'He rained on me,' the Silent Letter said...
But all I brought to him, were words of Joy!
(But here, he says, "that Rain was of Delight!
Of tender thoughts, for I was once a Boy...)
'He cannot know my Mission, sighed the Disappointed Page:
To take Him by the hand, and lead him Home
To quiet books and havens, free from arrogance or rage,
To fastnesses, where blooms the scent of loam,,,'
(But here, he says, "epistle! Friend!
I'd bring no grief to thee!")
And then, he smoothes the soft folds out,
Leans back against a tree
Beneath which, loves were shared and shed...
Soft now! That tree... is me!
IF ever I had a country : XIX - XX
XIX
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Industry
I'd put a stop to the production of machines that disturb the peace
Electric-drillers motor-bikes clanking street-cars trains infested with fleas
Exile all Formula One champions to Singapore and Monaco
Where only the reeking rich besides you-know-who go
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Industry
And even if I never ever had no country
XX
If ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Technology
I'd clamp huge fines on manufacturers of machines without silencers
Banish all noise-making inventors wifeless to the Antartica's fastnesses
Lock-up for life all architects and engineers who build tenement-flat cities
With walls and floors so paper-thin to permit all kinds of sleepless atrocities
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Technology
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 8, 2018
My most fervent hope is of the species that,
It wonders most powerfully and unceasingly anent the security of
These notebooks containing these selfsame poetic works;
And I hope also, that asleep and secured is how they are put away.
It must be for me to assume, and ah, yes, presume even such.
Forever I must presume their safety, that of these notebooks,
Else the very worst and most maternal ilk of
Patent worry should invariably ensnare and enmesh me:
It should eternally trap and bother me, this
Baldfaced concern for these, my scribal children.
Thus, within the compass of the caliginous fastnesses of
The occluded drawer of my wicker-paneled,
Square and flat-summited nightstand,
They lay at rest; and, when I, of a night or
Even a day, have little use nor need of them;
And whensoever as my stylus has stilled its diurnal or nocturnal
Movement, and is stationary, silent and at rest:
Resting along with these many notebooks:
These cribs and nurseries gently housing and cradling my poetic,
Inscribed progeny, and there is then no hourly
Requisite of further poetic parturition.
Villanelle: What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses
What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses
Time Space Suffering the meanness of everything
The only exception: never deathlessnesses
Take KARMA example of prowess excesses
Such as the Mean Violent doing their own thing
What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses
You're not supposed to know past lives' excesses
Though you do good continue to take a beating
The only exception: never deathlessnesses
Thinkers on the subject of lobsidednesses
Simply say: ponder! as if waiting for lightning
What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses
What if Life comes to an end locked in fastnesses
Your karmic interests lost in false accounting
The only exception: never deathlessnesses
Who d'you damn for this in other universes’s
What if you took chances doing your own thing-fling
What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses
The only exception: never deathlessnesses
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017