Shine Bright O' Golden Pen
To Empower & Inspire The Masses Of Men,
Burn Ever Luminous & Blaze As The Sun
And Let Thy Ballpoint Scintillate Like The Chosen One,
Fill Thy Longhand With Prestine Manuscripts
To Great Endeavors That Shall Sail Afar Like Ocean Ships,
Guide Thee To Depths Unknown
When Many Are Lost & Have Lost All Hope,
Illuminate Thy Ink Scrolls For All Of Time
With Knowledge & Wisdom & Light Divine,
Oscillate The Great Duality That Always Was
And Let It Transcend Through The Sword That Descends From Above,
Infuse Thee With Essence As An Emerald Stone
So I Shall Articulate These Jasmine & Fiery Poems
LETTERS TO THE POETS WE LIKE
The first and last poem that you wrote
A limerick indeed, but it was just for me
In response to a poem I wrote about you
In many ways it was intended to be true
About style and substance one may see
But your view of me, a handwritten note
Almost tongue in cheek, words were kind
On a scrap of paper in scribbled longhand
My poem about you was more of a sonnet
For a quarter hour, my sole focus was on it
Hoping that you would at least understand
Not just about image, but also your mind
Yet in the end I believe, a fair exchange
We are just friends, and good company
Meeting by accident on most occasions
Yet always maintaining friendly relations
It’s tit for tat, but with a smile you see
For those not poetical, seen as strange
Tender graceful butterfly
Gentle little dove
This poem that I'm writing
Is all about my love
That's kept hidden inside me
Just longing to come out
But knows it has to stay there
No shadow of a doubt
But if one day the sun shines
And warms this little seed
Permitting it to flourish
No longer would I need
To write them out in longhand
These things I keep inside
Would be a living poem
Each word and thought applied
And showered thus upon you
The passion of romance
The simple act of holding hands
Or learning how to dance
Of writing songs together
And laughing when I sing
But through it all our love grows
And for that, anything
Time has flown by. Much of your life
you've spent denying all the strife.
But you can never answer why
much of your lifetime has flown by.
Hand each sad tale you write in. Long,
ambiguous, verbiage strong -
saved in your mind. You never fail -
you write in longhand each sad tale.
Verse of the truth? Such is the con
that you have staked your life upon,
as though you never lost your youth.
Such is the converse of the truth.
Come to believe you need an out
from all that causes fear and doubt
Ask for the truth; you will receive.
You need an outcome to believe!
Come, be that one that you can be
Embrace this as your destiny:
Be all (when all is said and done)
That you can become. Be that one.
DISAPPEAR
Tremors are the worst,
the full-body shakes
its like my skin is too tight,
my body doesn’t fit,
my life doesn’t fit
the anxiety no one understands
its invisible,
I’m invisible.
“Snap out of it, Shaky”, they say
“You’re just faking it.”
And I want to crawl into a ball and disappear.
Where did my confidence go?
My libido?
So many accomplishments…
I wake up to a new day
but I see the old ways
and no way out.
Can’t write in longhand anymore,
scrawling script is illegible
words fall like a sideways rain
splash all over me
the fears…not good enough
just let me lie here in the dark
and disappear.
Antipoetic cricket : chalkup the scoreboard
for the Belgium blast victims
Someone’s crying
Someone’s dying
Someone’s lying
if it ain’t this
‘tis that
each gimmick’s a trick
lemme ge’ at ‘im
he go’ oneon me
one up
is one down
one down
packs tonnup
for the side
if it ain’t for this
who’d not bowl from the other end
someun’s go’ to bat
someun’s go’ to bat
the score must go on board
the ducks and duck-breakers alike cannot hide
the innings defeat comes after one side fields twice
it ain’t cricket to chalk up a draw
rain or no reign
August 3, 1997 (re-worked from the collection : longhand notes, 1999) © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
For those who go by his tentmaker’s rope
swing from one end to the other
though neither low nor too high
nothing will pass you by
if you swing not to the end of your tether
Let the tavern-keeper yell
no legs past his dream threshold
will wander before old Khayyam’s knell
accept at last your unwanted vow
no damsel will crash into cleft-stick cuckold
sweep away celibacy
take your heart in tow
Is there talk of yes who may be chosen
what role could your pain fill in bold
letters which you’d rather see in numbers broken
Come away come away from all this quarrel
Let those who wish to be weighed in gold
make much of their worth par rapport
à l’infidel
June 5, 1997
From the privately pub. coll. (rev. 2016): longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris:1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Stock
Lines derail trains made from stern stock
shunting worsted words in wagons to and fro
cabins depleted by looters piled on dock
signals distressed faces not any more
forefathers shape not their twisted progeny
when foremothers shunt them out of agony
the fear that might in the grain burst bunds
resides unformed in unwilling face
the dark inscrutable face of race
blood thinning through bastardized sons
forefathers shape not their twisted progeny
when foremothers shunt them out of agony
to guard the rhyme within the quatrain
no end of artifice will make for sacrifice
content lets form intertwine lines in vain
clickety-clack of the train lulls us nice
foremothers never think of their progeny
when forefathers shunt them out of agony
May 6, 1997
From the privately pub. coll. (rev. 2016): longhand notes (a binding of poems),1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Soul Genocide
No less a word than the last
for putting to rest the syllable
for every man a creed a cult
No final philosophy to last
Who can tell when the world ends
for the strong and the bold
for those who stand all alone
No better might their word lends
The last wise man who stood apart
for four noble truths in eight paths
for what may he have gone away
If prophets rain and never depart
Every age brings new divinizing calls
for saints bloodied in mad blabber
for what may holy rites wash away
If the world turns on mechanistic balls
If every man sought the painful path
for his depraved soul and the world’s
for the sake of every child’s hunger
Who may not reject nibbhana in wrath
Right paths or wrong paths we decide
for better or worse in this life
for the children forced to survive
Better hellfire than the souls’ genocide
From the privately pub. coll. : longhand notes (a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, July 1999/2016
steely-eyed bunny wabbits
she smells like perfumed soaps and spray paints
i want parts of her reality in unnatural ways
steely-eyed bunny wabbits couldn't be more bold
as she is traipsing round the backstreets at a quarter to three
with a dogeared copy of catcher in the rye
just wants to be heard
just wants somebody to know how it feels
she writes it all out longhand on college ruled paper
a diary of an unkempt heart
her youthful rebel head filled with strong dreams
gonna make a difference
gonna get heard
so she stuffs all her worldly possessions
into a beat up backpack
long with bus fare and snacks
gonna find us some steely eyed bunny wabbits
and wrestle bright futures and rainy days from them
gonna get our fare share
this is why she is special to me
as she chases butterfly's in army boots
as she the navigates lovely night
(reference to: "the catcher in the rye" 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger)
Stray with flamed music along bay’s shoreline
Give in to notes playing among the sand
As fingers dart symphony’s rush, I pine
Caress your tinted strokes written longhand
As I feel allegros bursting moon’s shine
Give in to notes playing among the sand
How can frail youth’s light steal your brightened face
Although your bones lie in common man’s grave
World slain by Requiem, time can’t erase
Smile gently now from brief life lost and craved
Embrace the thought, your name carries blessed praise
Although your bones lie in common man’s grave
Your depth, Amadeus, keeps breath ablaze
Heart touching keys, your passion beyond reach
Embrace the thought, your name carries blessed praise
While centuries resound what you beseech
Stray with flamed music along bay’s shoreline
Heart touching keys,your passion beyond reach
As fingers dart symphony’s rush, I pine.
--------
Debbie's Dying Young Contest
*Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(27 January 1756 – 5 December 1791), age 35
by nette onclaud
bayboats purse seine whey
journey yearlong gay
laddy inured dry up
haughty yachty yea
mildred mayhem dewlap
naughty jaunty jay
sons caught in car capers
haughty yachty yea
vicar baking in butterfat
orphan boy screwed in larder
bluejay frollic jane
and a haughty yachty yea
bombs in bay bombard
dickson singsick cockpit
french chicks s’envoient en l'air*
oh a haughty yachty yea
idols jailed in temples
choked in garlandy incense
priestly eyedance pose
yes a haughty yachty yea
masons’ mildewy masters
with compass stone and pilasters
plan solomon’s might on earth
yea sing haughty yachty yea
royal houses love in stables
lords and ladies love in regalia
loving ones love in limbo
cry haughty yachty yea
dote on damsels in december
hey yachty haughty yea
make them deliver in september
ho yickety yackety yea eh
* "s'envoient en l'air": French, literally, for "throwing legs up in the air"; in France - guess, if you can - this phrase means: ???
©T.Wignesan - Paris, May 4, 1997
[from the collection : longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999]
Poem Survivor is a new kind of contest
To find out which poem is voted the best.
The rules are quite simple, although a little absurd.
They are so unique, that they have never been heard.
You sit on the toilet, and read the poems in the file
And take out the one that you think quite vile.
There’s an empty roll holder on the wall to your right
And no toilet paper in sight.
You have only one option; you know what to do
The poem is eliminated; it’s flushed down the loo.
The toilet is busy, and in no time at all
The poems once plenty, their numbers now small.
Better and better, the poems surely get
Till my poem survived, it didn’t get wet
There were storms of protest from poets everywhere
They all complained the result was unfair.
My poem won; but I have to admit
It was written in longhand on sandpaper grit.