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Best Poems Written by T Wignesan

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Memo for Destroyer Poet A LINDA: 3 20 p m, 23rd April 2013 Paris, France

MEMO for Destroyer Poet A Linda: 3. 20 p.m., 23rd April 2013 – Paris, France
If you are Red   I am Brown
If you’re not 
Then as one concrete painter using phonemes 
                 to another

Now we speak in the common-denominator tongue
Of those who went across oceans
Yours you took across the Bering
From the frozen solid roof of the world
The common step-mothering-tongue
And the common heel-bone

Take this memo down I tell myself
For my long-lost sister
Now weary with chilblains
And walnut warts from the long trek

Tell her you’re sorry
You took so long
Tell her you read excerpts of her outpouring
In a lone-lost cave overgrown with moss
							lost without cause
Mixed with the growls and coughs of shaggy beasts
And the lone mountain lioness’ scowling howl at the stars
In a dry season

Tell her you’re sorry not to have returned the compliment
For this’s the Way of the Community
That each rushes to fulfill a sacrosanct duty

Tell her
I read your spiraling lyrical threnody
	of the Soul’s age-old Odyssey
 through the bony interstices of breast-beating moans
and groans 
Right there where it hurts most 
in the guts

I saw how your people lifted themselves
							on their fists
   after their arms and knuckles looked gnarled
I saw the claws of the lone eagle clutch your soul
							in one fell swoop
	down concertina centuries
And make you swallow your tongue
	wailing in cloistered valleys of lilacs and magnolias
  to the rhythm of crescendo stamping feet
  and besetting winds 
          cacophonous through wildly flapping wigwams
I felt the ancient beat of your pulse
	in the huskily refined whisper of your verse
   come seething harpies
			unleashed at my throat
I saw wild stallions
	sleek and shoddy	manes aloft 
     come steaming and fuming down mountain sides
          your fathers tamed
I saw generations of silent sturdy women
	kindle fierce fires 
  while brawny braves rode away on bare-backs
	to bring the venison back

I now hear your gentle voice
	in dulcet drops tinkle down waterfalls
		of your manifold genres

Yet I do not hear you cry
Nor do I wonder why
You are made of that stuff of breed
That can traverse ice without steed
And scale Himalayas down continents
To reach the other side of impediments

And lest I forget let me tell you this
Your lyrical voice will linger long in bliss.

    Every good wish.		

			T. Wignesan  


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013

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Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way

Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way

   For Kim Patrice Nunez*, with hope

Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
Let your wheels skid by letting loose grip on wheel
Free verse range’s for marksmen trained on rondolet*
Dipodic foot pantun villanelle dactyl

Cut their teeth on the slippery run-on-line
Roll their anaepest tongue round limerick rhyme
Do not a ballad begin with aubade fine
Nor drive straight past end-stopped line’s feminine rhyme

Such as painters’ coprophilia canvasses
Hide chance ironic hidden ghostly faces
Cubist abstract surrealist morasses
Whose apprenticeships lead to trumping aces

Far too many poets love the sound of words
Yet shirk bardic tasks speeding on twisted roads

     * Nunez: Sorry, no tilde over the “n” on my Mac. 	
•	rondolet: French pronunciation rhymes with “way”.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

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Limerick: Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness

Limerick : Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness

    for one who calls no one "Monster"
             when the truth may not be known:
           Domino X

Once a brave laddie at Lake Loch Ness
Kept vigil to catch Monster on lens
He shut eye just for once
Monster jumped in one bounce
Took pic and signed it: Loch Ness Goddess !

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2013 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013

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Curse of Caste


They came on bullock-carts
loaded with gods
traversed sinuous mountain ranges
gurgling outlandish tongues
their children caged as poultry
their priests chanting weird mantras
drank the soma juice
choking with the sacrificial bleating
of rams


Agreed, all societies structure themselves
Out of scant need to function sans bother
Just as individuals must come together
In order better to protect themselves

All men are born equal, so say the Wise
But the Elders do not know how to stem
Rishis who would seek to mock them
By claiming they were twice-born to rise

Above all mankind for wasn’t it the decreed omen
For the Primaeval Being that the self-chosen few
Should forever speak for the Brahman in lieu
Of Purusha’s helpless eyes, brain, heart and abdomen

The only difference between the Brahmin
And the rest of the menial human race
Is that they were born with Brahma’s grace
So that they could spurn the rest as vermin

Yet India’s underside boasts of invisible millions
Who have no place in sacred Hymns of Man
They weren’t created by Rig-Veda: only as Harijan
May they hang out in limbo as Gandhi’s minions.


Roughly, the Hindu caste system is broadly divided into four sacrosanct strata ; yet there are literally tens of sub-castes in each category :

1.	Brahmin (the priesthood caste, supposedly on top of the social hierarchy), followed by :
2.	Kshatriya (the princely hereditary and/or ruling warrior caste) ;
3.	Vashya (the commercial trading, professional and land-owning agricultural castes) ;
4.	Sudra (the menial serving and peasant castes),
followed by the Out-caste :
5.	The Untouchable or scavenging caste ( which has not found authority in the following Vedic hymn. )

« brahmano ‘sya mukham asid,
bahu rajaniah krtah ;
uru tad asya yad vaisya ;
padbhyam sudro ajayata. »

Rigveda, X, 90, 12 (sans signes diacritiques)

"His mouth was the Brahman, 
His two arms were made the warrior,
His two thighs the Vaisya ; 
From his two feet the Sudra was born."

Transl. & translit. by Arthur A. MacDonnell (1854 – 1930), 1917

© T. Wignesan - Paris, 1998 - (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent", 1999, published in Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies, 2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit, 2008.)

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

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Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 3

Limerick : Once a Senorita from Sevilla – 3

Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Caught a Cock to make a paella
Paella tasted good
But Cock stayed in bad mood
Crowed all the way down : Mama ! Mia !

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013

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Prologue to Lessons of Change

  for King Wen, circa 1151-1143 B.C.E. – with seven mind-bending kowtows

There where you had no occasion for play
There in your confined Ming I space
Where change wrought no change
In your fate
But for those plagued by your linear grouping games

Where before the fall from your embroidered gardens
The lavender embossed bowl to dip your fingers in
The enamelled daïs that spurned the kowtows
the cloistered summer watering palace
the decorative duck pond
the turtle and dove court
where dainty demure mincing concubines
under dispassionate eunuch eyes
stroked and tickled the mandolin strings of their Lord’s heart
Where time sailed through Flying Dutchman seas
At the serene centre of Qian’s mundane realm

Even what drops from the sky may hit the ocean bed
And so stamped under in your tyrant’s dungeons
With your retinue and court
Where each faked their fate in psychotic delusions
Simulating as it were
The neurotico-schizophrenic passage in another dimension
There where you bought a little time
Time enough to fashion a play
A game of change
A game that never really changes
Even if your son the Duke of Chou
And the Master expositor Kung
Paved your broken and unbroken lines in words
from which no man may return

Where the longest dialogue you began
Becomes seems a polyalogue among some
  or all
Who have gone beyond the hexagram wall
And those who await the inexorable call
Where speech is ambiguous
To say the least
In eight by eight cyclic situations
Though someone YOU maybe ME seems to be saying
Take heed ! all this’s a mess
The Truth
Might not it be hidden in the lines
and in the lines alone
and not in the words

Take them down one by one
And build them up again
Note the beginning and the end
And the correspondances of change
Put the judgments of my son
And the wordy attributions to Kung
Especially those from the young Wang Bi
On either side of the hexagram
What is claimed for the Superior Man
Is within the reach of every clan
Measure the lines in or out of tune
The trigrams from whence
The inner ones note hence
Think on them but once
Or only now and then
for the nonce
This’s all I have to say
Though others may make much of the Way
Think not on what I have said
More than it takes to put paid

O ! Great Royal Sage !
Are there not behind these lines
Three or four bearded lords, nay sages
Who drive terror into those who gaze
Day and night into their wizened faces !

© T. Wignesan, May 20, 1987 (rev. 2011, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

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Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan

Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan

	The Individual’s Soliloquy

	I am the Individual
	At first I lived in a rock
(there I carved some figures).
Later I looked for a more appropriate place.
	I am the Individual.

In the beginning I had to procure food for myself,
	find fish, birds, look for firewood
	(and other matters also took up my time).
	To start a bonfire,
firewood, forewood, where to find a little firewood,
	some firewood to start a bonfire,
	I am the Individual.

At the same time I asked myself,
	I escaped from an abyss full of air;	
	a voice answered me: 
	I am the Individual.

Then I tried to live in another rock,
	there too I carved some figures,
	engraved a river, buffaloes,
	carved out a serpent,
	I am the Individual.

But no, I became bored with the things I was doing,
	fire bothered me,
	I wanted to see more,
	I am the Individual.

I went down a valley irrigated by a river,
	there I found what I needed,
	encountered a savage people,
	             a tribe,
	I am the Individual.

Saw that there they undertook some things,
	they carved figures on rocks,
	they kindled fires, Yes, they kindled fires also!
	I am the Individual.

They wanted to know from where I hailed.
I answered in the affirmative, that I entertained no fixed goals,
I answered in the negative, that I would keep going.
I took hold of a piece of stone I found in a river
	and began to work on it,
	began to polish it	
    made of it a part of my own life.
	But this is far too long.
    I felled some trees in order to set sail,
		looked for fish,
	looked for different things
	(I am the Individual).
Until I began to get bored all over again.
	One gets bored with tempests,
	the thunder, the lightning,
	I am the Individual.

     Good. I forced myself into thinking a little while,
 stupid questions filled my head,
		false problems.
So I began to wander through some woods.
	I arrived at a tree and yet another,
	   I arrived at a fountain,
	I arrived at a pit where one could see rats:
	  here it is I who comes, I then said,
	have you seen a tribe hereabouts,
	a savage people who know how to light a fire?
In this manner I kept going towards a westerly direction
	in the company of other beings,
		or rather all alone.
In order to see, one must believe, they said to me,
	      I am the Individual.

	In the dark one could discern forms,
		perhaps clouds,
	perhaps one saw clouds, one saw lightning;
all these things had already taken place some days past,
	I felt like I was dying;
	I invented some machines,	
	  manufactured watches
	      arms, vehicles,
	I am the Individual.

I had hardly enough time to bury my dead,
	hardly had I time to sow,
	   I am the Individual.

Some years hence, I conceived some things,
		some forms,
	crossed frontiers
   and remained stationary in a sort of niche,
     in a boat in which I rowed for forty days,
		forty nights,
	I am the Individual.

	Later on droughts set in, 
    some wars ensued,
	varieties of colours appeared in the valley,
	   but I must keep going,
	       must keep producing.
	Invented the sciences, immutable truths,
	     fashioned he tanagras*,
published books running into thousands of pages,
	let my face swell,
	  invented the phonograph,
	the sewing machine,
then the first automobiles began to appear,
	I am the Individual.

Somebody set apart the planets,
	trees segregated themselves!
	But I separated the set of tools,
   furniture, stationery for the writing desk,
	I am the Individual.

	They also built cities,
religious institutions went out of fashion,
they looked for what was said, for happiness,
	I am the Individual.

Later I spent the better part of my time travelling,
	in practising, in practising languages,
     I am the Indiviidual.

I peeped through a keyhole,
      Yes, I did, what am I to say, I did
in order to opt out of doubt, I did look through,
		behind some curtains,
	I am the Individual.

Perhaps it would be best to return to that valley,
	to that rock where I lodged,
	and begin to carve sketches again,
	    from back to front I engraved
		the world upside down.
But no: life is devoid of meaning.

*statues of human forms made in Tanagra of Boetia.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016 	



Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

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Is there an Exclusive All-in-One Principle

  ‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of  different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘

Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at

                  the red or the green

                                 nothing then is certain

not even death but the life one endures

 quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons

particles like men and beings in general

                                             bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup

         great teachers or rather teachers with great followings

     those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking  for them

         especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy

                 would want us believe

                                             there’s just This One

  and all comes and goes to That Only ONE

If only it were just as simple as that

Then what is it that This One wants

Or is It caught up in its own caveat

And must of needs come apart

        on the seed that It alone plants

                           and do what we may

   nothing goes wrong

            whatever the explanation

everybody is right

right from the start


         Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand

         Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold

and out again

         for the Brahma Day

and after aeons the Brahma Night

And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity

         neither space nor time

            squeezed in and out

Birth as in Death

An eventual point of total extinction

        if ever there was one

Yet always the two extremes

      and the ever-changing in-betweens

Matter versus Anti-Matter

Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin

Though matter itself is neither

Is nor Is-Not-ness

         And the 96% Dark Matter

          And the infinite number of parallel universes

Does it really matter


         ‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !

            You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’                   

Vanish into what

                                    Dark matter

or just non-dark matter

Still the duality of matter

Still the ever-changing conundrum

              Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs


         ‘Sex is emotion in motion.’

Emotion erupts

           into thin air

      into where

Dark air

Motion disrupts

         and roots one here

      tied to the lunar year

       why should it matter

if we cannot know the reason why

ego id libido

drive faith fame femme father future

if super/alter ego connects the ego

       to the collective unconscious 

       why drown the self in the Great Self

by wilful act

       when the Ultimate One

is the sum of all the little ones

Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones

each of whom must move to eat drink sleep

copulate make money grow roots in a society

get and fight to keep a job

make love marry raise children

struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children        

one’s house  if one can get one

one’s career one’s future

and helter-skelter race to cheat death

If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew

What does it matter if it keeps changing in view

Of the desperate haste with which everything

We see smell hear feel intute sense

Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich

And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way

Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda        

Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters 

Through some trillion cataclysmic light years

What’s the impulse to keep moving

Is the yogi’s stilled-centre

The death of all action

Which cannot call for a reaction

Or is the art of keeping still

Merely the art of making belief


          ‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting

until your performed role becomes your normal character.

Then you are safe inside your character armour.’


As soon as you have thought It out

It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out

                 and you know just why

                                                               don’t you now


References to the quotations

Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.


Attributed to Mae West.

Eric N. W. Mottram,  « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.

I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?


© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

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Before you go a little way, prospecting

for F. A.

You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »

You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The orgasm you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.

You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.

One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.

Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing

Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.

« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.

You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.

Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.

 ©:  T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

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He who creates re-creates himself

          for René Passeron*

             You may not grow old too soon
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place

          Time was when you knew the time 
    the place   the face
        Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain

Who would care    nor what would it matter
   in which life    upon what water
        you have trailed your fingers
             upon waves of papers

Let your mind brush
                               some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
                      upon some bark
         Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens

Made as if        the artier your words
     held some moment in a perennial frame
  Never to be banged away by fading suns
              collapsing quasars
                  asteroid storms
                      puncturing galaxies
                          usurping black holes

Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying

        What else is there to be done?

Let the unknowable undermine the unknown

                                   Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
         stick to paper and canvas
                  stone and sound

And words that are haloed
           by the sickness of the poet
  though all is not lost for the pen
                                   whose blood will

our futile justifications
doctoral dissertations

And generations will tremulously grant him
      The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
      In the capsule of a poem

*René Passeron, b. 1920, a surrealist painter and philosopher, was the principal figure conducting research into “poietics” in France, since the eighties, after the renowned aesthetician Etienne Souriau took over from the internationally famous poet Paul Valéry who first mooted the project in 1939, though the Russians had already begun publishing in this field of research during the First World War. Professor Passeron led a twin career as a Senior Research Fellow with the premier European research organization: the French National Centre for Scientific Research (C.N.R.S.) and as a Professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales and at the University of Paris-I-Panthéon Sorbonne where he was the Director of the Institute of Aesthetics and Fine Arts.

 ©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12, 1987 [from the collection : back to background material, 1993] Pub. in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad:, 2008.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012