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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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