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
poem by T. Wignesan
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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
poem by T. Wignesan
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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.'
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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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
poem by T. Wignesan
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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
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poem by T. Wignesan
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