Scene One



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...
*



Urgo: I am attendant 1. Often known as Urgo.



Burgo: I am attendant 2. Always known as Burgo.



Urgo:  You see this creature seated here
            in the wheelchair? 
Can you believe it?

            This creature once wrote poems
            
and its poems still inhabit cyberspace.


Burgo: Oh, this creature did that?


Urgo: Yes, this.


Burgo: I think I’ve read some.

             Not that I can remember any.
             
Not a word, not a title.
 But must have been pretty good, ha?
             
To write all those words, in verse...


Urgo: I don’t know about that.
           
It’s the girls who write. And sissies.
           
And for all that, you know
           
there’s just one word this creature can say.


Burgo: Really? Just one word?


Urgo: Yes.
All right, watch this.
           Come on, Raj-i.

           Hey baby...Burgo here wants to hear you.
           
Just one poem in your one word.
           
Come on, baby - or no soup for you tonight.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo and Urgo clap)



Urgo: Baan-derful, Raj...
Now Burgo,
           let’s wheel the creature back in

           and dump him in
           his corner.



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)





Scene Two



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...






Urgo: Today, Burgo, is Exercise Your Vocal Chords Day.



Burgo: No problem - Ahhhhhhhhrrrrgggggooooaaaaa.....



Urgo: Not your vocal cords, Burgo.
           
It is Exercise Your vocal Cords Day
            
for our distinguished guest currently
            
on this wheelchair.



Burgo: Ahhh...I see...



Urgo: All right, Raj-i baby...
Exercise your vocal chords 

            and entertain us with your delightful voice...



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo claps)*



Urgo: OK - that’s enough exercise for the day!
           Let’s go






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)






Scene Three

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo: Burgo!

Burgo: Sire!

Urgo: Sire? Where in the world
           did you get such a word?

Burgo: Sorry - I thought I was in a *****
             Shakespeare play.

Urgo: Have your head examined, Burgo.
            We’ll never make it there.
            All we have is this 3rd-rate one-act play.

Burgo: I understand. I’m just a little ambitious.

Urgo: Be realistic. Don’t be ambitious.

Burgo: That’s wise, Sire - I mean, Urgo.

Urgo: Well, this creature in the wheelchair,
            for example...It was ambitious...
            and it had a great fall...
            it never knew how to be realistic...
            But more of that, later - first, what Day is it today?

Burgo: It is We Tickle Your Foot Day, today.

Urgo: You learn fast, Burgo.

Burgo: Thank you, Urgo.

(Silence)

Urgo: Well?

Burgo: I’m very well, thank you.

Urgo: You idiot! I mean if you know it is
           We Tickle Your Foot Day, today -
           then what should you do next, you knave!?

Burgo: Oh. Ok.

(Burgo kneels before Raj, takes off Raj’s shoes and with a feather tickles Raj’s feet.)

Raj (laughing): Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                             Baa, baa, baa


(Burgo puts Raj’s shoes on again, and his feather back in his pocket and stands up.)



Burgo: You mentioned ambition
              and this creature that sits on the wheelchair.

Urgo: Yes, it is time to exercise my vocal chords.
           This creature forgot, like all creatures,
           we come alone, and we go alone.

Burgo: Ah, at last! - hints of a Shakespearean play
             albeit we’ll never make it into one.
            With ambition, loneliness and all the Lear madness.
            Will we have the lewd parts too
            and rich imagery of body parts?

Urgo: Perhaps...perhaps...but let us stick to the ordinary ...
           This creature was born in 1derLand
           but was washed ashore to foreign shores.


Burgo: Good, good...like Paris, son of Priam and Hecuba?
             O Paris, washed ashore to Sparta
             O so well-loved and nursed by Helen.

Urgo: Yes, except this creature is more akin to the Wanderer
            like Oedipus, or just the indistinct Mendicant,
            the Samurai with no master, a ronin,
             all cursed to wander the face of the earth...

Burgo: Oh - are we in Shakespeare yet?

Urgo: We are in deep ****! That’s where we are!
           We all are.
           Burgo - let us stick to the banal like hamburgers.
          This creature forgot that
          and dreamt of things like poetry, ideals -
          and therein is the moral of the story for you:
          we come alone
          and alone we go
          one at a time we come
          and each we own, and each faculty
          one at a time they go.

Burgo: So let us stick with the banal
             eat our burgers
             and pick our teeth after.
             Do they supply toothpicks at takeaways
             in your country, Urgo?

Urgo: No, we recycle them, Burgo.
           We just pick up discarded ones from the ground.
           Like some nations pick up cigarette butts
           from the bins.
           Waste not; want not.


Burgo: Oh, if this scene goes on any longer
             it might become Shakespearean, Urgo.

Urgo: Ergo - we must go.
          But let us allow Raj to have the last word,
           since this play is entitled
          “ Raj Arumugam, (a one-act tragicomedy)”.
          Idiot of a son! What kind of fool-writer will have a play
          with his own name as the title of his play?!

Burgo: So, Raj-i, you egocentric ******:
             You have the last word in this scene...
             You really put words into my mouth, you ****!

Raj: Baa, baa, ba
        Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa


Urgo: All right, Let’s go, Burgo.
           Bring him in -
           Let’s drop him in bed
           and may he drop dead!



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Four



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...



*


Urgo: Burgo!


Burgo: Urgo!


Urgo: How long has it been since
           you started work here?


Burgo: 3 months, Urgo. Why?


Urgo: Well, show me a game...I’m bored...a new game...


Burgo: Well, have you played wheelie bin?


Urgo: No.
But Oh I love to delve into world culture.

           Show me.


Burgo: Well, let me show you.

             A wheelie bin is a bin with wheels
             and you put ******* in it
             
and you leave it outside on the kerb
             
and the garbage guy in his truck collects your *******.
             
So this is the game.



(Burgo pushes wheelchair round the stage and sings.)



          This is the way we 
wheel out our wheelie bins
           
this is the way we 
wheel out our bins
           
early every Thursday morning


           This is the way we 
leave our bins,
            our wheelie bins

            this is the way we leave our bins
            
out on the sunny kerb

            every Thursday morning



(leaves wheelchair on kerb)



           This is the way we empty our bins

           this is the way we empty our bins
           this is the way empty our bins
           every Thursday morning



(empties the wheelchair; Raj Arumugam  drops onstage)




Urgo(joining in):
 This is the way we 
pick up our *******

                                  pick up our *******
                                  
this is the way we do it

                                  this is the way 
always we do it

                                  early Thursday morning!



(Urgo picks up Raj Arumugam and drops him in the wheelchair)



(Urgo and Burgo clap, applauding each other.)



Burgo:
And now, Urgo - for the ritual
             of 
Raj Arumugam’s final words in the scene...
Is that right?



(Urgo nods...)



Burgo:
  Sing, you Sir in the Wheelchair.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       
Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa




Burgo: Oh, you spoil the fun! Let’s go.






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Five

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo:
          Let's leave him here tonight;
         some fresh air might do him good

(Urgo and Burgo leave, leaving Raj on his wheelchair.)

(Long silence.)


Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
      Baa, baa, baa



(Raj has a thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Hey guys, come back...Another word is coming back to me.”)

(Long silence)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Raj has another thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Another one’s coming back...maybe my mind is coming back.”)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Long silence. Lights fade. Darkness. Curtain...)

My aged mum excitedly points outside
White flowers burst open bright overnight
She says they look like popcorn
I love her metaphor and play along
Flowers white like popcorn bright
Tickled by the heat of the micro light

Mum speaks of small things in her big age
Sun, rain, wind, hot, cold, quite days
The unrelenting pain in her legs
and memories of things she could once do with ease

She speaks of the coming and going of mischievous monkeys
real monkeys - not metaphors
She tells of how they brazenly steal her fruit
when she is alone at home - teasing her
as they walk backwards out the glass door
slinging their stolen bananas like a colt 44

My mum sits across from me
the sun gently brushes her short silver grey strands of hair
Today she wears a pretty pink dress - patterned bright
with pretty pink and blue flowers - reflection
of the pretty flowers outside
She sits in serenity - she is at peace - inside

My niece pops corn in the microwave
My sisters biryani fills the hungry air
My brother in law awaits his birthday party
I am at home

The pretty white flowers
silently blossom in the yard
I sit across from my metaphor mum
My poet, my muse, my loving bard

Stanley Arumugam
Richards Bay

A TRIBUTE TO HELLO POETRY

This will be a long write.
There are so many I wish
to honor and thank.

Please, if you can, pull up
Bruce Cockburn's song
Maybe the Poet on YouTube.
Listen to the words as you read this.
It will greatly add to your enjoyment.

I play no favorites...
you ALL are class acts!

Here's a tribute. Yep. It's long!
But listen to Bruce Cockburn's song.
I want to emulate what's sung
Yes, not miss a poet, one!

ryn has got a range of art
Ded Poet's got a poet's heart
elsa angelica's soul resounds
Bhumika's a dove
with a golden crown!

Wolfspirit's pen can spill his love
Wonderman's ink from up above
sjr...1000 words so wise
Scarlet Pimpernel's talent's
not disguised!

Joe Malgeri's a spiritual gent
Paige Pots' work is heaven sent
Tivonna has love for natural things
Helena's work has roots and wings!

Pradip, in my eyes number one
as is Thomas A Robinson
jeffrey robin's style is loose and bold
Rupal has a heart of gold!

John Stevens has an earthy wit
Pax means peace, his candle's lit
Tryst's ballads are a perfect fit
and I love Lidi Minuet!

donna's sweet as honeydew
Jason Cole fits like a shoe
Prttybrd sings songs with style
Day Wing flies! He has a smile!

Deborah's walking on her beach
her talent has a range and reach
Rapunzel let's her hair way down
Weeping Willow
has a pleasant sound!

Joe Cole loves all fantasy
SSilkenTounge has a mind that's free
Solaces is a very old friend
I hope to see Botan again!

Urmilla writes beyond her years
Chalsey Wilder writes bring tears
Tonya Maria and I share pain
Wise is K Balachandran!

CA Guifoyle lives in my town
Adam Childs' the best around
SE Reimer can put us in the mood
Musfiq us Shaleheen
Is so VERY good!

Richard Riddle honors with poetry
Love my collab, Arcassin B!
Sally A Bayan's good and kind
Hayden Swan's a real find!

Love comments from Joe Adomavicia
zik, I'm always glad to see ya!
TGWLY has a heart that hurts
Erenn Y does heartfelt works...

Elizabeth Squires has classic writes
Frank Ruland's fights
for what is right
And if a scare you want to see
just look up POETIC T!

Oh! There are SO many more!
There are poets by the score!
I don't want to be a bore
But read them ALL! You will be
FLOORED !!!

MORE POETS!!!

Lori Jones McCaffery
Kalypso
Niamh Price
Mya Angel
Mike Hauser
Vicki
Ignatius Hosiana
Frankie J
Chris Green
mark cleavenger
brandon nagley
Winn
Puds (Pete)
Deborah Brooks Langford
Timothy
Marian
Hilda
Harriet Tecumsah Watt
it's gonna make sense
mybarefootdrive
Dark n Beautiful
WL Winter
Margaux
Pamela Rae
Venusoul7
Eddie Starr
Olivia Kent
Brenden Thomas
Zoe
Raj Arumugam
Elijah
Sukeerti
Manny
M.A.N
Jonny Angel
Dylan Mitchell
James M Vines
bulletcookie
i am miss brightside
Chris Fracc
Cat
Ocean Blue
Phil Lindsay
Mike Hauser
PearlSy
Christi Michaels Moon Flower
Raj Nandy
SPT
PoETEPETE Now RePETE After PETE
Makayla Kelly
Paul Gafney
Nan Trapp Messer
Chloe
Steven Langhorst
Daniel Palmer
Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
C A Guilfoyle
TRAVELLER
Soul
GitacharYa VedaLa
Rosalind heather Alexander
S R Matts
Paul Gattney
Danny Mak
patty m
liv frances
Gary L
Ngamau Boniface
IOWA
Earl Jane
ber
Justin G
James
ste'phanie noir
born
Aztec Warrior


Last but not least... olestoryteller
and Francie Lynch! Ketoma Rose!

HE:
It was a long while ago
since I left my village
There’s been no word
no traveller with news –
and I am dying for any song
from the girl I left behind


SHE:
It's been some time ago
Since that boy left me behind
Where he is, nobody knows
There's been no news to find
I would like to just sing him one more song
About how he's the boy that I've loved for so long
Maybe he'll come to me, in my dreams
But in reality, he's nowhere it seems...


HE:
The day’s work offers diversion
but the quiet evening
brings back the pain
How is she now
the one I left behind?
I see her still in my mind –
across the river
and she would not wave goodbye


SHE:
I regret not waving to him
On that dreadful final goodbye
I wonder if he thinks of me
On that last day, did he see me cry?
Daily chores and family
Offer me some solace
But nothing feels the same
As when him and I were US


BOTH: (Chorus)
Staring at this glassy water,
Our eternal hearts divide
Do you stare at the same moon’s reflection
From the other side?
I hope you find my love one day
Floating across this wayward water
Until then, I will pray
Our hearts are broken no longer

1
Dear Poet Friend at HP
(I don't know your name, as the name you use at HP is in a typo I can't decipher.)

* I welcome your question and comment as it gives me an opportunity to explore this issue of plagiarism. It will indeed be useful for everyone.

* This is my modus operandi: I take a joke from online and I convert it to poetry. The language is mine; I give the joke a context, even alter its spirit, create characters and by the time I'm finished with it, it is a new and original product.
If I took the words exactly as they are and passed them off as my own, then that is plagiarism. I never do that.
Plagiarism is taking another person's words and phrases and work and passing them off as one's own. That is not what my work is about.

* Take the example of Shakespeare. His "Julius Caesar" is actually based on various sources. So is his "Romeo and Juliet" and other plays like "Othello". Do we charge him with plagiarism ? No, as he has used his own language and puts each material from various sources into his own style. I have taken many jokes and I have put them in poetry, in my own style, in my own narrative. It shows a great lack of understanding of Literature to call that plagiarism.

* You might ask why I do not have a note at the end to indicate the poem is based on a joke found online. I used to do that (see my older poems) and decided for purely aesthetic reasons to keep notes to a minimum.

Kind regards
Raj Arumugam



2
Would it be fine with you if I posted your comment along with my reply as a separate post on my page? It will benefit everyone to consider this issue.
If you are not agreeable to my including your view in such a post, then I will simply post my reply possibly entitled "Reply on being charged with plagiarism".
Thank you

Kind regards
Raj Arumugam

I can spill
well and good
Can you spill?
Let me advise you
you should learn
how to spill -
and to spill well
You see, a lot of people can’t spill
and so we know they are not educated
But if you can spill
like me
so well and so good
and when people read what I write
they know straight away
I’m educated, very well educated
So you see I can spill
and so I’m known all over the world
as educated and polished
and let’s not forget, refined
So can you spill?
If you can’t,
never fear
we are all friends here
I can help you –
I will send you a CD, a DVD and a guide book
and other educational material
(Yes, all written and produced by me –
I told you I’m educated, and polished!)
so you can learn to spill like me
Of course nothing’s for fee –
you must pay me a free
and once I got your money
I will send you all the material
And you can start to spill
just like me!
And all the world
will ask you:
“Oh how did you learn to spill
like this? ”
And you can tell them:
“There’s a learned man Down Under
the famous Raj Arumugam
(Oh, have you never heard?)
and he taught me how to spill
But of course he made me pay a free
for Raj Arumugam as a matter of wise policy
never gives anything for fee
and now you see
I can spill just like Raj Arumugam
both us with much pride and glee
So I can spill. Can you spill?
No? Shame on you! ”

(a traditional Japanese ghost story, re-told by Raj Arumugam)




Preamble

Ogiwara sits in his shed
alone, sad
only memories sustain him now
in the lonely hours of his nights

and now it is the night of the obon
and he hears the light feet of women
just outside on the grass
just below the willow

it is a woman with her peony lantern
and beside her
through his window
Ogiwara sees the beauty that weakens his heart
young Otsuyu he sees
and Ogiawara comes out and bows
and he invites them in
on this the night of the obon





What Onatsaku saw

I saw the ladies come every night
and the woman with the lantern
sat out at the deck
while the young one went in
and Ogiwara as happy as in times past

every night I saw them
come as gentle as divine beings
and before the break of dawn
as I prepared for work
I saw them leave
and Ogiwara sad, as he is always now



What an elderly neighbor saw

toothless I may be
but ‘m still sharp of faculty
and I saw these two w'men
one young, and a beauty as one from Edo
and every night Ogiwara received her
and last night I went by his window
and I saw ‘m naked in his room
and the w'man he was making love to
was but bones, bones and smiling skull
and the two were entwined
limb over limb
so close in love making
and the w'man he was making love to
was but bones, bones and smiling skull


What the priest did

And the priest came forth
And warned Ogiwara of the danger
The ravishing young girl
was the ghost Otsuyu
And a prayer he placed on the door
so she can never come in
even when invited in





Otsuyu’s song

O Ogiwara
my heart and flesh
yearns for you

on previous nights
you welcomed me in
but now you have doors
shut against me  
was all your love
false, false as our days?

O Ogiwara
my heart and flesh
trembles for yours

on previous nights
you cried as we made love
you cried that you had found
beauty and joy
but now you let me stand
crying out in the cold
was all your love
false, false as our days?

O Ogiwara
if I may not come in
open the door
and come with me



What the children saw

This morning we
went playing across the fields
and at the graveyard
And there in an open grave
there we saw Ogiwara’s corpse
breaking, rotting
but his blue cloak still round him
And we saw his corpse
embraced by a woman
but she was but bones, bones and smiling skull
and the two were entwined
limb over limb
and the skull-woman he was with
she hissed at us
and she said: *“Go away, children…Go away…”
and she was but bones, bones and smiling skull

1
Hey blogger, poet...no photo, ha?
hmmm...no photo...
not even a nose, no eyes
no part or whole...well, that's OK, I guess...

I know there’s a reason - security, privacy...
Or maybe you’re actually
President Obama
masquerading here as a blogger
President Putin practising his English
seeking Russian ******* on the poetry front
Or a Chinese Politburo member
checking out if anyone from Falun Gong or Tibet is here
or a Coca-Cola spy
checking out what new drink
you can concoct for contemporary poets;
or maybe you’re Elvis Presley
retired in Risikesh
with a fair amount of hashish
and a daily dose
of the Anglo-Euro-American girls
who just don’t want to go home

so you don’t want your photo on;
we understand; that’s fine…


2
Or you're just a good woman
in some old-fashioned part of the world
who made a pact with your jealous husband:
OK, no photo, you can blog;
You put photo, you’re out!
And you poor thing, your mother-in-law
sits there during the
supervised half-an-hour
allotted to you at the computer;
and then gives a complete report
when your husband comes home:
She’s been talking to this strange man in Australia –
He’s got a South Indian name but he looks aboriginal
– and your husband turns to you
and he says Who is this idiot Raj Arumugam
you’re reading?
What's going on between the two of you?

Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?


3
Or all right, you take a shot
and for some strange reason
no picture ever turns out right;
it never captures the true you – does it?
(Come on, you can’t give the world
the wrong impression
of an ogre when you really look
better than the made-up
Bollywood or Hollywood heroes and  heroines)

Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?

4
Or maybe you’re just the best husband in the world...
You know – handsome, rich, secure government job;
does all the cooking at home and still manages to go
to work and earn decent money and
gets the wife some bed-coffee everyday
before you’re off to work - and so, you know,
your wifey doesn’t want to lose you so she says:
No picture, darling; blogging is OK;
all those international evil eyes looking at you
will make you sick
...especially people with glasses...
(when the real text, you and I know, is:
Oh gorgeous hubby of mine -
I don’t want to lose you to some blogging *****!)


Whatever the reason or whoever you’re
fact is I'm human
and
I just can’t help wonder once in a while:
Hey, how do you look?


5
But then it doesn’t really matter –
your company’s good enough;
just look at your screen
and flash us all a smile

The First Apostle

Did you know your calling?
When He first met you
Demonized-*******

Transformed by His healing hand
Your love-turned passion
Inseparably bound to his being

Scorned for your lavish yearning
Prophetically anointing perfume-blood
Head to hands to dusty broken feet

Your walk with Him closer to death
The rugged weight of dry wood
Heavy heart anointed in knowing tears

You stood by his side-abandoned
By pharisaical disciples cowards call
His love grafted into bone and sinew

The empty mocking tomb
Like your barren heart
Devoid-all you lived for
Rudely taken away

Then He touches you again
With glorious anointing
Head to heart to weary feet
With apostolic "Go-Tell" command

Demonized-*******
Apostle-Evangelist


Stanley Arumugam

The monk
received
a box
on his birthday,
and it was
a special gift
from his brother monks,
so, he knew
that it was something special,
so, with a little nervousness,
he carefully opened the box
and saw that it was empty,
and with great joy
and happiness
he exclaimed,
"Nothing!
Just what I wanted!"

The Clothed Maja, sister of The **** Maja (both painted by Goya, and both enjoyed by Raj Arumugam), speaks:*
  

Hey, you boys…yeah, you…
OK, all of you good boys, if you like…
come see me in my white dress and golden shoes;
see me reclined in my luxurious couch…
Look here…I’m in this room…
Oh, you adorable, silly boys;
I’ve been hearing you the last hour
as you searched one room after another
and all you grown men giggling like little boys…
while I’ve been waiting here all the while…
And you’re Frank? And you?
Sean? What a **** name you’ve got baby…
Oh, hmmmm…you should be…O Patrick,
you think I’m cool?
I was made by Goya, how can I not be?
And come on other boys at the door, don’t be shy…
Ravi, Kesav, Eliot,  jp –
my, my, what a short name you got;
you can get it long too? ...jp…lovely name…
and Jack Chappell, and Sean Critchfield –
and why didn’t cheeky Raj come?
Oh, leave him, he’s probably just best left ogling
at ***** shunga pictures
from Hokusai…

So welcome boys all…
Yes, yes, you can come close
You can’t resist the scent can you?
O, my name? Just call me Maja -
Maja pretty and well-dressed
and I just love good company and wine
and pleasure and fun
…what?
You guys think I’m sweet, and seductive?
Oh, that’s nice of you…
**** too?
Oh, boys! Oh, you boys!
If you think I’m ****
Oh wait till you see my sister, my double –
Oh, yes she’s always reclining in a bed too
unlike that stodgy Mona Lisa
Well, my sis didn’t want to come
but really, I’ll tell you a secret -
my sis, she doesn’t wear clothes -
and she hasn’t been in clothes since 1800!
Oh, you guys got to go?
Reluctant, but you must go?
Yeah, you can always see me – just google Goya
and I’ll always be there
and my sister?
Oh, you naughty boys, that’s who really want to see,
don’t you?
and that’s the reason for your sudden hurry?
Well, she’s always placed beside me –
I’m always The Clothed Maja and she the Naked one…
See you soon, guys –
see you at Goya...
Hey, come back here boys –
the least you can do is to kiss me goodbye…

Like so many hundreds that day
He eventually reached his destination
The European shores of refuge
Dressed in his Sunday best
ready for Church in his new land

We stood by with our global media
to welcome him at the water’s edge
but he would not speak as usual
his mum said he was a shy boy
Still we clicked our cameras
beamed our global images
and moved on to the next story

He lay there alone – black and blue
watched by a policeman - unsure
how to handle this crime scene
not sure if it’s in his jurisdiction
a foreign child washed up
on the water’s edge
spewed out of the ocean belly
rejected twice – at home and in the sea

The meticulous autopsy revealed
that he had a swollen head
still full of grandiose stories and lies  
told by his mum every night
fantasy stories that kept him warm as she dragged him
walking mile after mile after mile like weary soldiers

In his heart he carried memories of a new country
where he would be free of fear, have food to eat
be able to play with his sister - not worry that
his neighbourhood would be shelled again
He boarded the rickety boat – head held high
pretending to be a brave young man - even though
he was terrified of water and unable to swim

I sit at home in my warm sofa watching the news
thinking how cruel this mother could be
to put her child through a horror such as this
how could she make a child walk for miles and miles
how could she put him on an unsafe overloaded boat
how could she act illegally and so irresponsibly  

I sit at home in my warm sofa watching the news
thinking why Europe needs to be burdened with Syrians
thinking why rich Arab countries will not take in their own  
thinking why Christian countries have to give home to
Muslim fundamentalists opposed to the teachings of Christ

When I’m done with dose my self-righteous thinking
a child shows up on my flat screen TV
washed up on a lonely shore
I switch off the TV but his image haunts my dream

I see a Syrian child - head held high
walking out of the icy Mediterranean sea
leading a band of desperate children – exhausted, broken
scared, starving, smiling with renewed hope
My dream seems to end like the deMille classic
the Egyptian chariots sink into the bottom of the sea
The children are free in the land of milk and honey

Only this time, from the promised land of refuge
a thousand chariots or more come rumbling down
along train tracks, cargo vans and police trucks
rounding up children to transit camps
where death is sure
for a hundred, thousand
six million more

Stanley Arumugam
13 Sept 2015

I am learning to listen
to what's not said
to read between the lines
to see the invisible sights
to feel the silent heartbeat

I am learning to listen
to the moments of friendship silence
to hear you dive deep in our dialogue
and come up floundering breathless
I have to resist being your saviour
Just watch you go up and down
up and down but you do not drown

I am learning to listen
to your unspoken presence divine
in the quiet of my lonely night
when my mind is taken over
with a million unanswered questions
regrets, shame, hopes and dreams
painted on white walls of ****** frustration

I am learning to listen
in the times you do not speak
in the times you embrace me
with all of my deep uncertainty
my fear - my doubts - my pain

In the moments I think you absent
and nowhere to be seen
you sit across from me - silent
listening and not to be heard

I often neglect the greatest gift you
give to me - as my lover-friend-divine
to enjoy you as the one
who does not want to be heard
but the one who just wants to listen

Stanley Arumugam
17 April 2013

I write what I cannot speak
Words - held captive
in the depths of my soul
slowly, silently, suffocating
Words - I'm afraid of saying out loud
Words - hiding my heart desires
my fears, my despair, my hope

I know this to be true
when they are heard by others
They will be judged
I will be judged

I've learned this over time
It's safest to keep my words
imprisoned - out of sight
in the dungeons
of my soul

But they keep crying out
needing to be heard
Crying out in the still of the night
Words - heard only by me

It's in these moments
when their voice Is louder
than I can bear
It's in these moments
I write to you - in secret
I write to you - my words
that cannot be spoken

Stanley Arumugam
Sandton 26th April 2013

Help me read between the lines
To see the whole - not just the parts
To understand your wisdom ways
that speak parables and paradox
If I could but grasp the difference
between temporal and eternal
I'd listen out for the story within
Words unspoken - meaning found
Treasure hidden in sacred sound


Stanley Arumugam
28th May 2012