Best Errantry Poems
Unmeant meanings
Words keep watch
their eyes in the empty spaces
fingers feel their unformed faces
Can words mean what they were not meant for all by
theirnonselves
even if they come clothed in nonentity
cuneiforms hieroglyphics ideophonograms
strokes signs signals sounds shapes silences squiggles squares squirms suctions squirts scuds screams squelches screeches screams or sickening sobs
words sum up fix errant thoughts
speak for all
though in tongues without jousting knights
errancy will not lead to errantry
Only the blind conceive their shape form posture
the staid but rumbunctious music of stilled hieroglyphs
the pliability of ideograms caressed down rice paper
their squiggly strands
the self-effacing hand-and-foot maidens
of matronly phrases
some leaning awry
the calligrapher’s trembling hand
all all straining upright
the custodians of invested stock
foot-stools of pouting poets
the sum-total of coveted currencies
exchanged stock variables
Who would be hurt knifes himself
with meaningless words
who would laugh
breaks out into song
the sing-song stress and accent of vowels round and strong
learns wayward steadfastness
with his words
with words
with the word
with the world of wonder in
always willing and wilful words
April 23, 1997
From the privately-pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris: 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Oh! - Answered he, who is the sculptor of the forest's soul,
- I've lived in the songs and myths, in the hair
Of maidens who romanced me, and in my own nightmare.
There is an ellipsis right between an apotheosis
That submits the soul to a life-long worship, and a kindred mind.
Worship of what? Ex nihilio? Well, I see myself as no epigone
Of anything, in particular, but everything in general.
I am a hearer of ardent spirits that husband untouchable justice,
A pectus enkindled in thorns and brambles,
A visionary of phantasies in a hidden repository of probity,
Where I bade you to come with me onto this journey,
As I behold you, present before me, awash in
Licentious suggestions, as a well-wisher full of warmth,
And irresistible glow where no assiduity is being judged,
But conveyed when I call you to the helm.
The intricacies of silence, the ingredients of fatalism, and subordination,
Are characteristics and autonomous tendencies of certitude,
In my view, as I bestow the attributes of intuition that detect darkness,
And the darkness detects the evil you emit, and the evil is
“The thing-in-itself” according to Kant which I ruthlessly deny!
As a contrarian I advocate a different shape of intelligence,
Existent between absurdism and Quixotism, sparking my
Passion, bursting with desire to define eminence,
But leaving you to shape the soul of the forest,
Or good or evil in it, as it is your domain, your knight-errantry,
And I? I am only your occasional, lonely guest.