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Best Poems From
ERHARD HANS JOSEF LANG
(January 8,1957)
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25.
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Lacks Reliques Are Re-Leaking Lax: Better be Relaxed!
There seemed to have been something lacking yet in life eversince
In the midst of all those things around,
Even before that great damage had been done and
Interiors along with a lifetime's treasure inside the house knocked down to the ground,
Either given away as tokens of neighbourly spirit for souvenir hunters, if not
Burnt on malignant iconoclastic pyres outside in the garden,
Or sold out to antique connoiseurs with money in town.
But lo, in vain they strove to hurt the good man:
I'm doing finer now than even before,
As if the essence of pagan dictionaries and of
All books lost only now have
Started to well up in a dis-onerated mind.
And how we got ourselves refurbished in this
My little stow-away room
Inside my own home these days!
With the whole house now
Whitewashed hospital-clean, its former giant living-room, after being
Stripped nearto bare-empty
During that short fatal absence of mine from home -
The door keys left to the care of just the wrong hands - now being
Aired with a hive of waspy buzzers from the wooden old air-con box, while
Slowly replenishing with plastic wastes, where prior
Mystic spirits and high philosophic moods reigned,
My little stow-away room, in which all these moods of yore and a host of fresh spirits of home, now
Come flaring up even denser, since physically more compressed,
- Whereas before I used to say:
A man with wide outlooks also needs to live in a big room for a home - by
The gimmicky help of a cut&soldered make-shift plug-in wire,
A handy phone, a remnant player and a set of tiny speakers,
Excellent Russian rock-orchestras with splendid extended tones to make ring off,
Recordings of hottest tunes live,
And a mind set-up like mine,
Now at times does even sound off all the more inveigling or gooky
Than with complete equipment as before,
Whenever I wanted it to,
To joyously, at times, be dancing with the lively spirits and moods of mind.
For the strong at heart will always survive.
-
dedicated to a renowned physician in town
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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26.
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Light Night Breeze To One Who Calls Himself A Friend
My erratic son, why were we going down?
Better to always watch out for safety passages
in time with the joints' key holder,
and most especially so,
when busied in the go-down haul
by nightfall yet;
suddenly one might find
oneself stuck in the dark
shut up there until sun up.
Once at night on the other side of life
they're all but night revellers, at the very best.
And under pink canopies of
star-lit human amusing
we're surging higher & higher
Way out of reach & way out of ear-shot;
once trapped in despair at night,
there it is for the one to
remain locked away
overnight
until a new morn will dawn.
Where in the world are seen
such amusing stars of the
night, yet to be caring about
the forlorn & cast away,
who in their very
awkwardness only were but
hostile elements
for us the free, who need
to get out after dark,
to fill up the emptied vessel
of the soul
in our well-deserved times-out?
Stifled & betrifled,
the torpid victim of the
night may only pray for the
spirit of the brave & wise to
come down on him,
so not as to get even more
miserable entrapped by night
yet being entangled
in heart-rending nightmares
with the wits lost already.
One black glimpse from the
eye of a depressed
desperate
forlorn in the night
emits such a negative
magnetism
that can be sending a knock-out
blow to all fire of life
within any of us
out there on the bright side
of the night
in the blue light of our moon
that is blooming with lush desires.
And don't petty yourself for
being left unconsidered,
caveman son of egotism in
your pitch-black night lair,
when you yourself have
counted yourself out
from all brightening star
tracks that lead us in joy
through the night;
you had been out of time
with all the others
who know to inform
themselves well during the day.
Take this dark lesson of
yours now as a ready-made
chance of your night
to make a better man out of you,
as there's nothing more for
you to do on this field of
yours turned barren
besides waiting and waiting
at this turn
for a new season to come around
when once again it will be
also the season of all
blunderers for sowing their
seed of new life,
and for brooding total re-make.
And believe me, my fallen son,
locked up there in the go-down:
try and help one cramped
soul out of its hole
while yourself being in for a
high in the night,
and the coarse winds from
off the speeches of this
sorry one
verily might blast all your so
passionately concerted
endeavors at once,
in one saddened moment.
It's a sheer waste of one's
self
to keep on hoping on
once already somewhere
having become a goner;
better yet to be hopping on
onto another,
for there to hope & hope on.
This time around, be
smarter, ill-guided son,
make sure, no more to
make for the party's goner!
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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27.
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Money And Words Of Value Under Crucifixion
My Mom used to say:
All that you do, my son, is mere trash,
When you can't turn it into cash,
Whatever the truth you see or speak.
And I heard many others say so, too.
Now I question myself:
Then how does it come,
As that is the good people's standard,
That they themselves, as if with forlorn babies' eyes,
In utmost confident abandon,
Often, almost daily, look up in prayerful moods to One,
Whose saintly words once were well benign and of
The nature of a God-like preacher man,
That but never made Him a single dime or even a cent,
In the end, the preacher Himself only badly slammed and even nailed up,
For all of the treasured words He spread.
How these unpaid-for words of such a priceless soul
Managed, all the same, to
Get themselves affixed for so long over time,
Through milleniums to come
Under the rising and sinking sun,
As THE ever-flowing source of one-&-only true inspiration
And those words keeping themselves yet
Ever renewed through nostalgic sad-sweet sermons on
Physically crossed spiritual truths about the making of man -
Otherwise so highly acclaimed a question of money?
Once benign and saintly words of an unpaid preacher man, whose
life-story
Through millenniums to pass
Has been taken by ever-growing masses of people on the globe as
THE Wholesome Pepper Pill to cure the tongues of all unholy babblers? ?
Or were they paying Him for raising the spirits of the uneasy crowds
Surging to the mountains,
Paying Him for washing greedy wine-bibbers' eyes in their vain
mansions,
Paying Him for making the death-stricken suddenly forget about
The living not worthy of being remembered,
And the ones fallen lame forget about the walks of life of those
guilty?
Nay, they made Him even pay for it - as we all know -
For the good he has sown and strewn
Pay with His own blood so unforgivingly
As that they're seen curdling that wronged blood
Until to-day - two-thousand years into time.
Therefore nowadays, feeling kind of obliged,
They make sure to be paying even
All their minor preachers of the day,
Those who think they have something to sermon on,
And, to be sure, all the clowns, too,
On top of more serious miracle men, even more so.
And that's why my Mom even used to say to me:
All that you do, my son, is mere trash,
When you can't turn it into cash,
Whatever the truth you see or speak.
But I hope that now, after reading this poem,
There will be a few more of you who
Judge a poor poet or poor philosopher again
By the old Aramaic standards -
And not only by your more fortunate sons' values in
What you yourselves couldn't reach up to in life-
In spite of all your words and your money.
* * *
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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28.
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New Births Blooming Divine After Sad Notes Of Demise
Was searching somehow for a good Mother's Day poem
On the eve of Mummy's event day this year,
To copy & send one very special poem
Within a circle of bouquet of th' lyrical sentiment which
I'd collect overnight and
Hold fresh, for the blooms to be shared
Right at following early dawn on Mom's day of the year,
As messages sent out as gifts for a few friends,
Poetry lovers and
Keen readers, alike, of Lyrical Digests of mine.
Hunting for that special one I looked for,
As it is my way, I
More like left it to all
Our divine matchmakers' tri-pronged
Proddings at the door of the
Fate of dating the chances out in the open,
Thus to accrue for turn-outs best possible to the pack of cards of
events
Lingering in the lurk,
Full well shuffled, maybe
Jackpot juxtapositions in word & rhyme this time,
Realized, if thus done, beyond the ordinary human powers -
And lo! what I found, then decided to opt for
In the end, was
As a frontrunner piece
In the new string of poems to be woven,
Second in my choice turn after
A short set of inspirational
Verses from the Vedas,
Lores and teachings abiding in the gods,
Out of God's mouth of
Ancient India's wisdom Seers, - a
Best thing to start with -
'A Contemplation Upon Flowers' by
Mediaeval times'
Henry King Bishop of Chichester.
He sees therein the basic earthly patience that the earth's flowers
exude,
As a practical lesson for us beautiful humans,
Bound alike to the soil at the last,
As are the beautiful flowers.
Different punks of mighty words,
Poetesses and poets coming up -
Uruguay's turn-of-the-19th-century 'Joujou'
Flurried herself into this noble round of lyricists,
With herself envisioned
On the rocks in graced labor in
'Your Mouth',
'Adam's' endless 'Complaint' by Denise Levertov,
Joy Vanderhelm's 'Human', who
Feels herself gladly more like an aminol,
Then 'A Poem A Day - Sweet Sunday'
by Rita El Khoury from
Beirut, as they're shooting again in the streets of Beirut
For the fifth day,
On this year's Mother's Day,
After all of which, finally, I had
Stumbled onto the theme poem wanted,
Christian-borne Indian
Dr. John Celes' tribute to his Mother
Alive at above 90 years of age, as
'Happy Mother's Day 2008.'
To conclude the entire mix of
Poetically contrasted multi-message
I yet chanced to include a few love poems, as well as a
Few naughty ones, too,
Like such as one about an ever obtrusive 'Landlady'
Or an Afro-American 'Saturn's Child's' account of
Probing her dead-drunk father's sleep
First, by sticking her finger, then
Her whole hand into his mouth,
To the effect of 'the ogre's sleep making shake the house in tremors.'
And I sent all the poems via the air,
As planned, at early dawn on
This year's Mother's Day,
A last tributary message with
'Joujou' in black & white put into the picture
Rounding it all up:
And then, after all my messages containing the poems were out,
Received by a thankful good handful of readers,
I stopped to read it all through again myself,
And reflected on all of it once more
Through the lens of my private life.
A Contemplation upon Flowers!
This was the first in line
I had stringed up in the bouquet of the day -
Mother Day's lyrics.
The poem - just newly discovered by me that very eve:
'How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death, ' ends
Said poem.
Hadn't I, an Oriental oriented German of a cosmopolitan village
From this eastmost homestead of mine
Left, first time in my life's latest series of intensive journeying
For the graceful shores of ever so youthfully inspiring Mother India
On a flight through Far Eastern City of the Lions',
In the energies spurting middle of last millennium's last decade of
utmost hopes,
Embarked on a ship of the same aerodynamically flown plane,
That below its passengers deck
Had carried the body of a certain young foreign
Housemaid girl, slain in a private household tragedy, who
Originated from the same place as I was coming from, -
The island country the Spaniard Conquistadores,
On their maps, had called
'Islas de los Ladrones' (Islands of Thieves) , -
The returned-dead poor maid's name having been »»»
'Flor Contemplacion'?
At a time when I was to make use of the same plane
Bound for India via the dead one's fateful port of departure,
For me eventually
To return from my noble destination with
New knowledge and
Books on all aspects of the divine wisdom, including
Ritualistic aspects to the cosmic natures of the Heavenly Being,
For the Divine Royals to be invited to be hosting them,
The gods to be entertained
For lofty friendship's sake in my own home
With all due regal gifts and respects tolled, with
The worships, as in my case, eventually
To evolve over one full stint of almost four thousand
Splendid royal home receptions,
Offered in all pomp to great Shiva & His Beloved Mountain Princess,
As well as to a
Whole array of the manifold nature Goddesses of left and right,
Worshipped with flowers
In between their endless love and their endless terror
Ever witnessed by all of us as exerted onto
Our world of joys & pains,
With all this for one grand »»»
'Contemplation with Flowers'?
And yes, yes!
It is true that
My further life did follow selfsame
Pattern of that one-time plane
Flying me away so high,
On the exchange return after
A personal entity's cast away,
While
Contemplating
The flourishing of new.
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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