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Best Famous T Wignesan Poems

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Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Blinks through Blood-shot Walks

When at five-thirty
In the rubbed-eye haziness
Of ferreting lonesome night walks
The camera-eye refugee
Asleep in the half awakefulness
Of the hour
Peers out of his high turbanned sockets:
Hyde Park's through road links
London's diurnally estranged couple -
The Arch and Gate.
When at five-thirty The foot falls gently Of the vision cut in dark recesses And the man, finger gingerly on the fly Gapes dolefully about For a while Exchanges a casual passing word Standing in the Rembrandtesque clefts And the multipled ma'm'selle trips out: Neat and slick.
They say you meet the girls at parties And get deeper than swine in orgies.
When at five-thirty The fisherman's chilled chips Lie soggy and heeled under the Arch Where patchy transparent wrappers cling To slippery hands jingling the inexact change That mounted the trustful fisherman's credit: The stub legged fisher of diplomat And cool cat And the prostitutes' confidant; Each shivering pimp's warming pan.
Then at five-thirty The bowels of Hyde Park Improperly growled and shunted And shook the half-night-long Lazily swaggering double deckers, Suddenly as in a rude recollection, To break and pull, grind and swing away And around, drawing the knotting air after Curling and unfurling on the pavements.
And at five-thirty The prostrate mindful old refugee Dares not stir Nor cares to wake and swallow The precisely half-downed bottle Of Coke clinging to the pearly dew Nor lick the clasp knife clean Lying bare by a tin of' skewed top Corned beef, incisively culled Look! that garden all spruced up An incongruous lot of hair on that bald pate No soul stirs in there but the foul air No parking alongside but from eight to eight.
Learning so hard and late No time to scratch the bald pate.
At five-thirty-one A minute just gone The thud is on, the sledge-hammer yawns And in the back of ears, strange noises As from afar and a million feet tramp.
One infinitesimal particle knocks another And the whirl begins in a silent rage And the human heart beats harder While in and around, this London This atomic mammoth roams In the wastes of wars and tumbling empires.

Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Breath of the Informer an Allegory

Remorseful, the noonday sun
Frizzles with the stealthy wind
Under the rubbery mountain green.
A calmness has come to rest From having tossed in its sleep.
The forest has taken leave Of the hunted horn and drum.
No more the tapper late of nap Scurries to the haven of a nest.
No more the rattle whisper fades To nothingness in a lonesome rest.
No more, no more, for the heavens Sleep and all the troops sleep too.
The sinewy python stretched past Clumsily the ragged rock and branch.
The Owl has called its reveille at last.
And the forest sleeps with the wind Gently fanning some whisper closer And closer, every wave, a venomous flick Of a serpent, a kiss of rest.
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Who dares to take this life from me Knows no better

for Eric Mottram

"Nur wenn das Herz erschlossen,

Dann ist die Erde schön.
" Goethe.
I An important thing in living Is to know when to go; He who does not know this Has not far to go, Though death may come and go When you do not know.
Come, give me your hand, Together shoulder and cheek to shoulder We'll go, sour kana in cheeks And in the mornings cherry sticks To gum: the infectious chilli smiles Over touch-me-not thorns, crushing snails From banana leaves, past Clawing outstretched arms of the bougainvilias To stone the salt-bite mangoes.
Tread carefully through this durian kampong For the ripe season has pricked many a sole.
II la la la tham'-pong Let's go running intermittent To the spitting, clucking rubber fruit And bamboo lashes through the silent graves, Fresh sod, red mounds, knee stuck, incensing joss sticks All night long burning, exhuming, expelling the spirit.
Let's scour, hiding behind the lowing boughs of the hibiscus Skirting the school-green parapet thorny fields.
Let us now squawk, piercing the sultry, humid blanket In the shrill wakeful tarzan tones, Paddle high on.
the swings Naked thighs, testicles dry.
Let us now vanish panting on the climbing slopes Bare breasted, steaming rolling with perspiration, Biting with lalang burn.
Let us now go and stand under the school Water tap, thrashing water to and fro.
Then steal through the towkay's Barbed compound to pluck the hairy Eyeing rambutans, blood red, parang in hand, And caoutchouc pungent with peeling.
Now scurrying through the estate glades Crunching, kicking autumnal rubber leavings, Kneading, rolling milky latex balls, Now standing to water by the corner garden post.
III This is the land of the convectional rains Which vie on the monsoon back scrubbing streets This is the land at half-past four The rainbow rubs the chilli face of the afternoon And an evening-morning pervades the dripping, weeping Rain tree, and gushing, tumbling, sewerless rain drains Sub-cutaneously eddy sampan fed, muddy, fingerless rivers Down with crocodile logs to the Malacca Sea.
This is the land of stately dipterocarp, casuarina And coco-palms reeding north easterly over ancient rites Of turtle bound breeding sands.
This is the land of the chignoned swaying bottoms Of sarong-kebaya, sari and cheongsam.
The residual perch of promises That threw the meek in within The legs of the over-eager fledgelings.
The land since the Carnatic conquerors Shovelling at the bottom of the offering mountains The bounceable verdure brought to its bowers The three adventurers.
A land frozen in a thousand Climatic, communal ages Wags its primordial bushy tail to the Himalayas Within a three cornered monsoon sea - In reincarnate churches And cracker carousels.
The stranglehold of boasting strutting pedigrees And infidel hordes of marauding thieves, Where pullulant ideals Long rocketed in other climes Ride flat-foot on flat tyres.
IV Let us go then, hurrying by Second show nights and jogget parks Listening to the distant whinings of wayangs Down the sidewalk frying stalls on Campbell Road Cheong-Kee mee and queh teow plates Sateh, rojak and kachang puteh (rediffusion vigil plates) Let us then dash to the Madras stalls To the five cent lye chee slakes.
la la la step stepping Each in his own inordinate step Shuffling the terang bulan.
Blindly buzzes the bee Criss-crossing Weep, rain tree, weep The grass untrampled with laughter In the noonday sobering shade.
Go Cheena-becha Kling-qui Sakai V 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 geaed 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 scrapping 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.
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 VI 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 thap-po-ng thap-pong thap-pong
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Ballade: In Favour Of Those Called Decadents And Symbolists Translation of Paul Verlaines Poem: Ballade

for Léon Vanier*

(The texts I use for my translations are from: Yves-Alain Favre, Ed.
Paul Verlaine: Œuvres Poétiques Complètes.
Paris: Robert Laffont,1992, XCIX-939p.
) Some few in all this Paris: We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re Even if with the bottle a bit too free We drink above all fresh water Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate Likewise with beauty: sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.
Phoebé when all the cats gray be Highly sharpened to a point much harsher Our bodies nourrished by glory Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever The night cradling us through dreamy waste Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.
A good many of the best minds rally Holding high Man’s standard: toffee-nosed scoffer And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure; But Vanier at the very end made haste The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.
ENVOI Even if our stock exchange tends to dither Princes hold sway: gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher, We are the writers of good taste.
*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.
* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912) , one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.
*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.
© T.
Wignesan – Paris,2013
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

The Temple Drummer and Piper

for J.
Alldridge Flagellant! Flexor of the Temple's Flexuous moulded walls The high reliefs sallying through your Flaunting fingers Wrap the holy-comer with your Invocatory maul While word of vedic prayer Seeps from some steepening Brahmin wall O stretched bowel of your potted paunch In perspiration's puffing piped paean Rivet the eyes of man and god Outside the walls of priestly palaver Monotonic bell and OM OM and monotonic bell OM OMM OM

Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

The Snake Charmer and the Hamadryad

For J.
Alldridge Piccolo and been-throated pibroch Dilating dimpled hood Spreading photometric darkroom eyes Waxing waxing matching Venomous lip to music's piping lip O Queen of stung dragon mouthed Po Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck Must you now sink sink Dread watched Spineless Into the winding womb wickerwork Watching watching pipe-eyed watching Until you slip Over the sill of the pipe and the lip Anathema! Amorphous piteous anathema! Amulet of Siva! Licking the boneless air companionless Then slithering to lie on the trodden path Must you have this one last lick A lick that Stills the Unheeding Child astray Or ripple tailless In the reedy gust To the squat charmer's Hypnotical pibroch
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

The Gnat Nebula

Full pummelling fisticuffs
Stitch over stitch
In and out
Imperceptibly kaleidoscopic
Swirling from ear to ear
Thrumming mystical notes
Notes of whisper
Whisper in the ear
Now a bothered swish of clawing
Cleaving slipping fingers
Immalleable rolling universal ball

Microcosmic needle into
Macrocosmic wool all
Silently thudding kneading pulling
Sealing a sin all opened unforgiven
Eternally whispering to a few
And never really heard

Pummelling sewing the invisible centre
Round and round the darkless sun
Only the end that began

Only a scratch and a bother
What bother to scratch
For scratching bothers
Bothers a scratch

Scratch and not to bother
Scratch   Scratch   Scratch
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

The Death of the Hindu

Chin cupped
on the ancient bone of his
he spread five fingers
to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength
to crush

Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him

'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication,
Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem :Palabras dichas en voz baja para
formar una dedicatoria
(To Ruth, so young, from another age)
(It’s quite probable that this poem commemorates and addresses Bousono’s
wife, Ruth, and as such the interest in the poem must underlie the intimate and/or
private candidness of tone, rather than the less than pretentious art form.
Wignesan) I This isn’t exactly wine that you and I drain to the last drop with such slowness at this hour, the neat truth.
It’s not wine, it’s love.
In any case, it’s not a question of an awaited celebration, a noisy fiesta, raised on gold.
It’s not a canticle of the mountains.
It’s only a whistling sound : flower, less than this : whisper, lacking in weight.
II And all this began some time back.
We joined hands very hurriedly to be able to remain by ourselves, alone, both jointly and separately in order to walk on the neverending pathway interminably.
And in this manner, we move forward together on the pathway tenaciously.
The same direction, the self-same golden instant and despite it all, you walked without being in doubt, always very far away, far behind, lost in the distance, in the brightness, diminshed, yet wanting me, in another station where flowers burgeoned, in another time and in another pure space.
And from the secluded spot in the woods, from the sandy indignity of mature lateness, from where I contemplated your eagerness to be ahead of time, I saw you slow down, once and all over again, without raising your head in your remote garden, though being held back, obstinate- ly, and so unjustly ! pluck in joy roses for me.
© T.
Wignesan – Paris, 2013