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Best T Wignesan Poems

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Details | T Wignesan Poem

Memo for Destroyer Poet A LINDA: 3 20 p m, 23rd April 2013 Paris, France

MEMO for Destroyer Poet A Linda: 3. 20 p.m., 23rd April 2013 – Paris, France
  
If you are Red   I am Brown
If you’re not 
Then as one concrete painter using phonemes 
                 to another

Now we speak in the common-denominator tongue
Of those who went across oceans
Yours you took across the Bering
From the frozen solid roof of the world
The common step-mothering-tongue
And the common heel-bone

Take this memo down I tell myself
For my long-lost sister
Now weary with chilblains
And walnut warts from the long trek

Tell her you’re sorry
You took so long
Tell her you read excerpts of her outpouring
In a lone-lost cave overgrown with moss
							lost without cause
Mixed with the growls and coughs of shaggy beasts
And the lone mountain lioness’ scowling howl at the stars
In a dry season

Tell her you’re sorry not to have returned the compliment
For this’s the Way of the Community
That each rushes to fulfill a sacrosanct duty

Tell her
I read your spiraling lyrical threnody
	of the Soul’s age-old Odyssey
 through the bony interstices of breast-beating moans
and groans 
Right there where it hurts most 
in the guts

I saw how your people lifted themselves
							on their fists
   after their arms and knuckles looked gnarled
I saw the claws of the lone eagle clutch your soul
							in one fell swoop
	down concertina centuries
And make you swallow your tongue
	wailing in cloistered valleys of lilacs and magnolias
  to the rhythm of crescendo stamping feet
  and besetting winds 
          cacophonous through wildly flapping wigwams
I felt the ancient beat of your pulse
	in the huskily refined whisper of your verse
   come seething harpies
			unleashed at my throat
I saw wild stallions
	sleek and shoddy	manes aloft 
     come steaming and fuming down mountain sides
          your fathers tamed
I saw generations of silent sturdy women
	kindle fierce fires 
  while brawny braves rode away on bare-backs
	to bring the venison back

I now hear your gentle voice
	in dulcet drops tinkle down waterfalls
		of your manifold genres

Yet I do not hear you cry
Nor do I wonder why
You are made of that stuff of breed
That can traverse ice without steed
And scale Himalayas down continents
To reach the other side of impediments

And lest I forget let me tell you this
Your lyrical voice will linger long in bliss.

    Every good wish.		

         Sincerely,
			T. Wignesan  
  







 
 


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Limerick: Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness

Limerick : Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness

    for one who calls no one "Monster"
             when the truth may not be known:
           Domino X

Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness
Kept vigil to catch Monster on lens
He shut eye just for once
Monster jumped in one bounce
Took pic and signed it: Loch Ness Goddess !

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2013 


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Before you go a little way, prospecting

for F. A.

You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »

You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The orgasm you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.

You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.

One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.

Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing

Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.

« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.

You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.

Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.

 ©:  T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)


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He who creates re-creates himself

          for René Passeron*

             You may not grow old too soon
          if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place

          Time was when you knew the time 
    the place   the face
        Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain

Who would care    nor what would it matter
   in which life    upon what water
        you have trailed your fingers
             upon waves of papers

Let your mind brush
                               some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
                      upon some bark
         Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens

Made as if        the artier your words
     held some moment in a perennial frame
  Never to be banged away by fading suns
              collapsing quasars
                  asteroid storms
                      puncturing galaxies
                          usurping black holes

Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying

        What else is there to be done?

Let the unknowable undermine the unknown

                                   Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
         stick to paper and canvas
                  stone and sound

And words that are haloed
           by the sickness of the poet
  though all is not lost for the pen
                                   whose blood will
            possess 
                anchor 
                     expose

our futile justifications
                     explications
                           ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations

And generations will tremulously grant him
      The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
      In the capsule of a poem


*René Passeron, b. 1920, a surrealist painter and philosopher, was the principal figure conducting research into “poietics” in France, since the eighties, after the renowned aesthetician Etienne Souriau took over from the internationally famous poet Paul Valéry who first mooted the project in 1939, though the Russians had already begun publishing in this field of research during the First World War. Professor Passeron led a twin career as a Senior Research Fellow with the premier European research organization: the French National Centre for Scientific Research (C.N.R.S.) and as a Professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales and at the University of Paris-I-Panthéon Sorbonne where he was the Director of the Institute of Aesthetics and Fine Arts.

 ©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12, 1987 [from the collection : back to background material, 1993] Pub. in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008.


Details | T Wignesan Poem

Prologue to Lessons of Change

  for King Wen, circa 1151-1143 B.C.E. – with seven mind-bending kowtows

There where you had no occasion for play
There in your confined Ming I space
Where change wrought no change
In your fate
But for those plagued by your linear grouping games

Where before the fall from your embroidered gardens
The lavender embossed bowl to dip your fingers in
The enamelled daïs that spurned the kowtows
the cloistered summer watering palace
the decorative duck pond
the turtle and dove court
where dainty demure mincing concubines
under dispassionate eunuch eyes
stroked and tickled the mandolin strings of their Lord’s heart
Where time sailed through Flying Dutchman seas
At the serene centre of Qian’s mundane realm

Even what drops from the sky may hit the ocean bed
And so stamped under in your tyrant’s dungeons
With your retinue and court
Where each faked their fate in psychotic delusions
Simulating as it were
The neurotico-schizophrenic passage in another dimension
There where you bought a little time
Time enough to fashion a play
A game of change
A game that never really changes
Even if your son the Duke of Chou
And the Master expositor Kung
Paved your broken and unbroken lines in words
from which no man may return
unchanged

Where the longest dialogue you began
Becomes seems a polyalogue among some
  or all
Who have gone beyond the hexagram wall
And those who await the inexorable call
Where speech is ambiguous
To say the least
In eight by eight cyclic situations
Though someone YOU maybe ME seems to be saying
Take heed ! all this’s a mess
The Truth
Might not it be hidden in the lines
and in the lines alone
and not in the words

Take them down one by one
And build them up again
Note the beginning and the end
And the correspondances of change
Put the judgments of my son
And the wordy attributions to Kung
Especially those from the young Wang Bi
On either side of the hexagram
What is claimed for the Superior Man
Is within the reach of every clan
Measure the lines in or out of tune
The trigrams from whence
The inner ones note hence
Think on them but once
Or only now and then
for the nonce
This’s all I have to say
Though others may make much of the Way
Think not on what I have said
More than it takes to put paid

O ! Great Royal Sage !
Are there not behind these lines
Three or four bearded lords, nay sages
Who drive terror into those who gaze
Day and night into their wizened faces !

© T. Wignesan, May 20, 1987 (rev. 2011, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)


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Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 3

Limerick : Once a Senorita from Sevilla – 3

Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Caught a Cock to make a paella
Paella tasted good
But Cock stayed in bad mood
Crowed all the way down : Mama ! Mia !

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013


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The deception of free verse Dreams II, Translation of L imposture du vers libre by Rene Etiemble

The deception of  “free verse”: Dreams II, Translation of Etiemble’s “L’imposture du vers libre” by T. Wignesan

“Free verse, free not to be verse” – Audiberti

My love is not blue like a lake
my love is not blue like a sky
but red swollen with blood
and of ire
No lapping sounds of oars
playing out a nocturne
Bienne lake or that of Bourget
ever beat out the loping of my heart
My love’s neither blue nor like a lake
nor like a sea of oil
In the cauldron of boiling oil
a witch throws in a thumb
and the formula
My witching love
sputters and bursts out
stinging these busts and this lip
red 
Vehement like a she-demon
it dances in a mad whirl
My left temple
wails
with the furious ocean
which rumbles under my pillow
What ships wreck in this sunken heart
still bleeding
of all the hearts it peeled
bleeding bodies of the young girl
And this heart weeps over its deaths
Like those on All Souls’ Day
the old hoary woman weeping
twisted up into wailing somersaults
which pad the cries of skeletons
clinging to rapacious granite
My heart beating on the pillow
muffles the voice of the friend
which begged the evening gone by
“Tell me it’s not over yet!”
And like the ocean cowardly
I collapse into my bed
to better listen to the tolling
of my temples and my heart
a delusionary
song of joy.

     Signed: Jean Louverné (pseudonym)
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2014 (Translation 


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The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai,
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye;
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes,
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Gods spurned earth but as living Avatar
   Though Sachin was not from Superman star,
Yet rolled cork and leather, he hit so far
   Which soared not from willow but from his roar.

And when his bat was laid up for the day
   After ferrying his side to safety bay,
He donned his landscape painter’s sunshade hat
   And took his long-on stance as humble brat.

A twelve-year old watched India lose the Cup,
   At thirty-seven roused his side, backed up
To the topmost crest in cricketing tide
   And put one voice in a people torn aside.

A whole nation woke to the cry: Tendlya:
   Beggar, Brahmin, Bhai and even infidel.
All drenched in the tide of common feeling
   For one novelist’s second book breeding.

Only five-foot five, strong neck in between
   Body made to withstand pace bowling steam:
No bumper nor full toss cowered him down
   Not even that mean ball bled his nose brown.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye,
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Then the nation held its breath at ninety-nine,
   While Sachin knocked nineties, not the last nine
To make that long-awaited world history,
    Until Bangladeshi ODI test victory.

Over heads of cover and point with off-lifts
   Elegant leg glances through long-stop rifts
Straight drives above umpires’ dreamy heads
   Dashing pulls past gaping square leg dreads.

Back to back boundaries and easy singles
   Late cuts through second slips’ shocking bungles
Then the home-stretch past the century post
   When India at last roared in burning thirst.

Myriad mrthangists thumped the beat
   Plaintive senais by the million broke out neat
Temple bells joined in the merry festival:
   Ton-up! O! Ton-up! No more survival !

But the Champ had other ideas in sight
   Like the fastest one day fireworks of might,
So he flashed his blade all over the tight field
   To rob the world of its remaining shield.

Now he says forty is not really old
   Cricket’s not the only thing to be sold:
To be a god in Hindustan is not all
   To be a PM is not given to all.

Not one vote will go to the other men
   Not one voice will be raised against batsmen
Who put the nation on the map of runs:
   The man with the bat is the man who runs.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye:
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He mumbled something to himself between sighs.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013


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Am I the Assassin or the Undertaker

Am I the Assassin 
        or the Undertaker

                   For Palani 

                                I

He stopped coming our way again
He was no where in sight at school
Then, after a long absence
In the pit of the Chan Ah Tong padang
He came and stood at one corner of the field

He looked resigned grave
A stoic smile hovering over his lips
Over his virgin gossamer moustache

His voice a calm breeze
Of vowels constrained by crisp consonants
We saw less of his teeth
He was dressed in silk shirts
Well-ironed without creases
Trouser pleats showing strictness
Shoes shiny and sleek
The sheen of his hair obedient under cream 
His gait measured strained
As though grim hands clawed at him
Through gaps in the ground

At first, we didn’t know
What to make of him
His new tutored appearance
And detached forbearing looks

He watched us play
Close on hours
Aloof far away
He never so much as waved
We turned to look
He was gone
Leaving the dusk to fall behind him


I called to see anyway at his place
His father frowned at me
Gruff undertones accompanied him inside
I saw a curtain ever so slightly tremble
After a while his mother
Came out to say
He had gone for good

I wasn’t sure what she meant
I stood there looking dazed
Then tears licked her cheeks
Her drained and stricken face

She went in dabbing her eyes
With the loose end of her sari

I never called on them again
I just couldn’t understand
The father’s anger and pain
At this world on which we stand

I was just a playing pal of his son’s
He was older than I was then
Yet he came just once
Out of who knows what inner command 
Just to talk or stroll around

Now I am older and his elder

But is it I who laid him low

                       II

A date with fate
He came one morning to my place
All decked in his glad rags
Fingering a shiny white billiard ball
Twirling it between bony fingers
Like the natural leg-spinner he was
Just for fun he would let it lick the dust
And it swished near ninety-degree turns

I said: What about some quick nets
The day aged in labour and with forceps
He hesitated but on the spur 
Said: Yes, why not

The rest of the morning I batted
Saw the wickets tumble uprooted

His spirits surged 
Sweat sweet and sour 
Sprinkled his shirt
And ran down his collar and spine

We laughed at every googly 
Which missed the wickets by inches
We were back in olden Ali Baba times
Truants lost in a cave of our own
Diamonds refracted from his eyes

He said: We should do this more often

His heart must have caved in that very night
Or was it when he barely made it home
 

© T. Wignesan – Paris,   February 3-4, 2013


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Rondelet: Yang be evil

Rondelet: Yang be evil

  for the continuously raped and hidden
     minors of India

Yang be evil
Yin acts with rash impunity 
Yang be evil
No power controls the Devil
Wombs despoiled in mad enmity
Innocence: raped humanity
Yang be evil

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2012


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