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Personal Note:
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Poem
Coming home late from wandering in my sleep
In search of that which goes ahead of chase
i saw the image of my form stretched on my bed
His looks – minus my glasses – through an impish mien
Transfixed me
my sandals gently flapping on his soles.
i peeped into the mirror
and saw him hovering
over my upturned eyes.
Out of the window and still his eyes held me.
i was aware my room was lived-in :
my cigarette wasting in an arc of ash i rescued
my opened book advanced a page or two
(no great reader, thought i)
But when i saw him in my new shirt too
There was little i could do.
i turned as if to go
and thought i saw him beckon to me thus : _______))
i stripped
till limp as limbless on my bed
He gave myself up to him.
He’s looking down this ball-point
and methinks i’m trying to say
what he wants me to think
and i’m not quite sure
if what he thinks i’d want
It seems to me
He MUST of needs have his mischief
But couldn’t i do both
and bring him back to me
Yet he seems to be saying how free i am
Mocking my ways as sham.
Then when my eyes keep drooping
i say - i think i’m saying to him : Wait !
i’ll trap you yet in my consciousness !
Abruptly i rise up not seeing him around and wonder
Where has he loped
What has he seen that i have not
Who has he met
Whose stealthy arms enveloped my torso
Why would he not share what he knows with me
And when total strangers in foreign places
Cock their eyes at me
i’m verily jealous-ed
that he makes friends with such ease
and judging by the curves and peaks
with such aplomb too - the impish fella
though i dare not return the blown conniving kisses
from his chance acquaintances
Downcast as i halt from straying
in the lower lids of my eyes
i spy him once again
cavorting : clasping his fingers in mock tantara
cartwheeling : jumping in and out of my almeirah
and yet when i try to read what i have written
he sits on the sill of the wash-basin
his taunting bee’s eyes stilled on me
the stand-stillness sucking all sound from around
and when i dare return his wistful stare
he throws a manic tantrum
a million tam-tams bursting through my ear-drums
And when his time to leave comes round
by fall of each full lid
Departing he leaves me
worsted, stuck and fey

Now when alas i stand apart, i think…
Well, you know, when i recall…
Well, what gets my goat…you see, that is…
What i darned can’t stand about him
is that prankish habit of his in bed :
While mine halves
The woman’s doubles

©T. Wignesan, 1959 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983)
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