickling on silken thighs:
Coitus interreptus, clandestine; it is
The hour when motion thieves on stillness,
And stillness is death, or sleep.

(From The Unsung Log: Copyright Ronnie Patel)

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BBC World News

The immediacy of living on a small, desert island, with simple needs well met, diminishes the mechanical hunger for world news; and the feelings of anger, remorse, apathy and often, utter uselessness against massive political forces get far removed.

BBC: World News

How utterly irrelevant,
The news of the world
Wafting on in dulcet
Voices of the BBC;
Here, life sparkles like
The fish on the next line,
Or the catch in the
Next cast of net, unfailingly,
In simple, languorous,
Natural immediacy.

From Island Poems by Ronnie Patel (Lotus Print ISBN 81-88451-02-09 C.Right Author) now out of print.

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All the Heroes and Sages

A philosphical comment of a man with his muse, who takes him to all the heroes and sages in a reflection of reincarnation that pronounces immortality.

All the Heroes and Sages

I link myself with all the heroes and sages
And gently traverse the road of the ages,
With all the poets and thinkers,
All the martyrs and builders
Of civilisations and cultures everywhere;
I leap over space and ignore time,
Join the hordes of every race and clime,
And like the dust on the pages
Of recorded ages
I blow all empires away;
I know that this wandering me,
May he a king or a peasant be,
Is a mere link on his sole
In the chain as a whole
Of man’s wonderful immortality.

From Island Poems by Ronnie Patel (Lotus Print ISBN 81-88451-02-09 C.Right Author)

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