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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I For once he banished all birds from the air not just Mynas tick-picking on twitching backs but all birds, unnamed and high bred with each wave of his contrived hand extending the pelting rice on the shorn land. Some came to sort the heedless grain in their hunger of disdain Some fluttered from hump to hump from his total need to his clambering might. Each time they came and went he let them alone choked in their distensions. He could not see their pain. Perhaps their general nature - too grave to offend saw in his absence in his indifference to want the chance of their malice their frolicksome end. II Too late in the arboured rites he careered with his adolescent fancies : the ghee-man with his pails of souring milk Working within his churning bones old rishis’ immolating ambitions : the curious incantatory neologisms the crowd-infused lusty prayer the unsliced un-schismatic advaita piety What should he take : the game or the adulation both silently exploding buds in the crammed clutch of mania. Somewhere in the lambent miasma Old age and the deep cloistered pining of chaste women roused out of season make mud the surmounting of goals. Must he not retreat then and melt Fuse into a negating asana Conniving at the self-raped furtive orgasms. That he could extinguish his cravings with too much incontinence he saw That he assailed entrances along marbled corridors with hardly a mindful push he knew. (c) T. Wignesan - 1965 in tell them i'm gone. Paris: 1983.
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