Too late for amends

It is as though an unjust hand punished you
As if the Adlerian guiltless position in the constellation wasn't enough
toppling you from a pedestal

You were groomed for position
for heading a family
vacated by the head himself
out of time

So they protected you
pampered you
the custom required it

there were sisters whose dowries you were supposed to earn
there were grounds whose circumferences you were designated to crush
there were centuries and goals you were bound to knock with stick and bat
there were exams you were deemed to sail through
there were jobs you were merely to inherit on merit

The second son was sacrificed

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Prologue to Declining Change

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

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Doppelgänger

Coming home late from wandering in my sleep
In search of that which goes ahead of chase
i saw the image of my form stretched on my bed
His looks - minus my glasses - through an impish mien
transfixed me
my sandals gently flapping on his soles.

i peeped into the mirror
and saw him hovering
over my upturned eyes.
Out of the window and still his eyes held me.

i was aware my room was lived-in:
my cigarette wasting in an arc of ash i rescued
my opened book advanced a page or two
(no great reader, thought i)

But when i saw him in my new shirt too
There was little i could do.
i turned as if to go

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Plaidoirie For A Prince Of Jaffna?

Blue blood gushes when heroes die
From gory wounds on battlefields
Not in castle intrigues when for a lie
Crowns use commoners as shields.

A royal house does not construct itself
After centuries have broken tradition
Or on formal rules on how to name itself
Nor on who should follow in succession.

A true prince re-possesses the land first
Takes for his witnesses native-born citizens
Bids them follow his will out of dire thirst
Not as the self-crowned leader of denizens.

To be born a Kshastriya is not a privilege,
The birthright is even an act of sacrilege
If he who dons the crown scorns the people;
A spurned poem in the culled florilege.

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poem by T. Wignesan
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The Shore Temple in Mahaballipuram

The mirtangist may never willingly hear
may not want to hear
the multaiyam announcing his cue
nor the melodist aware of the flautist's right
to the change in the raga
the plucking of the yal strings
to the goatskin drummed bleats
and pleas
of mindless fingers
for out there
on the receding promontary's rising granite mounds
of three-tiered edifices
held up
by the Pallava's view
of the Descent into the Ganges:

rishis crosslegged contemplate yakshis or apsaras' unharnessed
thighs
attenuated waists commodious backs buxom breasts
where mantra-chanting brahmins bathe drink and contort themselves

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poem by T. Wignesan
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On hearing that Ronnie...

To recall a friend
is never an adieu
he has merely stepped across the landing
the light still beams the door's ajar
you can hear him pacing humming swinging the windows
to let the street in the warmth
the wind ruffled
through his half-opened shirt

Across the spare digs halfway to the Schloss
austere in the shaded light slanting on drab curtains
the bare table rough-hewn the dishevelled books
the gaping porcelain jug and still wet basin
the whiff of fresh-bitten soap the close shave
and the stiff white collar excusing the day-old striped shirt

A gentle tap the door opens to a glass of port
cut bread
and even if you will not
cheese

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Bedtime on Tramp

He woke down the slope, by the hay
With him a thousand shrill cries
That stilled to him, yawning.
He moved with strands of hay, trailing
On his rags.
Sauntering, he is a flaneur...
The road lamps gave him away.

He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.

Half-way on a bridge over its side
He saw a bridge in Japanese ruin
Chaffing in the hurrying waters below.
He cursed the Japs for lying fallow
Spouting his rheum.
Pondering, he is a sinner...
He knelt for those braves, never to ride.

He moved and with him, his bed

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Now You Are Put To Rest

I

They opened his abdomen
found what they were not looking for
though half-expected
to see
polyps enormous cancerous mush
in lieu of
and the rest that had given out on him

They said: if we had known we wouldn't have torn into his
tripes
to see
even the sample test told us as much
but we did it for him
he so wanted it done
now we merely have to wait and see

just how long it would take him to conk out

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Gérard Sekoto, In Memorium (1913-1993)

I

Would that anger subside
anger fed on pride

pride of I against You
who is right: I not YOU
meum et tuum

Some words hastily released on the verge of angry pride
Tear from us a part of our flesh
a part of our cells
Leaving us lesser men forever pitted against the
I in You
forever wanting to be right
I above You

You may not - yes, now I know you didn't - have meant it
Your words were stony arrows sunk in the mud of my hurt
splitting even before they found the unintended target

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poem by T. Wignesan
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Incinerate Your Love

For T. Ruthiran (1937-1996)

plots lined with cypresses
silence of respect
pebbles levelled with care
in lined walks
in rectilinear angles

slabs of slate
of marble

fading posy of flowers refreshed
a framed dageurrotype now
the glass cracked by hale stones

dried leaves of pine forsythia rose
drifting in the inturning autumnal gusts
the caretaker sweeps the debris of yesterdays's solemn descent
paper cups spilled soil
cracked flower pots

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poem by T. Wignesan
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