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Every time I have a symposium
Following a banquet
With my muse
I start with three libations
With the best lychee wine I can get
From Mauritius !
The first is to her eyes
The second is to her lips
The third to Venus.
Then I spread the floor smeared with wine
With vanilla perfumes and jasmine flowers
While the moon is playing a tune on her flute of Pan
Then it's  time to sing a hymn
And only after all this ceremony and ritual
When the symposiarch says : "drink !"
And the symposiasts  start to drink
and be drunk
the symposium is declared open,
Only then,
we can start our tête-à-tête.
AditiBoo Sep 2018
True words are not defined by the volume of your voice
They are confirmed by the consequence of your choice

I’ve heard men speak with conviction
Use opulent words to masque their deceit
Set out principles to map their ambition
Answer too quickly, unveiling their conceit

I’ve heard men churn out nonsense
Use statistics to conclude with a false truth
Bring documents to lock down evidence
But never real facts to back their proof

I’ve heard men spin tales out of thin air
Pupeteers stringing stories to life
A show for one and all to hear
Cutting through decency like a butcher’s knife

And amidst the clanging kitchenware
I heard some glimmer of purpose and sincerity
A voice shaking with feelings laid bare
A simple request - a hope for unity

A voice that sometimes livened with anger
A cry that urged patience and comprehension
A murmur pleading for its respect and honour
A grumble deploring the absence of quick and just action

A people’s voice rising together
Chanting they’ve had enough
Bringing each and one closer
Calling out the liars on their bluff

I heard rumours are just that
And people see through empty words
Action is taking the ball to the bat
And whatever sticks to it, those are the true words

True words are not defined by the volume of your voice
They are confirmed by the consequence of your choice
AditiBoo Sep 2018
They took away his things

All his possessions, his belongings...

The roof above his head,

The duvet on his bed..

Even the rotten food in his bin.

They wanted to leave him - skeleton without a skin



They hung him out to dry

Beat him up until he could not longer cry

Dead man hanging

Soon, vultures will come prying

It's dead in the alleyway

At least until the rats come out to play



Riches to rags, is such a clichee

He a 'beggee' having turned into a beggar

Change used to go from his wallet to another's cup

Now from strangers' hands into his pocket they drop

A tip for the waitress at the nearby diner

Now enough for today's and tomorrow's dinner



There's an auction up in heaven

'A smile for the skeleton?'

'A smile for the skeleton?', they say

Angels, gods and saints...they all look away

As down on the forsaken street

The skeleton, oblivious, rubs his feet.
When the current government took over in Mauritius, they had a bone (<-- get it! the poem's called 'skeleton') to pick with the previous Prime Minister. So they  laid an avalanche of charges against him and got him arrested and placed in jail overnight...
Basically my take on "Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"
Nielsen Mooken Feb 2015
Nous etions, en cet instant, prisonniers du bonheur.
Heritiers de cette douce mais, o combien lourde, ferveur
Brulant sous cette peau vernie de sueur, de sable et de sel,
Portes, en princes sous les ficelles des tisseuses de ciel.
Nous regardions le gris a nous ecorcher les yeux,
Aimant de la passion infidele du zenith bleu
Le vide encombrant de nos plus incroyables espoirs
Et le remou sans debut ni fin de nouvelles memoires.
Nous les connaissions, ces esprits, vagabonds des mers
Chassant, au milieu des vagues ces humeurs incidencieres,
Celles la meme qui jadis se prenommaient “reves d’enfance”
Et qui depuis de sont transformes en dependence.
Nous les connaissions, et meme si la nature de ce lien
M’est masque par un sacerdoce qui ne sera jamais mien,
Elle me dicte toujours chaque contour de leur lames grises
Qui de cet air sec et fier sont tragiquement eprises
Nous etions, en cet instant prisonniers de beaute,
Celle la meme qui voit nos poumons dechiquetes
A vouloir engouffrer ce monde entier sous nos pores
Que demain a travers ces lettres je puisse a nouveau le voir.
Nielsen Mooken Jul 2014
Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon dix-huit heures.
Ou chercher, dans cette ville bercée de sueur
Le fantôme de cet acharnement de vie
Qui noie les sens de lumière, de chaleur et d’envie?
Dans les aboiements rauques de ces cabots rois du soir?
Dans le son des volets qu’on baisse de façon vénielle?
Dans les pas qui s’éclaboussent sur le trottoir
Les maux de cette étrange promesse d’étincelle ?
Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon nuit d’hiver
Grise comme lasse de ces nuées de couleurs incendiaires
Elle s’éteint le temps d’allumer les étoiles,
Peintres bien plus dures que leur jumelles estivales.
L’écru de leur toile est teinte de la froideur du blanc.
Quels soupirs s’emmêlent aux clous qui habitent ses vents?
Quel chant quand la pluie crucifie ainsi nos flancs?
Est-ce celle de cette ville bohème, de beauté fille de sang?
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Whence cometh these mournful euphonies?
Tis' the winds; the choir of sprights in the clefts
Or tis' the earth; the plight of her laboured back?
Whence cometh this flame dancing with our souls?
Tis' flicker of the nascent wings of love
Or tis' the pyre of rage that devours?
Tis' the dream of our blood, our death, our powers!
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Winter, my last friend, thank you for this morning.
Even as your silver cloak grows frayed
With new freckles of azur accenting
The golden, our covenant you have not brayed.
This silent valediction, moonstone rayed
Belies the dying of our Sapphire,
Our council, our secret, our pyre!

— The End —