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Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

FREE POWER - Part One

                                                  Free Power
                                                             from
                                         O                     P                   S
                                            W                                   S
                                               E                             E
                                                   R   -  M A D  -  N           
                                  
                                                       free power
                                                   from its fetters
                                         no power without the people
                                   does power arise from any other source
             than through the intent to control  confine  confiscate  con  conk  conjure 
    computerize  contort  compel  complicate  concoct  compress  concuss  conflict 
 confute                  condemn  corrupt  collar  convict  collectivize                   confound 
 concenter                   communalize  collogue  collude  collonize                commandeer    
        compartmentalize  castrate  calumniate crucify  combinate  cutdown  curtail        
       curryfavour  curb  cully  cuff  cuckold  crush  crunch  cross-question curveball     
        conform  confuse criticize  croak  criminate  crash  cramp  cram  crackdown    
                                                    covert   counterplan   
                   countermine  counterfeit  counterattack  corrode  convert  contrive 
                                           contaminate  constrain  consecrate 
                                                      connive  conquer 
                                            power is a venomous snake
                                                       that sheds its skin
                                                        but not its venom
                                                   free power from its sting
                                                     free power from belief
                                                    from self-righteousness
                                       from don’t-not-look-at-me aloofness
                                           from protective-damnedness
                                              from ego-centred-ness
                                                 from megalomanic mindlessness
                                                          from aryo-apartheid-ness
                                                              from i’m-right-Jack exclusiveness
                                                                        from self-opining holiness
                                                                                from crass-headed-ness
                                                     from puritanic-mule-headedness                                                                                                        
                                                           from airy-fairy grandiloquence
                                                                   from haughty vengefulness
                                                                        from scary authoritarianism
                                                                             from the love of command
                                                              from sexually dominating abusiveness
                                                                   from un-empathic tightfistedness
                                                             from back-scratching dastardliness                                                                                
                                                        from building castles in the air-ness
                                                                        from masonic clubbiness
                                                                   from musty brotherhood-ness
                                                         from stealing and selling-ness
                                                               from never-enough greediness
                                                                    from carion-loving usury                                                             
                                                 from thoughtless puttingdown-ness
                                                       from self-aggrandizing acquisitiveness
                                                                      from the love of pomposity                                                                                                                                                       
                                                          from the seclusive-ness of honours
                                                                 from fawning and flattery
                                                                       from foggy non-visibility
                                                                                from armoured parades
                                                             
 
© T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17, 1997.  From the collection : « Poems Omega Plus : a less than obvious sequence », Paris, 2005.                           


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

The Rhine Salmon Complaint Translation of Etiemble s Complainte d un saumon du Rhin by T Wignesan

The Rhine Salmon Complaint, Translation of Etiemble’s Complainte d’un salmon du Rhin

						For Yvon Belaval
(A lilting musical poem of varying line length in quatrains with a refrain and much internal
 rhyming; end-rhyme scheme: alternate rhymes in succession: abab or in aabb and abba…)

   The Salmon:

Banks of the Rhine 
Joy of my loins
Bronze-sounding roaring 
of limpid spindrift !

No, my bleaks,
I tarry not
until the feast
whence I make haste.

When the salmon of the Rhine
swims towards encountering its lovers,
for all the gold of the Rhine
no chance of its turning back.

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold 
The Salmon:

Bloated dogs stuffed with soul,
what do you want of the plains?
I’m on my way to my lady
outwitting the (sirens’) breasts.

The poisons of filthy waters
haul you towards death;
with my lustrous paddles
I’ll arrive at a better station.

Every chance there on high,
beyond the echoes of thunder,
hop! with one jolly good jump
I’d have gained the glass palace…

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !


   The Salmon:

Fishermen, you are mistaken
Who thinks of catching me:
I’m off to meet my lover:
Discard your quenelles.

Nothing will stop me,
neither the grass
of the deep calm,
nor the beaches of the isles,

nor the darkest shingles,
over which the sun enjoys
dressing for our eyes
temporary altars of fire.

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !

   The Salmon:

At the heart which right night
am I going to – at last – know the truth?
Exhaust my desire for him
who palpates the eggs of my spawning?

This force within me so profound
being less of a salmon, I’d be drowned,
it carries me like a wave
and crushes me like a ray.


She breaks me and makes me whole
and lets me triumph over your sexual prowess
O ! Sirens, queens so rosy.
I don a head band to take on other battles.

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !

   The Salmon:

I have in vain a premonition of Kehl’s caresses !
The quid, one could say: furious and curious, upright
in its ink of flame and mud, ah! Which 
dam of blue flashes, the black holes…where but where

am I? Oh! Prisoner of these queues of magicians
who seduce and disembowel you during their emotional                              
                                                           bursts!
But here’s my current and death is theirs
and I go past the bridge and life I’ll have won !

Gurgling air bubbles where the quid sleeps:
I have cut your gullet which had you tied to gold,
to the mud of galleons rotting on the Rhine bed,
to gold, when it’s love that I bear in my loins !
   

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !

   The Salmon:

Stronger than the force in me
vivacious, this failing
in me which cuts me off
from my back, would it be

cupping glasses of river lamprey ?
an eel which crushes me
in this informed gesture
while I snap up an herring ?

O fruity salmon,
O trout of blue flashes,
after this night…
tired, how I am pumped out !

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !

   The Salmon:

And my night entangles itself in billions of gulf weed,
Thickened in black milk which hardens and brings rotten luck,
The aveniau of currents cling to my scales,
I’m carried away downstream, I weaken, I give in,

Help ! I’m drowning. Surfeit of love, of soft roe,
For this back made lean through fasting and through faith.
Everything’s heavy, everything’s pulpy, everything’s deaf; but I 
                                                        hear this time
true thunder – peace - the recompense.

Should my back break with the effort and when the hour
of truth stares me fixedly in my eyes,
leap, salmon, leap even higher ! And with little concern
but for the act of spawning, and for the best, so be it, you die !

   Lorelei:

Leap, salmon ! Leap much higher !
Leap much higher, higher than the water,
than the waters of life, than the waters of death,
than the waters of death, than the waters of gold !

When the salmon of the Rhine
swims towards encountering its lovers,
for all the gold of the Rhine
no chance of its turning back.

Banks of the Rhine,
joys of its loins,
bronze-sounding roaring
and limpid spindrift !

It doesn’t tarry
before the feast.
Gaze upon its head,
and its bones.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014


















Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Back Door Side Door Front Door : Which door might a Confucian take

 
                   for René Etiemble  (Jan. 26, 1909 – Jan. 2002)*

 

 Barely a few speechless moments before your first words

           burned the « Coplas por la muerte de su padre » :

            

            ‘Nuestras vidas son los ríos       

       que van a dar en la mar,

       que es el morir ;

      ………………………………

       y llegados, son iguales

       los que viven por sus manos         

       y los ricos.’

 

      Is the open back door which emboldens courage

No untarnished name to be remembered by

No selfless mate to lay by your honour

       No issue laying about themselves for your prize

 

       Decidedly it was a door of stealth

As if choosing it  you let it be known

you were only merely passing by

       and stopped to hang your hat here for a while

 

Yet you let your kin and callers believe

      your whims were worth putting up with

      your mischievous tantrums and gripes

merely the mental athlete’s unwinding antics

 

The poïetic birth pangs of imminent glory

      just the mounting stones in the monumental lighthouse

that ages from hence would pick forth

      your works  your unfathomable literary resource

 

You upheld dozens who did leave behind a name

     a lasting name  not quite torn from solitary pain

Yet who could deny you could have bettered their fame 

     What undisclosed pain you harboured in your brain

 

Oh so strangely were you endowed with the intelligence

     of the Chun Tzu - that uncanny eagle’s scan

To rout out of the mazes of your students’ past lives

      just that one passqge through their Tierra del Fuego

 

But then you who completely espoused the rigours

      of that step by step mounting of respectful steps

Were unsparing in your demands of adherence

      to old Master Kung’s hierarchical obedience

 

An open hand ready to sign any cheque

      to succour the caller’s needs

     was alas ! also the whip hand

To keep the renegades in constant check

 

You were possessed of a rare brand of anger

      which shook the land about you

At those who bent justice to their unsavoury will        

      such thunder boiled from the guts of the earth

 

Now you’re gone and empty lecture halls echo your

     uncontainable ire where forged resounding silence

You said at the start of a seminal master-seminar :

     « Nul n’est prophète dans son pays ! »        

 

With the distaff side hanging on your every word

     wondering if your plans were for something yet undone

 

No stray notes lie about to record your travail

     No visible correspondence to make it all credible

Only books and books  files magazines and books

     and an overcrowdedly conquered mental pad                                    

jumbled words scratched into shaded inchoate sketches

     ganglia synapses   shot-up neurons

 

     no clues to a ragingly flailing mind

           none to record the lives you succoured

                   nor even the beneficiaries’ hurriedly scribbled thanks

          nor besides to the beclouding relations with one and all

                 not even a hint at why you may have refused

                        to forge a name beyond the beaten path of fame

 

Would going by the front door

in a fanfare of tv talkshows conference papers prize-giving ceremonies paper- interviews in ample studied poses and thoughts for future auto-memoirs volume one to seven the rest put-together posthumously in an omnibus

expurgated version with prefaces notes introductions critiques eulogies

 

          would it have been less like you

                                          to exit by the side-door   

the baywindow leading to reflected glory

     in a cool cloister of loosened leaves

stray poems in the tradition of your schooled masters

 

or did you burn them all

                                                in a fit of (cou)rage

     tore them to bits   incinerated by your fiery mind 

                     or squashed within yesterday’s leftovers

 

not caring who thought what

                     the mocking condescension

                       towards

 qu’en-dira-t-on

 

* The late Professor René Etiemble held the Chair of Comparative Literature at the old, pre-1968 Sorbonne University but retired in 1978 while a professor at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University. In later life, he even refused nomination to the French Academy of Letters, though he did accept the Academy’s Prize. He was a prolific critic, essayist, and memorialist, having published some poetry and three novels. A renowned linguist and grammarian (a graduate of the prestigious and elite Ecole Normale Supérieure de Paris), he remained until his very last days an inveterate Sinophile. He edited the Gallimard-instituted UNESCO oriental literary classics series, a fitting tribute to his encyclopaedic learning.

© T.Wignesan,  6 novembre 1997, Fresnes-94, France  (from the collection : Poems Omega Minus, Paris, 2002)

 


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Is there an Exclusive All-in-One Principle

        
  ‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of  different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘

 
Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at

                  the red or the green

           
                                 nothing then is certain

not even death but the life one endures

             
 quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons

particles like men and beings in general

                                             bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup

         great teachers or rather teachers with great followings

     those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking  for them

         especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy

                 would want us believe

                                             there’s just This One

  and all comes and goes to That Only ONE

        
If only it were just as simple as that

Then what is it that This One wants

Or is It caught up in its own caveat

And must of needs come apart

        on the seed that It alone plants

 
                           and do what we may

   nothing goes wrong

            whatever the explanation

everybody is right

right from the start

 

         Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand

         Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold

and out again

         for the Brahma Day

and after aeons the Brahma Night

 
And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity

         neither space nor time

            squeezed in and out

Birth as in Death

An eventual point of total extinction

        if ever there was one

 
Yet always the two extremes

      and the ever-changing in-betweens

Matter versus Anti-Matter

Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin

Though matter itself is neither

Is nor Is-Not-ness

         And the 96% Dark Matter

          And the infinite number of parallel universes

Does it really matter

                                        when

 
         ‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !

            You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’                   

 
Vanish into what

                                    Dark matter

or just non-dark matter

 
Still the duality of matter

Still the ever-changing conundrum

 
              Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs

        self-destructs
 

         ‘Sex is emotion in motion.’

 
Emotion erupts

           into thin air

      into where

Dark air

 
Motion disrupts

         and roots one here

      tied to the lunar year

 
       why should it matter

if we cannot know the reason why

ego id libido

drive faith fame femme father future

 
if super/alter ego connects the ego

       to the collective unconscious 

     
       why drown the self in the Great Self

by wilful act

       when the Ultimate One

is the sum of all the little ones

 
Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones

each of whom must move to eat drink sleep

copulate make money grow roots in a society

get and fight to keep a job

make love marry raise children

struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children        

one’s house  if one can get one

one’s career one’s future

and helter-skelter race to cheat death

 
If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew

What does it matter if it keeps changing in view

Of the desperate haste with which everything

We see smell hear feel intute sense

Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich

And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way

Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda        

Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters 

Through some trillion cataclysmic light years

 
What’s the impulse to keep moving

Is the yogi’s stilled-centre

The death of all action

Which cannot call for a reaction

Or is the art of keeping still

Merely the art of making belief

 

          ‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting

until your performed role becomes your normal character.

Then you are safe inside your character armour.’

 

As soon as you have thought It out

It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out

                 and you know just why

                                                               don’t you now

 

References to the quotations

Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.

Ibid.

Attributed to Mae West.

Eric N. W. Mottram,  « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.

I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?

 

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.


Long poem by Keith Bickerstaffe | Details |

Obsession


...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot


On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy, 
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.

Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound 
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware, 
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.

Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.

Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.

We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.

Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.

I now remain just as I ever was.

I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted 
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly 
take exception, for the moment anyway.

The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast, 
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.

A letter would be welcomed. 
I shall miss you; there, I've said it. 
I am your friend, are you not mine? 
Tenuous and strained, two casual 
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.

Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.

Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.


Long poem by Mario DE PAZ | Details |

Moderna Commedia, canto 1, part 1

Dopo lunghe vicende della vita
Mi ritrovai seduto su un divano       
Con un telecomando fra le dita.
When my life struggles were to their end
I found myself sitting on a sofa
Holding a tv  control in my hand.
E girando i canali piano piano
Cercavo storie prive di violenza
Ma la ricerca continuava invano.
Scanning the channels slowly one by one
Was looking for non  violent images 
But my  research went on along in vain.
Ovunque sangue e lutti in evidenza
Riempivano il visore a me di fronte 	
Mettendo a dura prova la pazienza.
Mourning and blood appeared everywhere
Filling the screen I saw in front of me
Subjecting  patience to a  test  too hard.
Vedo oscillare e poi crollare un ponte
Rotto dall’infuriar della Natura
Che divide la terra a valle e a monte.
I see a bridge fluctuating, breacking down
Much hardly stricken by the nature fury
The land dividing upstream downstream.
Torri gemelle di elevate mura
Colpite in cielo sono torce ardenti
Vederle sbriciolate è cosa dura.
Tall walls twin towers of a city pride
In sky affected are only burning torches 
To see them crumbled is very hard indeed.
Odio e violenza accecano le menti
Di chi troppo subisce o troppo impera
Colpendo a caso le civili genti.
Violence and hate blind the human brains
Of people subject or much commanding
Hitting at random any civil being.
Chi la storia rilegge sempre spera
Che guerra e morte vengano bandite
Ma la speranza umana mai si avvera.
Reading the story one really hopes
That war and death will be banned away
But human hope never becomes real.
Uomini, sveglia! E con forza agite
Contro chi l’armi costruisce e vende
E trae profitto distruggendo vite.
Men be wake up! And strongly act
Against who weaponry builds and sells
And benefit gains from destroyed lifes.
Del secolo passato le vicende
Rivedo col ricordo e col pensiero
Dolci momenti misti a cose orrende.
Of the last century looking at the events
I see by memory and by thought
Sweet moments and horrendous things.
Un piccol uomo col baffetto nero
Urla alle folle l’odio contro il mondo
Che vuole soggiogare nel suo impero.
A little man with a black mustache
Shouting  to crowd his hate for world
Which wants to subjugate in his empire.
E prende corpo il suo progetto immondo
Di sterminare un popolo reietto
Che uccide in massa quasi fino in fondo.
His dirty project takes soon shape
To exterminate a rejected people
Which kills in mass almost to the end.
Uomo sanguigno, corpulento aspetto
Da molto tempo prese già il potere
Arringando le folle, gonfio il petto.
Sanguineous man, of portly appearance
Much time before took already power
The crowds haranguing, with a swollen breast.
Al nazista s’allea. Per suo volere
Inique leggi contro l’altra “razza”
Promulga tosto. Poi le fa valere.
With the nazi an alliance forms
And unfair laws against the other “race”
Suddenly enacts and then applies.
L’odio così anche in Italia impazza
Colpendo senza senno i cittadini
Con l’applauso e il consenso della piazza.
So in Italy too hateful hatred rages
Citizens hitting with no sense and reason
With the applause and consent of  the crowd. 
Per lo spazio vitale ed i suoi fini
Il nazista scatena la gran guerra
A nord del Belgio valica i confini
To get more space reaching more power
The nazist triggers the great war
At north of  Belgium crosses borders.
Invadendo la Francia e la sua terra
Fino a Parigi e al mare d’occidente
Minacciando perfino l’Inghilterra.
Invading France and its land
Down to Paris and the western sea
Threatening even the English shore.
Il pavido alleato immantinente
Partecipa alla guerra mal pensando
Di unire le sue sorti col vincente.
The fearful ally just at once
Enters the war with the wrong illusion
To join his future with the winning force.
Tronfio di sé sfodera il suo brando
E vilmente lo affonda nella Francia
Vinta, battuta e ormai senza comando.
Self smug and puffed he pulls his sword
And cowardly he pierces France
Won, demolished by then without a guide.
Egli in tal modo il proprio carro aggancia
A quello del bieco suo alleato
Che adesso verso l’est la sfida lancia.
He in this way his chariot hooks
To the one of his awry ally
Who now to east his challenge throws.


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Dreams I Translation of Etiemble s poem Reves I by T Wignesan

The Deception of Free Verse: Dreams I, Translation of Etiemble’s L’imposture du vers libre by T. Wignesan 

(From René Etiemble’s only poetry collection: le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash sixty years of poetry). Paris: Les deux animaux, 1984, pp. 123-126.)

Yet He, who contemplated his incandescent world
and the sterile streaming
of the lava,
drunk with the swirling of the primal incense
dreamed on…

His shape, during that period, took on all forms
ten thousand beings milling in him, inexistants;
the amoebas mixed with gigantosaurs
awaiting the hour
of the amoebagigantosaurs.

How you were divine, God, before the Creation
of your own non-being,
before your sacrifice, your suicide,
how divinely monstrous:
I see you such as I was you in your entrails
all the bodies of all the fishes in all the seas in all ponds,
blossoming on greenish scales of mackerels, the fins
shining on roaches
						and red fish,
in all the wings in all the albatrosses feathery
						in all the skies,
		the wings of all the chicken,
walking on the thousand feet of all the scolopenders
on the four hairy columns of mammoths,
				of rough rhinoceroses
on the four legs of lambs
on the two feet of all pterodactyls
             					of all ducks,
of all humans,
on the rings of all the earthworms.
Your voice which charms deaf rocks more
			than songs of future sirens
sometimes raucously roared;
your caresses bill-cooing turtle-doves
trumpeting strident
when your ten thouand mouths opened.

Therefore,
hermophrodite inseminated by its universal sperm
the Being
bearing plants and beasts, all
and the woman whose womb as yet to be formed
dreamed in this way:

The scintillating effervescence of granite, of basalts, 
                                                          of diamonds
freeze into position thus:
Mountains of rock, organs of Titan, cristals of fire.
Collapsing clouds, rapid cataracts
tumble down abrupt stony walls.
The earth swells valleys
mother earth made pregnant by ferns of great shadows.
Ocean rivers sweep along continents
open into flanks of mountains’ heroic holes
pour a freshness of love on thirsty roots…
the first pollen grain pollutes the first pistil.
The first flesh dazzled by the light
sketches the quiverings of joy that will be.
Two lives lie in the wet clay
two lives
ten thousand lives.

The eye – without becoming the enormous dreamer –
closes over this total image of its death
sees the saurian ichthyophages
horned beaks with sharp teeth
shivery mammoths
all the theory of winged horses
winged men
men without wings
Me
And I, on this earth where I was dropped by mistake
									In your dream
however much I raised my eyes higher than the clouds,
however much I scrutinised the celestial transparence
however much I could recall the person who in your 
                                   entrails I was as you
no more do I see your face in its ten thousand true 
                                                                 Facets,
nothing more do I hear 
the rustling of so many snowy and metallic scales over
						so many feathers.

Nothing
nothing more…

“No! No! Not this reckless Golgotha!
God! You are mistaken.
God! I surrender myself (only) to you yourself.”
But the winds wailed with the wolves
“Tough luck!”

“Just as well!”
At last my egoism refuses to accept the cross the spear
		                                      and the sponge
with the venom
Why then every evening the same stars
entice themselves into the self-same ponds?
Stars, make yourselves scarce!
I know all about you and your promenades.
Too docile, horses offer their jaw bits on flanks where
				spurs caress the necks.
Water which flows so miraculously so fastidiously servile:
seas part themselves,
alcarazas freeze lips. 
Every night when fatigue overcomes me with sleep
the sun
retracts its golden claws in order not to derange my 
                                                                  sleep.
Drunk with power
like a Ceasar like a Nero like a Caligula
I make myself small
“O! such as I was you in your entrails
allow me the remembrance and the regret.”

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Metafora del desafuero

Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Metafora del desafuero

			                    ( In celebration of a birthday)
           for Andrés Amoros

Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage 
         and then
the quiet, beggar
of your conscience, hermit
in the desert of your inaction, believing
only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone,
without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread,
miserable and without grove
like a boat struck by tempest
but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur
of this sum of experience
in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic,
	with greying water,
or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour,
sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony,
or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake
	that leaves everthing low,
rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up 
monuments,
neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks,
there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country,
dumb, without the notion of a language ido*
all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint,
irremediably left alone, but without solitude,
yet you hadn’t any memory of any earlier companionship,
there, where no form of evocation could touch you,
even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous
	declaration ;
there, there you were with your back to your own being,
without seeing, without seeing yourself,
even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with
	great clear-sightedness
who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally,
your knee,
which happened, during this period, to occupy
the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of 	
a short distance) with it,
your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot,
stepping on the treeless plain with resonance,
	in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine,
your gigantic foot,
your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and 
autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it,
and after that, but only afterwards,
your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such 
that your skeleton without peer,
your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides
towards no one, towards nothing,
because later
everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little 
by little to its initial state,
and every part of your body began, by slow degrees – yes, this – to 
absent itself :
first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex : 
	impenitent, the object of ridicule,
even if the nails continued with indifference to grow,
attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense
	of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more :
the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how 
parsimoniously it proceeded,
but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of 
enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the
generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience,
which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception
	whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished 
surface of the piece of furniture,
disorder,
the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion,
there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying
on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated,
this area without topography where truth and lies appeared 
intermingled
as the self-same answer to the question that you didn’t pose.
Oh ! Beggar of your conscience ! Oh ! Scrutinisor !
	Oh ! finicky Explorer !
Oh ! Celebrator of the unfortunate ! 

* Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don’t quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us ?

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

What you do not see is not necessarily not there

                              I

 
Take out the caked grimy faucet plug

Let those unseen crawlies dive and duck

                                      under the rust-ridden slime

               stuck to phlegm and saliva globs

        dried blood and flaky semen

               shot through with crap

 

      The seen and the unseeable

      The sane and the goneforsaken

 

This glob of virus    a syruppy eggdash

                got rid of in a hurry

                                       close your thoughts

   to the raw genital-******l whiff of public lavatories

           the brothel closets’ stained sticky sheets

 

  the stink and the dirt and the stinging hell

                                                 that comes from under

       pipes

              tanks

                     drains

                             sewers

                                      rivers

 

   all stuffed with fizzing

                       fuming water

                      cloacal wind

             and the aftershave lotion

 

Nothing that wouldn't burn forever

      when we all disappear

 

                                             II

 

Even if you slow your rhythm down to a stilled beat

                                                                                   at rest

    haven't you heard your blood

                  coursing through in a reckless lickety-split

       past the pinned ear in the pillow

 

The silence of the hour

                                       outside

  your pulse down to a twenty-five or thirty

                                                                     listless

cutaway from the clatterbanging engine within

     gushing

              whistling 

                        throttling 

 wheezing

         jerking

                cartwheeling

           shunting

                      beating a frenzied time

        racing round and round in a cataclysmic din

 

Whoever jams it all from the eye

          hears its thunderous roar in the cells

The cells that slither 

                                 creep

        and ooze

                                                     acidic enzymes

      down the washes of stuffed putrefying canals

 

This the great manufacturer

                                       of what oozes in lethean sewers

 

                               III

 
cell into cells

                  in the coursing blood

    the car jams

                     the myriad alleyway mazes of city cells

 

    heartless

                    traffic-lights

                                              valves that stop

       letpass   

                   white-red corpuscles

 

In the city's centre is the heartless pulsing leviathan

      and through the aorta highway

 

    everybody alights on a wc cuvette

                                                            and back

  through the ventricles   

       the carnival parade of

                   scabies

                             herpes

                                      spittle and slime

 

Die City

    Die like bodies

                                    and empires

        disease-clogged sewers

                                       funding plagues

                                                          pandemics

 

What is left from afar

             is a clouded-over scorched patch

    fossilised cellular forms under the microscope

 

Who cares after a thousand billion years

What went on during a trillion light years

                                                                     ago

I care You care We care

Do All ALL care

 

© T. Wignesan, Paris, 1986 – 87. Rev. 2012 (from the collection : longhand notes : a binding of poems, 1999).


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

FREE POWER - Part Three

                                                   from state dinner pent-up flatulence

                                                               from stentorian vociferousness

                                                                        from stem-winding-ness

                                                                              from log-rollingness                                                                

                                                                        from flabby-bellied-ness

                                                           from stench-filled under-arm-ed-ness

                                                     from sweaty-palm-ness

                                               from stink-breath-ness   

                                             from treacherous backslappingness           

                                         from stuffing-the-mouth-without-chewing-ness

                                     from word slipperiness                      

                                 from work inertia and lethargy

                                           from gamboling sleepiness

                                                    from not-listening-ness

                                                            from turning-the-back-while-talking-ness

                                                                    from averting-the-eyes-ness

                                                        from dirty-trick-ness

                                                   from sick secret-service-ness

                                               from bloody tricky smiling-ness                                                                         

                           from thinking-one-and-saying-another-ness

                                                                      from forked-tongue-ness

                                                               from spitting-in-the-face-when-talking-ness

                                                        from smiling-and-looking-daggers-ness

                                                 from gourmandise

                                                          from niaiseries

                                                                  from wishy

                                                                       -washy

                                                                          -n

                                                                             e

                                                                                s                                                                              

                                                                                    s

 

                                                                                         and

                                                                            leaving

                                                                  loads

                                                              of

                                                       lurid                             

                                       lumpiness          

                                                                                     

© T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17, 1997.  From the collection : « Poems Omega Plus : a less than obvious sequence », Paris, 2005.                           


Long Poems