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T. Wignesan

On That Day When All Is Dark

On that day when all is dark
When I wake on that blackened day
Though I wake to find no day
I will burn a flower on my tiny finger
And cipher the heart of the yelp

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The Temple Drummer and Piper

Flagellant!
Flexor of the Temple's
Flexuous moulded walls
The high reliefs sallying through your
Flaunting fingers
Wrap the holy-comer with your
Invocatory maul
While word of Vedic prayer
Seeps from some steepening Brahmin wall

O stretched bowel of your potted paunch
In perspiration's puffing piped paean
Rivet the eyes of man and god
Outside the walls of priestly palaver

Monotonic bell and OM
OM and monotonic bell
OM
OMM
OM

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The Death of the Hindu

Chin cupped
on the ancient bone
of his elbow
he spread five fingers to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength to crush

Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him

'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.'

[...] Read more

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A bare afternoon

Waking to a breaking thought
rude warblers in the tree's dark
contort the image
in the eye
of a sundered dream
into a wholesome bounteous vision

The symphony is expansive
trained to unnatural correctness
alien to the warbler
bends order to
mastered mindfulness
regimental violins
scold and chastise
the senses to D Major

Now the sparrow and Segovia
minuet in the sun
lurk in the veins
clasping word on wing

[...] Read more

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Coal-Truck

I am a coal-truck
Carrying gold dust.
Someone threw some
Coal-dust upon
My gold-dust.

I am a coal-truck
In a gold mine.
Someone struck a coal vein
And piled me full in vain.

I am a coal-truck
Covered in subterranean dust.
Someone shovelled my soil
And found an ancient bone
All coiled.

I am a coal-truck
Waiting for the rain.
The sun is my rail

[...] Read more

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A cure for forty death-dealing cells

Impotent at birth

Impotent at death

and only somewhat potent in between

Why were you born without your own consent

What was the karmic guilt of your first birth
and what about those maimed in the mind
crippled in the womb
eaten by meningitis
by herpes
by syphillis
by aids

What are their chances of mending their karma

And what about that baby born without a brain
How is it to be blamed

[...] Read more

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What Time Are We Living In

It's not if but since the future can be told

To a broadly verifiable degree

What time are we living in: present old

Future or has it all gone past already

Don't tell it for honours to politicos

They hanker after two-bit history lines

Don't even whisper it to military macros

Lest generals decorate brows with vines

Don't spill the truth to those who slaughter

With God on their bloody bleeding minds

[...] Read more

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I saw a tree a-falling...

I saw a tree a-falling
a-falling down on me
I had no way to turn
it was close on me

I thought it was a plot
to force me out
I knew I could not
even hold it or shout

It was a tree I sheltered
on many a longing day
And now it was so altered
coming to make me pay

I asked it why it longed
to touch its upmost brim
When all around no foe
turned the sun down dim

[...] Read more

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To The Lucky Quill-Feathered Poets Of MAC-PC Yore

When I think of all the seconds I drubbed my fingers
On the skin of long-drummed typefaces to wipe spam
Away from the screen of my inboxes in my computers
I wonder how many years of my life drift as flotsam
So many sales pitches tail in mouth in epizeuses
String their tuneless spiralling from end to no-end
Swim in the swirling soup strings of multiverse oases
Lost as jetsam into a blacksucked bottomless oven
A spam is a foe who seeks to con you as an old friend
Sure don't mean that old spiv driveling over your girl
But who'll make you think you're good for a lend
While he seeks to worm your hard disc in a whirl
McPeesee McCoffee McMoney or McMaster Kasparov
Spam is the Checkmate King none of us can fend off

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On Authors, Critics and Readers

Some leave behind a hard-won name

Others only fame

A few the sweat and tears of their passage

Snatched from the rigours of their age

Yet none the folly of the game

Fiction is licensed perjury

The coward's excuse for character

Courage revelation originality veracity

[...] Read more

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