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Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts Five and Six

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Below is the poem entitled Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts Five and Six which was written by poet T Wignesan. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts Five and Six


Has it not occurred to you how I sat with you
dear sister, counting the chicking back of the
evening train by the window sill and then
got up to wind my way down the snake infested rail
to shoo shoo the cows home to brood
while you gee gee-d the chicks to coop
      and did we not then plan of a farm
a green milking farm to warm the palm
then turned to scratch the itch over in our minds
lay down on the floors, mat aside
our thoughts to cushion heads
whilst dug tapioca roots heaped the dream
and we lay scraping the kernel-less
        fiber shelled coconuts

O Bhama, my goatless daughter kid
how I nursed you with the callow calves
those mutual moments forced in these common lives
and then, that day when they sold you
the blistering shirtless sun never flinching
an eye, defiant I stood caressing your creamy coat
and all you could say was a hopeless baaa..a..aa
and then, then, that day as we came over the mountains
two kids you led to the thorny brush, business bent
the eye-balling bharata natyam


O masters of my fading August dream
For should you take this life from me
                                           Know you any better
Than when children we have joyously romped
Down and deep in the August river
Washing on the mountain tin.

Now on the growing granite's precipitous face
       In our vigilant wassail
Remember the children downstream playing
Where your own little voices are speechless lingering

Let it not be simply said that a river flows
         to flourish a land
More than that he who is high at the source
                                                                  take heed:
For a river putrid in the cradle is worse
than the plunging flooding rain.

And the eclectic monsoons may have come
    Have gathered and may have gone
While the senses still within torrid membranes


(for "Glossary of Vernacular Terms" see next page)

Copyright © T Wignesan

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  1. Date: 5/31/2012 6:20:00 PM
    Just want to let you know that I did read this page. Very nice ending. hugs, catie :)