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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Do the Dead see with their own eyes for Thadchayani, my poetry-loving doctor sister : 28/08/1929 – 26/10/2014 -the « only » child of father’s begotten seven - The Dead do not see with their own eyes They shed their bodies back in old lives Neither time nor place makes for barriers Nor for holding back tears for their dears Three or four days before bones they abandon Grow cold underground or hot to the touch in oven All the hurts and slights and the sordid details That the unconscious buried under knotted pigtails The world is theirs and all the rabid secrets They who have a long long way to cover with regrets Might they reveal what lies beyond our sights The curtain abruptly drops behind to hasten their flights None may turn back or cast a longing cowed look At those they may have wronged or for profit forsook Unless they take the oath of incurred punishment Should they exceed the courtesy of just one moment When they may arrest the attention of a loved one Who instead of taking fright condones the unknown The shared oneness of having been in the same womb The frangipani freshness invading from au delà the tomb Don’t they know everything and with what insistence They mock at the folly of our measely existence We who must soon join their other-worldly ranks Where all is nothing and nothing’s so many pranks They must play without ever disclosing their hand For the bubble once pricked cannot be second-hand In the silence of your thoughts and transporting reveries A window opens into the turmoil of disrupting miseries While you toil wrapped in the quiet of monotoned cobblers The scent of cured leather singeing velvet antlers The sudden wind rustling through an open paper basket The crockery shifting positions beside the crooked casket The book you’re reading tumbling out of your hands Swarms of autumnal gnats electing to circle inlands And without looking up you know you are the object Of attention from an erstwhile être stopping by to check Yet none may be so certain as to call it by name The art of staying dead is the name of the game. (I feel I should add the following piece of information, for it might be of some interest or use to some should they be confronted by a similar predicament. The untoward happenings I described or hinted at in the poem, I must say, at first, rather « intrigued" me, and I was not quite sure how I should have reacted in the circumstances. I wished for a more concrete form of « manifestation » before I could have participated in the obvious « call to communication » with « whoever" it was who was wanting to « speak » to me during the four to five days before the Sunday, the day my sister expired. On that day, she was with me most of the morning and part of the afternoon and made her « presence" felt, first at my place when I was still in bed, and later in my car when I went out shopping. I’m not going to impart in any way what she actually said or did for such information must forcibly remain private. The very next day, I received an email message that my sister had passed away in Adelaide, Australia, and that she had been in a « coma" for two weeks prior to that Sunday. She had already been to see someone "very close" to me before coming my way. From that Sunday onwards, I have had no further « visits" from her.) July 20, 2019, Paris, France. © T. Wignesan – Paris, November 3, 2014
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