I gathered the darkness into a collection
of small, trembling things,
waiting for the curtain to tear ...
...if I am your refrain, let my name burn -
cinder by cinder,
a tongue of smoke rising from the
brambly shrine of your mouth.
Thread me into the loop of your breath.
Let me be the phrase you repeat
until the rhythm carves through wood,
until the melody becomes a scar beneath your ribs -
a fire fed only by its own echo.
The twilight hangs like heavy silk.
I beseech the sun to undress the stars,
to pour its violent gold over the silver secret of our knees.
Let the cold, quiet myths we built in the dark
be stripped bare,
exposed,
undone by the glare of an unpitying dawn.
Show me what remains when the veil catches fire.
Leave nothing hidden -
neither the holy terror of being seen,
nor the ash of what is left after our song has burned out entirely.
It was pruned in Autumn
now we can see new growth,
New buds replacing old ones
Its too early for it to flower yet.
For the time being it will grow
and form new spurs to bear apples.
Leaves will appear in brilliant green
hiding from sight the robins nest.
There will be baby robins once more
with their blue breasts at first.
Gobbling up grubs hungrily
also fat balls and seeds.
Now the apple blossom spring's into life
delicate sprays of high perfume.
Vibrant colours decorate branches
once more life has come back.
The old tree will bear abundant fruits
in September fat large apples
will be ready to harvest and
the old brambly tree has fulfilled expectations
Once within a break in brambly fields
something stirred its fearful head in sleep:
Though it be woman or child, work or vision
something that dares not hold me in derision
But till that lingering day bares your face
with prating breath I bide my bane
And even as I clear the brake, shift the trunks
hosannas crop up before you every dawn.
And someday as I have you in my arms
in osculation's brimming nirvanic bliss,
May I not then turn away empty handed
though warm in your inane atmanic face
Then as I wend my kindly way down the road
pitch my tent on this terraqueous matter-mind
Should I then go looking for my immortality
through doors that are forever locked to me
Or could I then lie upon nescience' impervious skies
upon some smoky grass unmapped or husbanded
And hear the awakening cries of spring born trees
then get up to wind my way to some factory blast
©: T. Wignesan, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
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