In the heat of prior confrontations,
My tongue, well then, was typically tied.
Later, with all the right conjugations,
Well then, my tongue, so easily replied.
CURSES, I Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda said,
But, no one heard, as I softly mumbled.
Cuz, all the right words, dancing in my head,
Tripped out of my mouth, completely jumbled!
How shall I deal with this wandering mind?
Meandering through a meadow of ideas,
Seeking truth among noxious weeds I find
Since early childhood I have been curious
Always sifting through my brain’s cogitations
Accepting new concepts; discarding previous,
Tossing thoughts like a machine’s agitations
Chewing on choices of words, so indecisive,
Practicing precise grammar with conjugations.
Fending off debaters who are often derisive
Debunking theories that sound far-fetched,
While trying not to be obnoxiously divisive.
How far should an agile mind be stretched?
Let it go unchallenged and it becomes static
Drifts into rumor, relishes meaningless kvetch.
I choose to allow my mind access to the attic,
Considering all the randomness that intrudes
To avoid, as much as I can, becoming dogmatic!
When Death my Way Comes, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s sonnet : Cuando yo vaya a morir
( I prefer the reversal in my rendering of the title for it highlights the inevitability of the moment. I have also not vainly tried to stick to the end-rhyme scheme : abba/abba/aca/cac/ since in Spanish - likewise in Malay – the terminations of substantives and conjugations of verbs proliferate in « a », that is, vowels. The English language doesn’t quite offer the poet such facility in rhyming. T. Wignesan)
This skin, this flower, this sapphire
these eyes, what’ll they end up as afterwards.
I would have loved you to be a moon which rides
in the calm of an eternally-swishing whirl.
I would have wished to eternalise you when I espied
slight furrows your sweet face drown :
To breathe life into you, that in your entirety you’ll live on
Even when you hear Death calling in my sigh.
I would therefore that you keep close,
so that I might touch you for a fleeting moment :
and know that you are safe, erect, whole.
As with the oak tree to bend the wind wouldn’t dare.
As with the spring – the pennant.
As with the evening in its frivolous wear.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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