The Old man And The Seine
For the legendary George Whitman
(1912 - December 13,2011)
King George peered out of the oval of the hollow mile
And caught the Hunchback ogling Gina Lollobrigida;
Victor Hugo sat engrossed in his séance at Guernsey Isle
Feigning he would hold back the Cervantes Armada;
So witty Ol' Walt sat on the lip of Notre Dame bridge
Scuffing overgrown grass with his heels in the Seine
But his beard got caught in Quijote's wordy porridge:
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Over which Cat's Shoulders is raised the Lintel
To be left alone
to be a cat
a porcelain memento on the mantelshelf
unnoticed un-thought-of even un-heeded
till a hand accidentally stretches
to caress the China paw of a line
all tucked in
out of a Federer need to be willingly unobtrusive
knowing the place of the homely cat
that's fed as a pet
for the well-being of the spectator
in polite chaste drawing-room court
To take him à rebrousse-poil
and the pretty picture is shattered
canine claws unfurl drawn in offence
the conquering hargne of a Djokovic
the pounce leap and tumble
on the millimetre of the angular line
of brazen self-righteous discomfort
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The Gnat Nebulae
Full pummelling fisticuffs
Stitch over stitch
In and out
Imperceptibly kaleidoscopic
Swirling from ear to ear
Sporadic
Thrumming mystical notes
Notes of whisper
Whisper in the ear
Now a bothered swish of clawing
Cleaving slipping fingers
Immalleable rolling universal ball
Microcosmic needle into
Macrocosmic wool all
Silently thudding kneading pulling
Sealing a sin all opened unforgiven
Eternally whispering to a few
And never really heard
Pummelling sewing the invisible centre
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The Snake Charmer and the Hamadryad
Piccolo and been-throated pibroch
Dilating dimpled hood
Spreading photometric darkroom eyes
Waxing waxing matching
Venomous lip to music's piping lip
O Queen of stung dragon-mouthed Po
Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs
The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck
Must you now sink sink
Dread watched
Spineless
Into the winding womb wickerwork
Watching watching pipe-eyed watching
Until you slip
Over the sill of the pipe and the lip
Anathema!
Amorphous piteous anathema!
Amulet of Siva!
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Sing haughty Yacht-y Yea
bayboats purse seine whey
journey yearlong gay
laddy inured dryup
haughty yachty yea
mildred mayhem dewlap
naughty jaunty jay
car sons caught in 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'envoyent en l'air
oh a haughty yachty yea
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The Difference Of Touch: In D Minor KV 466 And Variations On The Theme Of Paganini
The difference of touch: in D minor KV 466 and Variations on a theme of Paganini
the robin hops from the tips of the rose bush
spilling snow dust
sprinkling skeins of early dew
dusting with its uppity tail fan
a caterpillar
softly dousing concertina
then it trips up the clothesline
stops and grips it in its claws
sways and balances with its tail fanning out
chirps clucks tweets
and repeats itself
all the way down again
and up the scale
comes back once more to skip a note or two
and tumbles
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Pied à terre
Once within a break in brambly fields
something stirred its fearful head in sleep:
Though it be woman or child, work or vision
something that dares not hold me in derision
But till that lingering day bares your face
with prating breath I bide my bane
And even as I clear the brake, shift the trunks
hosannas crop up before you every dawn.
And someday as I have you in my arms
in osculation's brimming nirvanic bliss,
May I not then turn away empty handed
though warm in your inane atmanic face
Then as I wend my kindly way down the road
pitch my tent on this terraqueous matter-mind
Should I then go looking for my immortality
through doors that are forever locked to me
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Little Clock
Why in pensive ticking, silent thoughts
You wile your time away
When all around huge swelling bells
Toll the days away!
Every hour that announced may go
Your silent hands take hold
And though the ages chimed in ears
Yours they never behold.
If all the clocks the world had known
Had struck one strong big note,
They would never still your plodding tone
Nor the working hearth you alert.
Do you wonder, wonder, little clock
What makes the grandfather tick!
Or his aching belly in the depth of sorrow
Cries to the world it's sick!
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Künst
Each sound
free or bound
each petal
Each quivering utterance
bold and round
these handicrafts
these unthinking feelings
flower in the minute thinking fingers
untranslatable intent
when other more enduring
forms
stop the outpour
tax and stem
and call for aged patience's munificence:
At this the heart will pause
before labour
the consciousness severing from congenital cries
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Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
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poem by T. Wignesan
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