T Wignesan

T Wignesan Poems

On hearing that Ronnie

for Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood
(24.O5.30 - 17.01.92)
...

Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking

[Dedicated to Klaus Figge and Horst Taubmann, editors
of Heidelberg University's 'Forum Academicum' during the fifties
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Villanelle: Is this a Sport or some kind of psychotic hoax

[Dedicated to the fearless Spanish referee Antonio Mateo LAHOZ who dished out 18 Yellow Cards in the Argentina-Netherlands 2022 FIFA Quarter Finals and booked two Argentinian officials to boot (8 YCs to Arg. players and 7 to Dutch players. Hurray!) ]
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T Wignesan Biography

EDUCATION School-leaving certificates (SC: 1951: Grade One, HSC: 1953 (Cambridge University) , GCE: 4 A-levels and 1 subsidiary,1955 (London University) , Inns of Court School of Law (London: Certificate of Academic Standing, Bar Standards Board,1953-56) , Official School of Languages: 3rd Yr-Spanish Literature & Civilization (Madrid: 1970) , Diploma in Hispanic Studies (Madrid University: 1971: Extraordinary Prize) , Master's in Spanish Literature (Madrid: Instituto de Cultura Hispanica & University of Paris VIII: 1972-73: Très Bien/Distinction) , Doctorat d'Etat ès lettres et sciences humaines (Sorbonne-Pantheon; 1983-87: Très Honorable à l'unanimité- Magna-cum-laude) . CAREER ex-private tutor (Malaysia, Germany, Spain: to doctors in teaching hospitals: La Paz, Puerta de Hierro, La Conception et Ciudad Francisco Franco,1967-72) ex-School teacher (Malaysia: St. Aloysius School, Mantin, Vivekananda English School, Chung Hwa Middle School in Seremban, Malaya; Colegio Claret, Spain) , Lecturer (England: Commonwealth Institute, Germany: University of Maryland, European Division, Heidelberg; France: University of Sorbonne-Nouvelle at the doctoral level/DEA) , Adjunct- Professor at AGSIRD-American Graduate School of International Relations and Diplomacy, and Research Fellow: Chargé de recherches with the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS: 1973-1998) . Ex-Journalist (Malaysia: 'Malay Mail',1954; 'Malayan Times',1962) , London, England 'Straits Times Press Group' of Singapore(1964-65) ; 'Guidepost', Spain (1967)) Publisher's editor: Rayirath Raybooks Publications (Kuala Lumpur/London) ,1961-64. Founder-Editor of the 'Revue de Poïétique Comparée' and 'Asianists' ASIA'. For publications-books, check: www.authorsden.com/twignesan3 www.poetrysoup.com/me/t_wignesan www.cyberwit.net/authors/twignesan Translation of Autumn Leaves-Les feuilles mortes de Jacques Prevert by T Wignesan Autumn Leaves/Les feuilles mortes de Jacques PREVERT (1900-77) Translated by T. Wignesan (Note: As far as I can make out, this poem is at the heart of all versions of « The Autumn Leaves ' - Sung by Edith Piaf, Juliette Gréco, Yves Montand, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby and the like…) T. Wignesan https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=DJZtOwaizjE Mix - Chet Baker & Paul Desmond: 'Autumn Leaves' https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=Gsz3mrnIBd0 Oh! Je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes Oh! How I wish you'd remember des jours heureux où nous étions amis the joyous days when we were friends En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle In those days life was more beautiful et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui and the sun shone brighter than nowadays Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle Dead leaves one gathered by shovels Tu vois je n'ai pas oublié You see I have not forgotten Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle Fallen leaves one shoveled at will les souvenirs et les regrets aussi memories and regrets as well et le vent du nord les emporte and the wind from the north swept them dans la nuit froide de l'oubli into the cold night of forgetfulness Tu vois je n'ai pas oublié You see I have not forgotten la chanson que tu me chantais the song you sang to me C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble It was a song likened to ourselves Toi tu m'aimais You who loved me et je t'aimais and I likewise repaid Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble And we lived each with the other toi qui m'aimais you who loved me et que j'aimais and you I likewise loved Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment But life puts apart those in love tout doucement with infinite care sans faire de bruit without much ado et la mer efface sur le sable and sea waves efface on the sands les pas des amants désunis the footprints of lovers put asunder Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle Loads of dead leaves one shovels les souvenirs et les regrets aussi memories and regrets as well Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle But my love silent and steadfast sourit toujours et remercie la vie always smiles and gives thanks to life Je t'aimais tant tu étais si jolie I loved you so much for your beauty Comment veux-tu que je t'oublie How could you wish that I forget you En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle In those days when living was far more joyous et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui and the sun burnt brighter than nowadays Tu étais ma plus douce amie… You were my sweetest friend… Mais je n'ai que faire des regrets But all I can do is to feel regretful Et la chanson que tu chantais And the song you sang toujours toujours je l'entendrai forever forever rings in my ears C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble It's a song akin to us Toi tu m'aimais et je t'aimais You who loved me and I likewise you Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble And the two of us lived together toi qui m'aimais que j'aimais you who loved me and I likewise you Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment But life puts apart those in love tout doucement with infinite care sans faire de bruit without much ado et la mer efface sur le sable and sea waves efface on the sands les pas des amants désunis. the footprints of lovers put asunder. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, December 14,2020 Criss-Cross Acrostic: Ai My Eye and Ai Ai My Sore Eyes Criss-Cross Acrostic: Ai My Eye Criss-Cross Acrostic: Note: *Construe as " words" not as " letters" : Lines 1 and 3 read alike reversed; Lines 2 and 4 read alike reversed; likewise vertically and diagonally from updown or down-up mode. 'Ai Ai My Eye! ' I Was Saw Eye Eye Saw Was I Eye Was Saw I I Saw Was Eye Another Permutation: « Ai Ai My Sore Eye! ' I Sore Was I Saw I Sore Eye Sore I Saw Eye I Was Sore I FURTHER PERMUTATIONS for SORE EYES Eye Sore Saw I Saw I Sore Eye I Saw Sore Eye Sore Eye Saw I Saw I Sore Eye Eye Sore Saw I Sore Eye Saw I I Saw Sore Eye Eye Sore Saw I Sore Eye Saw I Saw I Sore Eye I Saw Sore Eye* This last quatrain diagonally reads as: 'Ai Ai Sore Eye' (phonetically) : « Ai Ai Saw I' Never Never ever will I query by T Wignesan Never Never ever will I query…by T Wignesan For Andrea MOTIS and the Joan CHAMORRO Jazz Band's version of Nancy Wilson's « Never Never will I marry » (Original lyrics by Frank Loesser) https: //music.youtube.com/watch? v=mKCdi71MRi4&list=RDAMVMmKCdi71MRi4 Never Never ever will I query What lies beyond the Dead No race No religion not Country I will blindly not be duped or led Born to one Mother and lone Father Long bred from Dark Ancestor Neanderthal or Fontéchevade Brother Will I let some god put asunder No doubts No fears nor Myths To keep this World in one Family Never Never will I ever blunt Truths Split countries to foist ethnic party One father-mother One brother-sister No nose No chin No brow Nor skull One from the other higher or better What Just god would want us Hell No more wars to boost economy No more lurid lies to breed enmity No more priests dividing Almighty No more excuses to halt equality Never Never ever will I bury The Dead in shrouds blood red Gone to worlds far from envy Gone to worlds where gods aren't bred… (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, December 7,2020 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXXII - 82 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor who maintained that if you don't like the 'humorist', you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) 'humour' IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne'er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a) musings under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as 'peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGOBOOSTING commentary (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5,2020 Villanelle: Alright Guys: Heave and Ho And let it go Villanelle: Alright guys: Heave and Ho! And let it go (Confinement to one's home though fines during « outings' add to revenue, private companies take orders from far-flung lands for masks, gloves and ventilators and protective surgical equipment when the Chinese already informed The WHO of the epidemic on December 16,2019 and the South Koreans manufactured the 'testing-gear » from artificial genes in February while tourists returning from the East were freely landing - without being tested - all over the West: « Pointless closing the barn door when the horse has bolted! ») Alright guys: Heave & Ho! And let it go ...No need to fear the Coast's wide open clear Ne'er Hem & Haw! Wash hands ere ye go Bind hands behind backs Lick face or blow …No need to worry Be not sorry, 'Dear' Alright guys: Heave & Ho! And let it go Guys on top say it feels good to row …Knudge elbows and spit on nose and ear Ne'er Hem & Haw! Wash hands ere ye go Masks and ventilators sell for much more …Than war-time manufactured cheap ware Alright guys: Heave & Ho! And let it go The guy who pays is the guy who's pinned low …The Guy at the Top rows free from fear Ne'er Hem & Haw! Wash hands ere ye go Stay home and watch Top Dogs whinge O! Woe! …Take-aways with cooks' sneeze good with beer Alright guys: Heave & Ho! And let it go Ne'er Hem & Haw! Wash hands ere ye go (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, March 23,2020 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXXI-81 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXI - 81 IF ever I had a country, a country without even a single Shredding Machine And if ever I were elected/nominated/appointed by the powers that be SPEAKER of the Lower House of Parliament whose power to shine however were to be curtailed by the Upper House's sheen A country where all laws were enacted without much heed to the rhyme nor reason of the Bard's Stratford-upon-Avon's mellifluous flow of theme Where every legal analyst: Professor of law Attorney-at-Law entertained his or her own opinion as to what the Laws of the State: relating to the Chief Executive, Rules and Regulations of Proceedings in or out of officialdom: libels, torts, crimes, misdemeanours or even what the Constitution may mean And if ever any elected official or foreign dignitary were to be invited or chose to invite himself whether by rights or not to address the House and read from a « tele-prompter » or printed text that was obviously Ghost-written, I'd shred the Speech with my front-teeth and unkempt nails and jump up and down with glee as though I were dancing the polka on the printed pages as they most certainly blatantly comport ideas, words and expressions of some heinous GHOST come to tease, torture, detract, confound, contradict and condemn all that is decent in the human being which is not mean And all this, so be it, I swear before the populace I can never be GUILTY of breaking the LAW should I shred the words of some GHOST who lies, distorts, turns on head some or all the TRUTHS held to be sacred in my Nation's History since no ghost may rightfully sue me (Sleep tight, Peach of a Teach!) for having even stolen a measly red, yellow or green pea, pod or bean And this, even if I were to be put through the piranha jaws of the Republic's Shredding-Immigration-Machine Even if I never ever had no country worthy of being shredded and pulverized in the Wall of Black Holes's grinding-machine (c) T. Wignesan, Paris, February 8,2020 IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY: IV IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY - IV Leer on face droning phony his Speech Coast-Guard nasal-ed win bareback on Leech Triumph of Demo-Crazy World aghast by Lunacy DEMOCRACY strappado-ed on staid Beach Lone Life-Saver shed ONE tear on lost Beach While Leech kicked bareback biting hand of Teach Peach tore to shreds SOTU Corona-Virus-ed YAHOO! Now POTUS sons romp and riot on Beach! POTUS Son-in-Law Prophet Peace Preach! Indicted Jockey borne aloft by Leech: Gold-grab Land-grab God-grab! Blow this World up so drab! Let the Self-CHOSEN-Few reign with Leech! Shame! Shame on US! Last bastion of Speech! The World held its breath hoping YOU'd us teach! Your sons laid their lives down To uphold righteous Crown: Empty words rot on Omaha Beach! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, February 3,2020 IMP-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty III IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY III! Holy Smoke! Odour of incense on Beach! Trainers marched with saddles to straddle Leech! « SILENCE! » Dull as Thunder! « Under pain of locker! » Grave mist hung low on Life-Savers each! CJOTUS kept clock arms for each to preach Who summoned Founding Fathers onto Beach! « This race is no Trial! Draw horse blood in phial! Drink! » said Chief Life-Saver Nation to teach! Coast-Guard in Cloak-Rooms begged bets to reach The magic number to put to sleep Teach « Hold back horses until All bets are in the till! I'll let none throw law-books on my Leech! » Indicted Jockey rode-off bareback on Leech! To save face while saddled Life-Savers preach: « No Nuts 'n Bolts-on, please! This fake Trial must cease! » Come November who'll lose this race on Beach? (c) T. Wignesan, Paris, January 29,2020 Imp-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty II IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY - II Coast-Guard droned and whined striding on Beach « Who dares to teach me how to close breach? Hand over the saddles! I'll dump them in puddles! No-one, I say, rides bareback on Leech! » Peach of a Teach lay bareback on Beach Counting on four bets to counter Leech « What if Coast-Guard turns coat? Calls no bets after vote? » Who's to reach for reins to saddle Leech? Hocus-Pocus! POTUS! Teach Impeach! Who rules as Leech trots on beyond reach? Now we have hung Jury ImPeachMentAlIty No more bets, please! Beseech not Teach to preach! Leech filly chairs G-20! O! Screech! Vice-POTUS heifer draws 50G bleach! High stakes family fun The World is a top spun! Will POTUS filly rule from the new breach? (c) T.Wignesan - Paris, January 15,2020 Imp-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty Imp-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty Once peach of a Teach on beach tried to preach The art of closing the reach in a breach The Coast-Guard drew his gun Shot a hole in the bun Now Teach leaks through breeches during Speech Teach then placed bets on a horse called Leech Before Whistle-Blower could cry « Impeach! » Leech took off in anger To smite Whistle-Blower House closed down for lack of bets on Leech Whistle-Blower held breath to teach impeach Upper House closed the breach to foist Leech Said Teach: « No more bets, please! » Leech learned to trot with ease Then Teach rode Leech without a screech Teach then said: « Place all bets out-of-reach! This race will take first place: Each-to-Each! » Twenty-two trillion debt The pit is full and wet Whose finger will dam dike in the breach? (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 17,2019 Villanelle: Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties Villanelle: Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties In Memory of the late pathologist (and amateur Astronomer) Associate Professor CHONG Siew Meng, National University of Singapore* Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties Which pierce through skin and bone and the cryptic genetic code Friends hatched from the same mould needn't rely on vice nor lies Wu Ch'eng-en's « Monkey » didn't waft down Monsoon winds for spice But to imbibe Siddhartha* Truth: the Golden Mean* at Nalanda* abode Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties And took back to the Middle Kingdom « Eight-Fold Path* » wise That neither « ancestral worship » nor Taoist logic sought to exclude Friends hatched from the same mould needn't rely on vice nor lies Then the fierce Boddhidharma* stared down the Emperor Chinese And from « Four Noble Truths* » sprang Chan/Zen in enigmatic mode Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties Whilst in deserts iconoclast prophets tore down the sacred edifice The Essenic Tribe traced the descent from Tusita Heaven to Mary mode Friends hatched from the same mould needn't rely on vice nor lies The Dead Sea Scrolls lie buried in some hidden vault full of lice and mice While Crusaders drive Saracens from the Holy Land onto the migrant road Never political but spiritual the ancient Indo-Chinese pilgrim ties Friends hatched from the same mould needn't rely on vice nor lies Notes •An ex-Victoria Institution pupil from Kuala Lumpur. In Malaysia and Singapore, it is not uncommon to find many Chinese and Tamils forming quite close relationships, the most renowned of such friendships thrived between the late Prime Minister LEE KUAN YEW and the late Senior Vice-Premier S. RAJARATNAM, the latter born and raised in Malay(si) a. Lee Kuan Yew shed tears in public at Rajaratnam's funeral. •Siddhartha: « he who achieves his aim » •Golden Mean (the Middle Way) : « away from all self-indulgence and selfmortification » •Nalanda: ancient university (in the present-day State of Bihar) to which several Chinese pilgrims like the renowned Yi-jing or I-tsing (635-713 CE) made their way to learn Sanskrit and Pali in order to translate Buddhist works to take back home. On the way, they stopped at SriVijaya in Sumatra for the very same reason. •Eight-Fold Path: right view; right intention; right speech; right action; right livelihood; right effort; right mindfulness; right concentration. •Bhodhidharma: a Tamil « Brahmin » who took the Buddha's teaching to China and there meditated for years facing a wall in a cave until followers sought his knowledge which gave birth to Chan in China and Zen in Japan. It is also said that he initiated the martial arts at Shao-lin. •Four Noble Truths: « Suffering as part and parcel of Life »; « Sensual craving as the cause of suffering »; « Acquisition of identity »; « Suffering can be eradicated by following the Eight-Fold Path » © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 10,2019 Beyond the Heart, the Head and the Soul reigns unsullied Belief Beyond the Heart, the Head and the Soul reigns unsulleable Belief How he blurted in a moment of self-lacerating glory-be pique Who will in a thousand years retrieve my poems from digital rot A thousand years grind grim in fermenting ocean-filth freak Rather think in terms of a hundred or two twisted tight in knot By then no scales may balance conflicting efforts set adrift Wild tsunamis would have raged over lands and cities lying low And the mighty and the rich abandon ports to set up amont aloft And none will seek to extend meaning beyond the beclouded glow None will batter brains split hairs over words poets proudly sow No conniving committees allocate prizes as at musical-chairs play Past the highest achievements scientific excellence on us bestow For neither love nor purity of soul will be Man's cultural mainstay For the stunted Psyché still wallows in the Doldrums of Belief By what we impute to holy Prophets Popes and Poets' mischief © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 7,2019 Translation of Mat POKORA's Je suis tombe by T Wignesan Translation of Mathieu POKORA's « Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé » by T Wignesan (NOTE: I just thought I'd translate the lyrics (see the French original herebelow) of this lilting catchy tune not just because of its self-mocking candid insouciance and playful seriousness, but also for the way the melody clings and swings all on its own - in the least expected of moments - in the hinterlands of one's leisureliness. There is something endearing about a guy who chants about himself being a victim of his « head-over-heels » love for a girl to the extent he feels he ought - in his confounded opinion - to be interned in a lunatic asylum (just imagine enduring strait-jackets, electroencephalograms, high-voltage charges to the brain and frontal lobotomy - all for his LOVE!) . Won't you agree?) Laid Low Am I, Fallen, Fallen If ever you forget The day our eyes first met All that we said to each other In the dim back of the bar If ever Life were To lend me no hand Abandon us both, no Wishing not to dally with us We'd be lost, that's for sure But not for very long We'd meet up again, I'm certain Even as it were a game for children Likely as not, we'd be lost But as time goes by Making it together again, for sure Like in those games of ours of yore (REFRAIN) : Fallen low am I, Fallen, Fallen Wounded Kudos, My Queen, you have won I've lost my bearings and ought to be interned Crushed low am I, crushed, crushed Low, low, mighty low Hurt in the heart am I All Hail, Liege! Your lowly subject am I Naught but a madman, a madman to be put away Have hit rock bottom, floundering down in the dumps If ever you take fright Trust in me I'll bear all your pain You'll see how things mend If ever you're given to doubt This promise I'll keep To keep you on a safe course With words of tenderness (REFRAIN) If ever you forget If ever you are afraid Know, never will it all end, no The joy in our hearts will never set If ever you forget If ever you are afraid It'll never be over, never Never (REFRAIN) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 25,2019 Click on this un-official version of the song: https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=n0UC1ymzfnw 'Tombé' Si jamais t'oublies Nos premiers regards Tout ce qu'on s'est dit Dans le fond du bar Si jamais la vie N'est pas d'mon côté Ne veut pas de nous, non Ne veut plus jouer On se perdra, c'est sûr Mais jamais longtemps On se retrouvera, j'suis sûr Comme un jeu d'enfants On se perdra pour sûr Mais avec le temps On se donnera, c'est sûr Comme dans nos jeux d'antan Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Si jamais t'as peur Aies confiance en moi J'prendrai ta douleur Tu verras, ça ira Si jamais tu doutes J'te fais la promesse De garder sur ta route Les mots, la tendresse On se perdra, c'est sûr Mais jamais longtemps On se retrouvera, j'suis sûr Comme un jeu d'enfants On se perdra pour sûr Mais avec le temps On se donnera, c'est sûr Comme dans nos jeux d'antan Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Si jamais t'oublies Si jamais t'as peur C'est jamais fini, non Il est là le bonheur Si jamais t'oublies Si jamais t'as peur C'est jamais fini, non Non Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Je suis tombé, tombé, tombé Je suis touché, bravo ma reine tu as gagné Je n'suis qu'un fou, un fou à enfermer Je suis tombé, je suis tombé Published on June 30,2019 - Original lyrics by Mat POKORA. IF YOU PULL A LONG BREXITING FACE: XLIV IF YOU PULL A LONG BREXITING FACE: XLIV - 44 IF you pull a long-twisted Brexiting face Pulled three more years by Santa Theresa May « Eyes » to the Right and « Nose » to the Left gaze Is the fate of phase after Letwin amendment delay If you pull a long-pained Brexit-fixit-now face Deal or No-Deal come yet what the Devil may Scoff at Benn Act to be torn apart in court case Set then precedence in Case Law if PM won't obey If you still keep pulling that long Back-Stop face Stick foot in the slamming EURO door to stay Le Vieux Continent put-off by antique grimace Would Mary Queen of Scots excise Henry VIII's UK If you then pull the long borderless Irish face Migrant mice will grow fat on illicit trade mellée Till the microbiote in the innerns all borders efface And the Brexit Isles will split asunder in dismay Then if you pull the long put-together fallen face Towed across the Atlantic moored as the 51st to allay The fears of Norman Conquests taking over the States Guess who foists upon the World the Union Jack - Hurray! © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 19,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: XLIII - the Embalmed Mona Lisa under the Glass Pyramid IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: XLIII- the Embalmed Mona Lisa in the Glass Pyramid If you pull a long stymied face Make certain you peel eyes that do not stray Or else the faces you make will make-up put out-of-place Yet the legions who march past portrait make for dire prey If you keep pulling that mock long-pulled enigmatic face Not even oil on poplar buttressed by beech oak sycamore or maple Nor butterfly braces lock Mona Lisa's back-warping brace Sfumato style phase out smile eyelashes eyebrows from wood panel If you must pull that long neither nor face Two faces fused in one while in the family way Dumbfounded tourists be trampled under divisive gaze Did not Leonardo cross-eyed dab paint in reverie gay If you then insist on pulling a long-painted face Own mocking glances at François 1er's La Gioconda, nay Count yourself among millions Lady Gherardini's to praise Think of the billions it takes to care for her image and so pay Yet if you then keep pulling that long-amused face Watching myriad eyes searching the reasons for your precious sway Pied-Piper armies come trampling trapped in a momentary craze The pent-up pilgrims in your glass sanctum-sanctorum catharsis obey © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 25,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XLII - 42 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: 42 If you pull a long-bored acrimonious face Looking hardly at anyone passing your way Your sunken cheeks spiting your own face But those bitter bitten lips will give you away If you keep pulling that long forsaken-look face Wondering why each face will not own mask betray Slop around in slippers not deigning to tie shoe-lace Know that « la caque sent toujours le hareng »* all day If you then must keep pulling your long sagging face To thwart all and everything not going your way The noble Fa-Ling lines stop at the mouth without grace: The « Flying Serpent enters the mouth', the Chinese say If you still insist on pulling that long worsted face Since no-one will miss you once you're gone, you say Just think how many have not even by « contumace' Pulled a long lost face some weary dreary day So if you're the kind to pull a put-up pleasant face See no smile lurking in within the Sun's awakening ray Hear no Garden Warbler trill livening up the pace Know then, Friend, you're loose change in the cash tray Note: * Literally, in French, means: 'the herring barrel always stinks of herring », but figuratively, as in this instance, means: « you can't hide your origins ». (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, September 18,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXX - Bang Bang Who Shot Me Down Like A Pariah Dog - Follow Up IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXX - Bang! Bang! Who Shot Me Down like an Unlicensed Pariah Dog! Follow Up! IF ever I had a country, a country without a dim shadow of a doubt not subject to the whistle of a Woman Referee nor of a Video Assistant Referee where bullets whistle supersonic from trigger-happy automatic weaponry And where, as you already know, I was unanimously called upon by common consent of the Congress and the Chief Executive - yes, including the ever-recalcitrant Senate to a no-decision-taking thwarting degree - to take into my sole healing hands the duty of imposing holy SILENCE in the pistol-packing « bang-bang » Land of the Free Where, most regrettably the Powers-that-Be, it appears, have failed to hark to the hints, innuendoes and warnings overtly embodied in our ULTIMATUM and humbly addressed to their Royal Highnesses who somewhat obliviously ignore the fate of some 50,000 of their compatriot-citizen subjects being held as « hostages » at the mercy of the bloodthirsty NRA Army crying out for some « human » BLOOD instead of the insipid Polar Bear and Ermine blood-stained ICE CREAM cones they are obliged to suck on to assuage their insatiable lust for splitting and spilling the contents of skulls in orgies And while we hear from our Dirty-Tricks-Department whose intrepid sions had infiltrated - not just for the pleasure cruise - the PACQUEBOTS during the initial pell-mell boarding spree THAT Admiral Greta THUNBERG has been nursing (yet to be verified) her own plans for annexing Hans Anderson territory for the greater glory of Greta Garbo country with an eye on the Nobel Peace Prize gratuity Even if we find it painfully difficult to understand how in the Hamlet Court no sign nor response is yet forthcoming to agree to the maximum of 10%(NOTE: we have raised the bar from well-under to the top!) of the $100 million buying fee offered by Harry S. Truman in his ATOMIC FOLLY for a mere chunk of useless GREEN-less rock with the icing thinning by the day everyone can see So, the QUESTION here is not just one of TO BE or NOT TO BE but one of what's brewing in Macbeth's WITCHES' CAULDRONS? -stoked by the NRA Army - the 50,000 Danes? who have no right to « be bloody, bold, and resolute » or « laugh to scorn » the apocalyptic fire and brimstone about to be unleashed on the WHOLE WORLD with one push on the remote control button whether SILENCE of late reigns in the You-Knighted Country YES, Siree! That's what I'd do - press the button - if ever I were appointed the SOLE REFEREE by Congressional decree And this, even if I never ever had no country ruled by the moule à gaufre/waffle iron of mighty musketry (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, September 11,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXIX - Bang Bang Who Shot Me Down Like An Un-Licensed Dog IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXIX - Bang! Bang! Who Shot Me Down like an Unlicensed Dog! IF ever I had a country, a country certainly not subject to the whistle of a Woman Referee -- even of a Video Assistant Referee - where bullets whistle supersonic from trigger-happy automatic weaponry And if ever I were called upon by common consent of the House of Reps, the Senate and the Chief Executive - yes all three - to take into my sole healing hands the duty of imposing SILENCE in the pistolpacking « bang-bang » Land of the Free I would first and foremost send a Special Envoy - well-trained in the art of extracting gold from rotten teeth - to persuade the Nobel Committee (with besides a caveat to pressure the Swedish PM and Chief Justice from issuing a « non-ingérence » edict) to stay forthwith the conferment of the Nobel Prize to authors and poets for a century (writers who in any case would have secured by attaining their senior age ALL the principal publisher-controlled and mutuallyrotated prizes and who would have by that pinnacle-age amassed gigantesque illgotten gains through royalties) and instead implore the Nob-Com to let my country have the equivalent in weight of DYNAMITE in the care and production of the Alfred Nobel family Next, I'll charter all PAQUEBOTS, such as, the Queen Mary, the Queen Elizabeth - even the newly-salvaged and to be refurbished Titanic - and then I'll have their hulls loaded and packed to the brim with the Nobel Dynamite, and will I not then appoint? the fifteen-year-old THUNBERG as the Admiral-of-the-Fleet and will I not let it out? to ALL 300-million or more gun-owners yearning for some much-needed target practice the right to free-passage on these luxury liners together with their legally-acquired NRA-authorized automatic « manmowers » — all for the noble cause of annihilating from Europe thick, stumpy teens or hags who block all passages, side-walks, mall-halls, zebra-crossings, railway and airport entrances, y comprise « la plus belle avenue du Monde: les Champs-Elysées » with their 'ambling-rambling » gait - for a hard-to-miss target-drilling spree And then, when the licensed gun-owners trample over one another and their trillion-strong hunting-gear to get on board, all itching-ready to pump moltenlead into bulging, pulpy and thick-tough flesh, I'll order Admiral Thunberg to set course for GREENLAND under the pretext of getting and honing-in some target practice while sampling the local brand of ICE-CREAM laced with polar-bear and ermine blood, while all 50,000 Danish citizens line the shores to welcome the NRA-supporters with their automatics, I'd issue an ultimatum to His/Her Royal Danish Majesty once the hunting-corps take up strategic positions on Danish iced-soil to SELL the ISLE for less than 10% of the sum offered by Harry TRUMAN after WWII or ELSE face up to the aurora borealis detonation - through remote satellite control - of solid Swedish Nobel dynamite and face up to the fury of my NRA-Army YES, Siree! That's what I'd do if ever I were appointed the SOLE REFEREE by Congressional decree And this, even if I never ever had no country ruled by the moule à gaufre/waffle iron of mighty musketry (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, August 17,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LV - Mind unwinding tweezers UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LV - Mind unwinding tweezers If you let « bygones be bygones », there'll be no FUTURE left, and since we can't always live in the EVER PRESENT (yet that's what we all do) , WHAT are we living for? By the same token, if we « followed » the above dictum 'to the letter », there'd be no more WARS nor VENDETTAS, no more DIVORCES nor PATERNITY SUITS or even personal slights…. even if you don't know what I really mean! IF « It's an ill wind that brings/blows no one any good! », wherever you go, ensure that you have a thermometre on you, for the instant you feel the faintest breeze grace your temples, whip out your « thermo » and check your temperature, and if it's « normal », rush home and keep the windows and doors wide open in anticipation of PRESENTS (hope the apertures are wide enough to permit the passage of a shining Ferrari, for instance) that are bound to tumble into your lucky lap! You lucky Devil! This's a 'guessing game ». Someone once said: « Ich bin ein Berliner! » at the Brandenburg Gate to a large cheering crowd. Yet, no one bothered to check his birth certificate! When you know who called into question his predecessor's inalienable birth rights, he didn't doubt the veracity of the secret-valise codes he received from the man. Now, what would the President say in similar circumstances? « Ich bin ein Zzzzz..….! (fill in the blank space) « … the ball is in your court now » says the guy who has run out of words… not so the Coco girl who said - after winning - « I gave my Mom a heart attack! ' What's so 'rotten in Denmark' to keep « buyers » away… « No ifs and buts, I'll bet the shirt on my back » that we'd leave by October 31st. Will the EU buy that! « The British royalty will have to go if ever there were traffic jams » (due to the royal processions on London's streets) , said a Prince who still loves the rides attired in full regalia and refuses to go... « To a Poet, Who would have me praise certain bad poets, imitators of his and mine You say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another's said or sung, ‘Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas. « W. B. Yeats,1865 - 1939 Sir, mighty Nobel pen drunk on Gaelic langue 'Twere more politic to cut the dog's tongue And let the saliva drool on festering fleas Than to scratch with claws in joyful ease! T. Wignesan,19— - 20— (c) T. Wignesan, Paris, August 8,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES - LIV: Swatting flies in Buckingham Palace from the White House UNQUOTABLE QUOTES - LIV: Swatting flies in Buckingham Palace from the White House When Bianca Nobilissima, the statuesque Sea Anne-Anne anchor in her Star-Trek heat-wave get-up exposing her sculptured architectural buoy spaces from head to heel (even Mr. Spock would raise eyebrows wishing he were human) disclosed - with the riotous rowdy Westminster Parliament for a backdrop - that she would give « anything » (? ? ?) to be (not necessarily verbatim) « a fly on the wall » during the British premiership « changing-of-the-guard » at Buckingham Palace just to see if the new Brexit-PM would actually « kiss » Her Majesty's graciously proffered hand or just merely « sniff » at it, to say the least, she must have had no inkling whatsoever of the grave danger she was courting for right in those phantasmagoric surroundings resides a DUDE who is a past-master at « swatting » flies whether on, against or behind the wall or, for that matter, even through the wall! Guess WHO was watching the same emission? for HE, too, proclaimed how he would love to be « a fly on the wall » just to listen to growls and growses in Democratic corridors of power on impeachment designs after the Senate Mueller hearings! ! ! The Teutonic strains in the principally Norman royal household might reverberate to the chilling ribaldry of the Koninklijke Chorale Caecilia -- (under the baton of Paul DINNEWETH and the ethereally uplifting voices: Martine REYNERS (soprano) , Philip DEFRANCQ (tenor) and Joris DERDER (baritone) -- through Carl ORFF's care-may-the-Devil-be: CARMINA BURANA performance: http: www.al-production.be Would that the newly-ordained PM recall the medieval poet's Old-German in these lines: Were din werit alle min von deme mere unze an den Rin, des weht ih mih darben, daz diu chunegin von Engellant lege an minen armen. Translation (taken from the internet without credits) : Were all the world mine from the sea to the Rhine, I would starve myself of it so that the Queen of England might lie in my arms. © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 29,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVIII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVIII for Suzanne DELANEY, in appreciation (Prelude: CAN THE WRONG MAN BE RIGHT? ABSOLUTELY! If only he were NOT guilty of the self-same crime! For instance, here in Europe, acceding to « nationality» status can be quite ludicrously irrational: those migrants even 'totally ignorant' of the host country's culture and official tongue obtain their 'citizenship papers » sooner or later, while clinging desperately to their own culture and country to the exclusion of their hosts'- some more fortunatethough enjoy « dual nationality » and therefore DUAL rights to LOYALTY ! And talk tough once they take over responsibile positions in society. And the ones on whom the latter prey most of all are precisely those « other» less fortunate migrants at their mercy!) IF ever I had a country, a country NOT « wholly' put together by either IMMIGRANTS or REFUGEES, you see, but by conquering IMPERIAL ENSLAVERS on the backs of blacks and on those fleeing from hunger, from religious intolerance as 'indentured-labourers », mainly, you'll agree WHERE the indigene was routed and rounded up into RESERVES through superior 'fire-power' by the COLONIAL and local ARISTOCRACY AND where TAXES and LEVIES imposed by the « Foreign Power » drove the locally-born MASTER to revolt against the MOTHER COUNTRY Until the whole CONTINENT united « nation » after « nation » to become the foremost mid-twentieth century « COLONIAL » SAVIOUR of the WORLD country Only to find its internal structure and economic power usurped by other NON-NATION constituting ethnies AND one-by-one take over from the original WASP founding PATER FAMILIAS confederacy Yes, then, I'd keep the NEW-COMER from wagging his/her tongue or shooting his/her mouth tout azimuth - despite the legislative mandate - as though he/she were the backbone of the nation or from attempting to take over my « dear » country as if it were their « god-given » patrimony Even if I never ever had no country stuck together with spit and elbow-grease to look like a pyrotechnically-powere Bollywoodian jamboree (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 22,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LIII - Tongue Teasers UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LIII - Tongue Teasers Whether the glass is « half full » or « half empty », what counts is WHO « drank' the 'other half », the « better half »? Lucky Devil! « By hook or by crook » always drag the virgin in to read your book while you devise ways to make her your life-long cook! This's probably what the French mean by the phrase: « défrayer un territoire vièrge » (i.e., « open up virgin territory ») , say, in reference to fundamental research. When preachers want you to be the epitome of « milk of human kindness », do they want you to suck or suckle breasts? Don't make a fuss about not wanting to receive presents of not much value, for you can always give them away to the poorer cousin clan residing in hutments down the road. If you « croc-a-dile », even once in a while (depending on whether the tile was made of mud, concrete or platinum) , you risk being fed for the rest of your life with infusions via tubes. Why « make hay while the sun shines » when you can simply free all the caged herbivorous animals we raise to feed ourselves, and after they would have supped to their hearts' content, just shoot and slaughter and devour them? True, « the dog is Man's best friend », but only so long as he continues to feed the dog; otherwise, as in the recent case of a dying recluse in the States, dogs will feed themselves on the Master (it's not clear whether he was alive or dead) — clothes, flesh and bones to boot! (Anthony Burgess described in one of his novels a case of having to traverse at one's own risk a monkeyinfested forest. One great big-hearted man carried bags of nuts to appease their hunger whenever he had to gain the other side of the forest. One fine day, he clean forgot to haul the bags of nuts, and he just dldn't make it across the wild in one piece!) If you « cast pearls before swine », know that they would lap it up without compunction and expel the same with the habitual choruses of grunts, together with the abominable swill husbandmen feed them, and you would have a hard — if not a beastly - time extracting them from the nauseating quagmire of sties, that is, if the abattoir-butchers would not contest your rights to the pearls! If you don't believe me, go see 'The Texas Chain Saw Massacre' (1974) : you, too might get your head caved in with a sledge-hammer, your twitching body dumped in the deep-freeze or hung on a steel hook against the wall awaiting carving to supply the local butcher right round the corner! To catch a monkey, all you have to do is to bore a small hole in a coconut for it to get its hand through to the luscious kernel: the monkey will grab as much of the kernel in its submerged hand and be trapped. It wouldn't occur to the monkey to let go of the kernel to extract its hand free! The case of « Freedom Fighters » always wanting more territory than they know they can legitimately aspire or lay claim to. And what do « freedom fighters », who have been defeated by the overwhelming forces of the State, do after the rebellion or revolution? The few surviving leaders will write poetry or cultivate their philosophic image for posterity; the rest - the rank and file and cadres - deprived of civil-life training or upbringing and a general education turn to « organized » crime for a living, to wit, theft, drug-dealing, sexual exploitation for personal gain, money-lending and the nefarious international remittance business, trafficking in the lucrative migrant « slave-trade » and also the legitimate catering and grocery trade — all coming under the umbrella of the respectable IMPORT-EXPORT business nomenclature! After the lost revolution Even the failed rebellion Remain collected funds bullion Cash stashed by the? ? ? million Make 'them' bourgeois onion To pay politicking henchmen- minion! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 17,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LII 52 - Tongue-Tweezers UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LII - Tongue Tweezers Tit for Tat Butter for Fat Rat for Cat Left for Right Day for Night Might for Right Tick for Tack Lick for Lack Lice for Sack Rice for Mice Dice for Vice Nice for Voice Sap for Lap Cap for Gap Rap for Nap Loose for Tight Pound for Bite Penny for Wight Lord for Light Black for White Diddle for Riddle Fiddle for Middle Horse for Sadle Stable for Fable Jingle for Jangle Bungle for Wrangle Mingle for Mangle Single for Double Goble for Gamble Mumble for Rumble Lass for Dad Had for Glad Mom for Mad Laid for Paid Brother for Maid Died for Raid Bow for Wow Row for Sow Slew for Brow Seed for Reed Need for Weed Greed for Deed Pine for Mine Brine for Wine Sign for Line Whine for Dine Groin for Loin Grind for Join Bread for Würst Butter for Toast Steak for Roast Trumpet for Boast Storms for Coast Armour for Joust Bat for Mat Ball for Bat Hole for Rat Den for Lion House for Sion World for Zion Tit for Tat Gutter for Rat Rap for VAT Flour for Oven Levure for Leaven Govern for Heaven! Sign by Sign Line by Line Words di-vine? (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 14,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LI 51 - Tongue-Teasing Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: LI - Tongue-Teasers If you want to give someone a « taste of his own medicine', you must first obtain sufficient quantities of the same medicine in the market, and if it's out-of-stock - TOUGH LUCK! - you have to employ some pharmaceutical company to manufacture it for you! GOOD LUCK! If you write « poetry » without first acquainting yourself with what has already been put out in the field over the ages - which might take/cost you a few « lifetimes » wholly devoted to the task - you might only be « beating the dead horse » over and over again, severally in theme, tone and style. TANT PIS ! If, on the other hand, someone or some school (might even be a « publisher ») tells you they can « teach » you how to write « great poetry », you should first try them out by asking them to write it themselves and win all the coveted prizes available (and they are legion!) in the field, y compris the NOBEL, before obviously following their advice, though they might not take kindly to hearing this from you, especially if you are a poet, yourself! « Poetry' can be a very lucrative commodity bandied about by businessmen! If, by common consent of all the governments in the world, LAWYERS/SOLLICITORS and their ilk are put on « salary » - financed through appropriation of one $ or one € from every wage-earner (the latter wouldn't mind at all!) - there is little doubt for conjecture, before the end of the present generation ALL LAW FACULTIES all over the world will close down for good! Likewise, if all governments paid so-called CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS (with some notable exceptions like, perhaps, UNICEF, AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL, INSTITUT PASTEUR, MEDECINS SANS FRONTIER, to name just a few) to keep them from producing highly expensive publications in glossy techni-colour print (which no one ever reads, I'm certain, and which stokes the colossal « waste disposal » industry) , the « lungs » of the world like the Brazilian jungles won't be suffering from DEEP VEINOUS THROMBOSIS! True, « CRIME DOES (NOT) PAY », yet it's the « criminal » who gets richer and richer at the expense of his victims, and, as everybody already knows, the « best » and richest lawyers are at the rich man's beck and call to keep the LAW at bay! LEGISLATION is almost always written by lawyer-politicians who provide « loopholes » for those who know how to look for them! Whoever said: 'JUSTICE is blind' is him/her-self « purblind »! Back to Aurélien BARRAU, the young French Astrophysicist and Philosopher-Poet (he obtained with the highest academic honours « doctorates » in astro-physics and philosophy from the best French academic establishments) - is right now the foremost « advocate » most eloquently campaigning against « climate change » issues in France and has publicly declared, with proof in hand, that « climate change » is IRREVERSIBLE and its catastrophic consequences will occur in the lives of our children. (See his book out this year: LE PLUS GRAND DEFI de l'HISTOIRE de l'HUMANITE: Face à la catastrophe écologique et sociale. Paris: Ed. Michel Lafon,2019, 145p.) Here are relevant quotes from this book: « Certain trends in the excesses of consumerism will by necessity result in economic decline. Perhaps even, sometimes, in the loss of comfort. But, if the (detrimental ecologic) situation were to become « lethal » - and this's the case today - economic growth cannot make any sense or be of any interest. The means defeats the end. » (p.34) (…) « To migrate towards a vegetarian regime of dieting would be very beneficial for ecology: the industry devoted to meat production is one of the most pollution prone imaginable. One kilogram of beef requires 10,000 litres of water, even a calory of meat requires 4 to 11 calories of vegetable matter, animal husbandry emits more green-house gas than all other human activity - including transport - and, in 2050, this will be the primary cause of penury in food in the world. » And he goes on to say that the avoidance of meat consumption will reduce the incidence of cardio-vascular, diabetic and cancer-inducing diseases. (pp.35- 36) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 12,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: L 50 - Tongue-Teasing Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: L (50) - Tongue-Teasers The « early bird catches the worm » only because the worm has not woken up yet. « I don't love you! I hated your father! » - must be the real reason why « Mother F.….r » is so popular a swear-word (correct me if I'm wrong) In the USA. Is being « down and out » just a passing condition of being « broke and depressed » or the more serious predicament of being « technically knocked out » cold on your back? ? ? ? « Time and time again » the Church or Temple bells toll to keep the worshipper away by reminding him of the « hidden » trap about to be sprung. The 'true believer' follows his own « conditioned reflexes' which don't wring his conscience. If you grow tired of the wife's cooking, invite friends to dinner, and they'll be honour-bound to let you sample theirs. But, if you grow averse to the wife's jokes in bed, best to invite your enemies to share the conjugal bed. You'll soon make lots of friends, followed by lots of dinner parties with the promise of delicious post-prandial desserts. Generally, « shooting Stars » shoot themselves while sliding down slippery holly wood or hanging from the holly tree when the agent overlooks the Star for some one more « willing » and younger. The Manager-Trainer who « chucks in the towel » even before the final countdown - despite the protesting affirmations of his « poulain » that he could go yet another dozen rounds - has to be the only humane soul in a sado-masochistic world of « bear-baiting » barbarity where two trained performers batter each other's brains to the accompaniment of wild screams and yells of blood-thirsty drunks insensitive to broken bleeding noses, caved-in swollen black-eyesockets, broken ribs and concussion - the image of Muhammad Ali's delirium tremens palsy! The « priceless jewel » is almost always a Classical Master's painting adorning « sfumato » most palatial buildings under high security guard, but a true poet's words merely string some broken pearly line in the fading memory of a sensitive soul to make him look out into the chirping chastening world! Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo were both illegitimate and both apprenticed to Masters at an early age at their own wilfull asking. Both showed genius at an early age and were the object of much envy from teacher as well as peers. Leonardo kept notes by writing backwards and was ambi-dextrous. He's remembered for 'Mona Lisa » and the « Last Supper » and for his anatomical and mathematical sketches and drawings. Michelangelo was compelled by patrons to paint, instead of working on sculpture which was his forté. Witness « David ». Yet, his paintings imbibed as he painted glorify the 'Cistine Chapel'. With compass through calculus With scalpel on 'stolen » corpses With paint in sfumato colours Thru back-neck-bending calouses With dreams of 'winged' opuses Frescoes or burial sculptures Wills of born and made geniuses When Megan was interviewed after the match and was asked to display her now famous « Bolt-like' stance, she obliged and said: « This's called the s..t-eating grin! » Now, what would her HAKKA look like on Inauguration Day! Hers! This's in response to Ronald Hull's comment on my Unquotable Quotes: XLIX in Authorsden.com, dated 6/7 July 2019: « According to the French Astrophysicist and philosopher-poet Aurélien BARRAU, b.19 May 1973, in Paris - a Senior Research Fellow (and Full Professor at the University of Grenoble-Alpes) with the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) , Honorary Member of the Institut Universitaire France, Visiing Professor at Stanford and Princeton, the 2006 Laureate of the Russian Bogoliubov Prize, among others - no scientific theory, apart from - for the moment - Einstein's Special and General Relativity theories - can be proven to be wholly valid or be taken definitely into account in the overall assessment and calculation of the COSMOS's underlying functional principles in all its detail be it the Big Bang or Big Crunch or BIG BOUNCE or the behaviour of the BLACK HOLES, etc., (though he somewhat defers to the « String Theory » and the « Multi-Verse » concept, and critiques Einstein's lack of foresight in the comprehension of the role of « particle physics » in the scheme of things entire. Here is a relevant quote: 'Que des génies absolus comme Newton ou Einstein (et d'autres) aient contribué de façon décisive est évidemment indéniable. Mais l'essentiel des progrès est dû à un magnifique effort collectif qui ne relève pas du « est-ce Monsieur A ou Madame B qui a raison? ». C'est beaucoup plus subtil et intriqué que cela. Nous ne sommes pas dans une arène de « parieurs » qui doivent miser sur le bon cheval. Le meilleurs choix est souvent un contrepoint de propositions qui s'entremêlent. ' My translation (take it for what it's worth) : 'That the great geniuses like NEWTON or EINSTEIN (and others) had contributed in a decisive way (to our knowledge) is undeniably evident. But the essence of progress is due to a laudable collective effort which does not depend on « whether it was Mister A or Madam B who was right? » It's much more subtle and involved than that. We are not in an arena of « bettors » who are called upon to bet on the winning horse. The best choice is often the counterpoint of propositions which intertwine. » (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 9,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLIX - Tongue Teasers UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: Tongue-Teasers - XLIX « Third Degree » is when you add « Insult to injury ». If you take everything everybody says with a « pinch of salt », we'll soon be able to drink ocean water free of charge - and eat plastic weeds and fish growing on the shores. A « sweet tooth » soon rots to the root. If you send coal to Newcastle, you'll feel the heat as far down in your muscles as/at Neuchatel or Machu Pichu castle! 'Think twice' before you jump but don't jump anyway, for thinking so is a « vice » and thinking « twice » won't make it any the more « wise » or « nice »! If you don't « listen' to what you normally « say', you risk having both your ears boxed-in tight! If SALSA is favela-bred « dirty-dancing », then TANGO is stylish, high-class but prudish titillating « teasing ». A « yawn » is a « yarn » about it being not so much a sign of insomnia or even boredom as an act of having lost the thread of the speech or argument in a debate on the stage. By « tightening the belt » when times get hard, the Wise Guy who coined the phrase really meant to say: « Don't « indulge » yourself or else you'd have an « extra mouth » to feed! A wrinkled brow is only « an unmade bed » at the end of the night - not a sign of wisdom or authority! A « scrum » in rugby is not so much an « head-on » clash as a « bum-stretching » exercise: the last anchor-man stifles snorting! Andalusian Flamenco dancers who are invariably women at most « palos », imitate/mimic the MALES of birds in the courting process through frisky headand- hind-jutting movements while their men - mostly - prefer to sit it out with « palmas » - clapping their women onto greater action. Who courts whom ? ? ? ? Do English football fans sing « Swing Low, Sweet Chariot… » at football matches because they want to be taken back to Africa without their « chains »? ? ? ? ? Who took them to the Americas in the first place? ? ? ? ? Are you having « sex » when you masturbate? Answer « Yes » and you are right! Answer « No » and you're right tight! Which girls are the best? Those who enjoy themselves? Or, those who let you enjoy yourself? Answer the « former » and you're ….. Answer the « latter » and you're equally….. The Child is Father of the Man, but Man is Father of any and of all the « gods », for not only he 'invented' them (as figments of his imagination) , but has been interfering with the Will of the Almighty ever since… What goes up must come down? ? ? Even if all objects « fall » at the same speed, owing to « gravity », the French astro-physicist and philosopher-poet maintains that it's the Earth that catapults itself to receive the falling objects (correct me if I'm wrong, Aurélien) . The question is, When thunder strikes down onto the earth, is it the Earth which produces and projects THUNDER from down under? ? ? Isn't it, then, rather a question of « What goes up, goes up and stays UP! » NOT « What comes down! » This's for Dr. Edward Phillips at Authorsden.com in response to his comment on UNQUOTABLE QUOTES XLVIII: Tongue-Teasers (Poetry) - 7/6/2019 5: 51: 28 AM 'Your are either wise beyond reason, or unreasonably wise. I haven't yet got you figured out. But I'm getting onto you..I think.': The response: « The LAST barrier to fall is still the INTELLECTUAL barrier, after the SKIN, HAIR, NOSE, CHIN, BROW and SEX barriers! » Happy hunting! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 6/7,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVIII - Tongue Teasers UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVIII - Tongue Teasers If the « Yellow Race » could have invented the alphabet, they wouldn't still be seeing « Images » when they close their eyes. Picasso, Dadaism, Surrealist and Abstract painting (including Borroughs and Gysin's cut-up and fold-in techniques) is the art of representing Chinese characters upside down, backwards and upwards - all jumbled up in one frame at a time! Bad breath results from swearing; fragrant breath from not breathing while you are talking nonsense. If you tell no lies, you'll never be believed! He/She who rides pillion is a « tail-carrier »! Be choosy about making friends and you'll end up at Land's End! A missed « home-run » is when you get home just too late to catch the guy slipping out of the back-door! If you can't tell a « swallow » from a « bellow », that's because you've got your mouth full or is it because it's a mouthful? A Teetotaller is a « tea-taster » of tea cups on a golf course to see if they were laced with green-tea leaves or « grass »! Mountaineering is the art of endearing yourself to ZEUS in the hope of being promoted to the pantheon of Greek gods at Olympus Mountain. Mountaineers, therefore, should not be rescued at the expense of the taxpayers' money. Make ZEUS pay, if you can! Since you are at the top/head of the evolutionary ladder/table, eat what you can and « cane » what you can't to better digest them! Jack of 'all trades » couldn't make a living with spades, so he scaled Jack's Bean Stalk, stole and sold the « beans » to build a Castle in the Air, all to no purpose, for the Spanish authorities refused to provide the sewerage system; that's how building 'castles in the air » became an Iberian specialty. Witness whole new townships lying fallow in the Costa del Sol, for example! When « God » created Man, He made certain the inhabitants of the Land of the Rising Sun would never be able to trace their origins back to…. and condemned them to eating « whale » meat forever and ever! When HOMO ERECTUS on his long late trek from Africa, some 55,000 years ago, set out to seek a more durable partner, he met NEANDERTHAL MAN fleeing the Ice Age's rigours and ravages, and the two met and copulated in the Mid-East and gave Modern Man our common genome. The question is, How did they communicate? How do you say, in sign language, « Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? » (Translated: « Do you want to ‘sleep' with me tonight?) French style, please! Here's an attempt: ? @ % # () $? €? = + X X X + X X X V §! = * * * * * * * * * * * * * Will you let my goats graze on your downy pastures? What if sharp horns get stuck in my deep dentures? That'll give our kids much gamboling pleasures. When Shirley MacLaine (Bless her cheeky Soul!) saw a great big golden-haired 'Atlantis Man » standing right behind her in the Canary Islands (where she went to film, I presume) , the same question crops up: in which tongue did they « rub » minds? Must be ante-Homer Uhr-Greek, of course! Or perhaps in Red-Indian sign language? (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, July 4/5,2019 THREE WAYS of Swiping the World Cup THREE WAYS of Swiping the World Cup 'It is sweet and fitting/glorious to lay your life down for your country » - from a poem by HORACE (See my story selected to represent France in the 2006 World Cup held in Germany, entitled: « ZERO - ZERO » and published in Everyone has a Good Story: football. Barcelona: caféDiverso,2006, pp.158-156. (Maximum length of stories: 1800 words.) Manager/Coach: …a well-aimed kick at the hamstring should do the trick Player: …what…where's the string anyway M: …you mutt head…don't you know anything outside of the G-string P: …you're asking me to do…to commit a crime M: …so…this's for your country…your nation's glory is at stake P: …right there in front of all the world watching M: …so what…when the invasion takes place, cameras are ready to report the glorious sacrifice of the patriot…think of the Normandy landings P: …you mean, this…this what you're asking me to do in broad limelight is excusable M: …what d'ya think…how many cups are won thru respect of the game's rules or even of other « allied » teams P: …I don't know if I really can expose myself in that fashion M: ….d'ya want to warm the reserves' bench all thru the cup knock-out stage P: …ai…ai…what if I miss and kick her calf or something M: …what if I put you out of the next stage lineup P: … you wouldn't do that…who'll replace me M: …you want to bet…look it's simple…keep your eyes on the referee…when she looks the other way, jab your boot right into her heel... from the back... P: …what about the crowd… M: …they'd be all roaring raucous mad, half out of joy, the other half in pain P: …what about the VAR guys M: …what about them…they'd be watching the action taking place elsewhere, besides all that festive flabbergast will dazzle their eyes and cripple their minds P: …you sure will put me in right from the start…no? ...not like that Dolphin Maccaroni gal forced to sit it out game after game… all for just a couple of minutes at the end… the best charger with the ball I've played against...when she bounces down the turf, it's like a shoal of dolphins riding the crest of a tsunami, I tellya M: …you agree to do this for your country and I'll guarantee ya full play-time but if you don't, your number will be up on the HUBLOT board before half the half-time P: …so I have no choice M: …you're a clever girl… so you agree…ok…just a couple of other chores, if ya don't mind… when there's a scramble for the ball right in front of our goal, just make sure you use both hands to deflect the ball away from the goal-posts P: …what d'ya mean…deflect with hands…that's a penalty for sure M: …not any more…the rules have been changed since before the quarter-finals… now you can handle… even fondle the ball or even berth it under your jersey an' Molly-coddle it an' walk right into the goal… no penalty… go right ahead and try… in fact, don't try…just do it OR P: …don't blame me if I get a RED card then M: … don't ya worry…just do what I tellya and you'll make it to the next World Cup safely bound P: …look, if that's what it is, I'll see what I can do M: … don't just 'see' what you can do…DO IT OR else P: … well, do you think you can put all this in writing and affix your signa… M: … the only thing you'll see if you don't agree to do what I want is the tv screen in your hotel room… don't ya see, the nation's honor is at stake P: …ok…ok since you put it that way M: ...bright girl….now there's just one other thing… you know that mastodon who drills unstoppable goals thru rat holes P: …you mean that champion with the short platinum mop M: …yeah, I mean the same alright… the rest of the time on the field, keep close to her…in fact, close enough to whisper your private number in her ears… soon enough she'll get the point, but stay stuck to her… so stuck so she can't keep her feet on the ball… make eyes at her... if she still doesn't take the hint...trip her up and fall right onto her an' don't get up till they carry both of you out on the same stretcher... P: …what ya trying to do…make me a … M: … remember this's for your country… dulce et decorum est pro patria mori… (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 30,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVII - Tongue-Twisting Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVII - Tongue Twisters If you want to « have » your cake and « eat » it at one and the same time, simple enough, just split it into two equal parts like an isosceles triangle into two right-angle triangles; then « eat » (take a bite) at one half first, then « have » (another bite) at the other half of the cake and so on and so forth until there's nothing left. Correct me if I'm wrong, since the true value of PI - the circumference of a circle divided by its radius - can never be properly ascertained/calculated (damn the Roman soldiers for murdering Archimedes at Syracuse just when he was about to make the discovery) , how is it possible that NASA landed its spacecraft on the moon in 1969 and brought the astronauts back to Earth? A mere decimal point(s) difference in the trillions so far made available by highpowered computers could, I presume, land the spacecraft in Andromeda. Well, I'm exaggerating, of course! But, Aurélien Barrau, the French astrophysicist and philosopher poet, affirms that NO scientific theory is « exact' (barring Einstein's Relativity theories for the moment) for they can never be proven to be « exact » since they require an infinite number of experimental proof not just on Earth, but in the far-flung corners of the expanding Universe to be held true and verifiable forever… And Barrau is an honorable man! If you look into a mirror and see your left as your left, right as your right, top under bottom, and back to front, it simply means, My Friends, you're DEAD as doornails! ARS GRATIA MARTIA Women who ride horses astride should marry horses. No ordinary man can please them in their bumping élan stride. True, one « swallow » doesn't make for a « summer' of joy, but it could help you put the « pill » down before it gets stuck in the gullet and keeps you from raising yet another unwanted « feller ». Aim high in life and the harder you'd fall! - the story of politicians, tyrants and emperors, to cut the story short… We're all « losers » at one time or another, but the one who survives it all is the ONE who knows how to shove the blame onto others. Do those who suck up to the 'Perons' sell well their records to Gauchos in the Savanas (casting no aspersions on their innate talents, nor on the excellence of the lyrics and melodiy) being in « sixes and sevens » with them! Blow your own trumpet and you'll end up out-of-breath. « Blow » some one else's, and you'd likely end up choked to death! Why do tyrants, self-appointed emperors and other martial-minded « mentors » always want to get their butt's kicked by marching their men up to Moscow? ? ? A « cad » by any other name is still a CAD who must prey on some defenseless orphan. The latter from then on wishes/prays to have his name changed to hide his shame. If you take a « leak » in a puddle, it'll still look like a puddle, though much of a muddle owing to the mud in its gravel. STOP looking for the 'needle in the haystack' and reduce it to a hackneyed phrase of a metaphor by using instead a laser-detector. If you « lie in the bed you make », does it really matter who crowds you out for love's sake? ? ? Presidents and/or Prime Ministers Run their countries through speeches Written by obscure ghost-writers Who themselves plagiarise poetasters Who siphon punchlines from philosophers And poets shunned by publishers To reign as « Intellectual » preachers « A banana a day keeps the West Indian away (from England) », said the Trinidadian Nobel Literature laureate V.S. Naipaul in the fifties, but who would keep Brexit Britain from dancing to the tune of the Steel Bands when the British West Indian cricket batsmen knock the hell out of the West Indian fast bowlers when they charge down the Pavilion end on to the pitch at Lords? ? ? Perhaps the East Indian British? ? ? (One famed woman paramour claims they don't have the « staying power » required to keep her going even for a year!) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 27,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVI - Tongue-Twisting Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLVI - Tongue-Twisting Epigrams An aborted foetus never stops growing in the mind of the aborted mother. She never tires of making more babies to nurture the memory of the aborted baby. The Heart and Soul are as close as the Foot and Sole: they are up to no good; they smell just as bad. Don't curry favour with a woman who likes it hot. Waste not, want not: you can neither not want water nor waste it and re-use it, immediately. It's an ill-wind that brings no-one any fragrant smells or scents. A tight-fisted man often dies intestate. Eat what you can and what you can't - slaughter them first before you can them. Think of the « Devil » and you bet he'll turn up for sure! If only the « Debtor » would do likewise! « Running Dogs » is the nickname of dogs whose muzzles never stop running while they are in the act of running. If you pay for sex, it would be wise not to « eat it » as well, though most of the « sex » offered for free is worse than the « bite' of the African Killer Bee. A square peg in a round hole makes the hole hissing hot, heaving and heavenly. Laws are made to be broken, so are hearts. Take a break and break the Laws first. Mind your own business and the Stock Market will go bust. A Tycoon in a Typhoon Fell into a swiveling swoon So he took a big spoon Shoveled enough of his boon And gave it all to a goon Who dumped it in a spittoon Typhoon blew him to the Moon. Uni-Verse is a one-line poem. Multi-Verse: infinite one-line poems. Free-Verse: maddening, chaotic non-sensical non-poems. If you pour oil on troubled waters, the Mid-East will go up in smoke and the rest of the World will live in relative peace throughout the millennium, but the Republican Party will then be tussling attempting to extirpate the Democratic spike in its hind quarters with nuclear pliers. Since, according to the astro-physicist philosopher-poet Aurélien Barrau, both Time and Space are like ourselves mere 'objects in evolution' in the Cosmos - in other words, mere « contents » not the « containers » - how is it possible that we have all a fixed and readable past somewhere on Earth? ? ? A loose tongue is a lost tongue. It usually hangs out long at the mouths of joints frequented by late night revelers. An Englishman's house is his castle, but he won't mind if you let him stay for centuries to run your country. In the Land of the Rising Sun, everybody rises with the sun and keeps it for himself for fun. The Sun never sets on those who rise with the sun. A Red Indian is a Denisovian Homo Erectus from Africa before he became a Chinese, crossed by the Neanderthal Heidelbergensis. Indians are not humans, but 'Superior Caste Hindus'. Since we are all genetically hybrids, what's the good in harping on the 'Nation» as a community or breed? ? ? Or on the United Nations of America? ? ? The way male trainers and managers handle and hug their wards in the Women's World Cup, it is plain they would have a hard time making it into the Oval Office, unless they also take to « twittering » with gusto on a daily basis. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 25,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLV - Tongue-Teasing Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLV - Tongue teasing epigrams A stitch in time can save an arranged marriage and stave off a family feud, not to mention everlasting vendettas. Still waters run deep in sleep. When the hens begin to crow, the cocks don't grow. A whipped dog bites not the whip that flails it, but the hand that feeds it just for the nonce. When in Rome do as Nero did, but watch out for Brutus's unkindest cut of all. Empty vessels often return from the Spice Isles laden with gold, cinnamon and measles. If you want to paint the town red, first make certain you have loads and loads of red paint. If the pot keeps calling the kettle « Black », well, just read the Charter of Human Rights to it; contrariwise « electrify » both. If it rains cats and dogs, just eat ‘em and save enough money for a trip to the Riviera to watch cats and dogs parading Stars in diamond-studded leashes. Want not, beg not, but choose the charities you give to. Beggars are not choosers but prostitutes are! ADULTery - What if the spouses were teenagers or even children! In which case, why not: « TEENAGery » or « CHILDery »? If you think in terms of « adulterate », then why not: « ADULTERATERY »? ? Cows that think that the other shore is always greener should wear glasses. Pies in the sky are reserved for astronauts and Mr. Spock's fleet crew. An apple a day can cost more than a doctor some day the way the Arctic is already melting. Forewarned is fore-damned. When lightning strikes you, it matters little whether you « hear » thunder near or far away. A woman who tango(e) s without a partner looks like a jigsaw-puzzle up-sidedown. Keep punching and you'll end up with tinnitus ringing in your later (y) ears. You don't need a lawyer to tell the « whole » and « nothing » but the TRUTH in a criminal court, but then the Jailor might not be particularly fussy about the truth; He/She only wants to know if you had broken the Law. A lawyer is a lire Salvaged from the mire Trample not its attire Subject of much satire Paragon of righteous fire In duty-bound entire Oh! What a lordly Sire! Since, according to the astro-physicist Aurélien Barrau, It's not the Earth's gravity which makes the Moon revolve round us - for it progresses like the Earth in a straight-curved line round the Sun - should not the Chinese take a second look at the Lunar Calendar on which the Yi Jing's « temps principle » is based? ? ? Parallel lives never greet! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 23,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLIV - Tongue-Teasing Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLIV Don't translate poems if you want yours read. A pain in the ass is a pain nevertheless. A « race' in any other language is still the shape of the nose. Every cloud hides shining gold that reveals the silver lining. It's the darkest cloak which keeps its silver from jingling in its lining. Every clout makes you see silver stars while lining up for more stout. It never rains but giggles. Don't put all your eggs in one basket; just lay them. The child is farther from the man. Spare the rod and drill the child (with electric…) The proof of the pudding is in the ridding Burn the candle at both ends and end up keeping midnight oil vigil in the igloo. Do tight-rope walkers eat only string hoppers? The Piped-Piper pipes a pitiful panegyric to Pan past the precipice… The « dachshund' trotting out on an outing with its master never fails to take its house - under the same roof - for an airing. Even a stitch in time cannot save the rhyme in the above run-on line. Rats tend to desert a ship full of lousy fat cats. The pot calling the wok: mad! The wok calling the kettle: cad! The kettle calling the pan: bad! The pan calling the cook: lad! The cook calling the « chef': Dad! All groggy agog and cooking glad! A chip of the old computer hard-disk block. All the World's a cage. An eye for an eye multiplies drives; tit for tat and that's that. Two and Two make Two times Two. 2 + Too make Two Toos. No? If you beat about the bush, the Bushes most likely'll not complain, but if you beat the Bushes, you would have nothing to gain. A State within a State (l'Etat dans l'Etat) , a Nation breeds a single State, yet no Nation or State rules those who secretly usurp the State. If you went and told it to the Marines every time somebody tells you to, you'll have precious little left to tell your psychoanalyst, psychiatrist or Priest, but fat chance the Church will close down even if you shut up for good. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 21,2019 UNQUOTABLE QUOTES: XLIII - Tongue-Teasing Epigrams UNQUOTABLE QUOTES - XLIII(Continued) A black-listed writer tops every publisher's reading list. Half a loaf is better than no love. Don't dig your ears while tying your shoe laces. Just wear slippers. Eat only what's available in the stable if you're able to put it on the table. A friend in need is a friend who feeds your greed. Take care of the Ps and the wife will take good care to Pound you. A journey of a thousand miles ends with the last step, said Old Tse. Kill not the brother-in-law, not until the sister is dead. If you butter your bread on both sides, you'll better learn the art of licking hands. Hang not the hangman with his own noose. Make sure to shoot him before you hang him. Even a blind cat has to rat-race. Take the load off your own fat before you scat. Shoot to kill only if your will will not let you stand still. A marked man is the marksman's man. A dime a dozen always turns up when you're frozen. He who cries thief - even in mischief - is often the chief of the thieves. Turn coat and betray the holes in your shirt. A snake in the grass cannot tell leather souls from top brass. Early to bed makes the lass grow stealthy, squelchy and full of lice but nice. Immolate yourself and learn that you can moult your soul. Even if you're forced to burn your boats, you'll always stay afloat by eating oats. Where there's a will, there's no giving way/away. Run with the hares and you'll surely drop into snares. Hunt with the hounds and you'll surely make many kinds of sounds. Run with the hares and hunt with the hounds and you'll eat yourself out-ofbounds. Birds of a feather pay the same tailor. What goes up bursts into fireworks before it comes down in fluff and ash. All that glitters cannot be sold unless you run your own tv show. If you judge books by their torn covers, you'll probably end up singing Op(e) rah in Amanpour. If you kick the can down the street often enough, you'll end up in the Women's World Cup canned. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 18,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXVII IF ever I had a country proud of its wall-less porous boundary And if ever by no mistake of the Supreme High Command of the International Militaro-Business Conspiracy I were appointed the CHIEF TARIFF IMPOSER and Eminence Grise of and on all the self-righteous realms rocambolesque republics and renegade run-of-the-mill rotten rotting rostrum-raving riven ribald rascally rickety refugee-raised democracies Mark my words I'll put an end to the raping of my dearly-beloved national integrity by One, importing all available rutting Queen Bees of the 'Killer African Bees' and have them breed with local wasps of high pedigree in the front-line of battle along the Southern Border under every tree where I'd let Red Ant-Hills multiply free Two, import Myanmar Pythons with a taste for digesting young fresh human flesh, mixed with the local brand of Everglades alligators, down the Mississippi and the Colorado River sprinkled liberally with the Grand Canyon brand of the Rattle-Snake with their tell-tale warning-rattle nipped off, together with the silent army of Black Widows clad in their enticing mantilla webs, as a secondline of defense against the illegal refugee Next, if they still keep coming I'd roundup all the lazy good-for-nothing thick-maned Bisons of the prairies and have them lined up for a Charge-of-the- Heavy-Brigade stampede by whipping their asses to the sound of the Land of the Free And if this doesn't stem the tide of illegal immigrants, drug dealers and tourists with empty pockets, I'd call on the faithful Black and White striped Tribe of Appalachian SKUNKS with my tonitruant bugle, line them up so that their posteriors faced Tierra del Fuego and let them squirt to their hindhearts' desire even at the risk of driving the entire population out of the country Yes Siree, this's what I'd do as the Eminence Grise and Chief Imposer of Tariffs of My Beloved Contree And this even if I never ever had no country worth saving for the ennui of a penny (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 11,2019 Translation with Commentary of MAIS QUE DIEU ME PARDONNE by T Wignesan Translation of Kendji Girac and Claudio Capeo's Que Dieu me pardonne by T Wignesan Lyrics by Kendji Girac and Renaud REBILLAUD https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=xP2jp31jFMc (The two young French songsters' duet, now, yo-yo-ing in the upper echelons of c-Star charts rendered through guitar and acordeon in a spirit of respectful joie-de-vivre is a veritable lilting paeon to the unstinting heart, not to mention the reverence underlying the images. Some beguilingly simple but thoughtful truths do however spill out of their rhymed couplets and quatrains. The refrain that varies slightly through repetition could be, I admit, idiomatically re-phrased, but I'd rather not - in order to retain the unicity of the sweeping rhythm. Enjoy the low-key tour de force. T Wignesan) Il faudrait être des dieux, il faudrait être fort (One ought to be like the gods, ought to be strong) Comme si mouiller des yeux, c'est pour ceux qui ont tort (As if tears in one's eyes were a sign of one's wrongs) Il faudrait danser, et cacher sa douleur (One ought to keep dancing for fear of disclosing one's pain) Être le dernier à pleurer, jamais montrer sa peur (Be the very last to cry, never to reveal the fear in within) Il faudrait être des rois, il faudrait faire le fier (One ought to be like kings, ought to display one's pride) Comme si baisser les bras, c'est pour celui qui perd (As if to cower and hide be the lot of those woe-betide) Il faudrait cogner, et puis bomber le torse (One should hit hard and then puff up one's chest) Être le premier à crier plus fort (And be the very first to cry out one's best) Refrain: Mais que Dieu me pardonne (Beg I God for His pardon) J'ai tout fait à l'instinct (In everything I followed my instinct) Moi je ne suis qu'un homme (Me, I'm naught but human) Peut-être un bon à rien (Mayhaps a being good-for-nothing) Mais que Dieu me pardonne (Beg I God for His pardon) J'ai le coeur sur la main (I have never denied anyone a hand) Si parfois j'abandonne c'est pour faire mieux demain (If sometimes I withheld myself, it's only to make amends again) Il faudrait être un génie, être une ode à la joie (One should be a genius, be an ode to joy) À chaque fois qu'on nous dit 'et toi comment tu vas? » (Each time somebody queries: « and you, how goes it with you ») Il faudrait pousser tous ceux autour de soi (One should push aside all who crowd you out nigh) Être le premier à crier 'regardez-moi! » (Be the first to cry out: « look at me! » all eyes) Refrain: Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai tout fait à l'instinct Moi je ne suis qu'un homme Peut-être un bon à rien Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai le coeur sur la main Si parfois j'abandonne c'est pour faire mieux demain dans mes yeux, dans mes yeux tout m'étonne (as I see things, to my eyes everything astonishes me) J'ai le coeur, j'ai le coeur qui rayonne (In my heart, my very heart glitters free) Ce que j'ai, ce que j'ai je le donne, oh (Whatever I have, whatever I possess I give to all and sundry) Dans mes yeux, dans mes yeux tout m'étonne (Whatever my eyes espy, everything dazzles me) J'ai le coeur, j'ai le coeur qui rayonne (Within my heart, my very heart glitters free) Ce que j'ai, ce que j'ai je le donne (Whatever I have, whatever I possess I give to all and sundry) Refrain: Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai tout fait à l'instinct Moi je ne suis qu'un homme Peut-être un bon à rien Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai le coeur sur la main Si parfois j'abandonne c'est pour faire mieux demain Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai tout fait à l'instinct Moi je ne suis qu'un homme Peut-être un bon à rien Mais que Dieu me pardonne J'ai le coeur sur la main Si parfois j'abandonne c'est pour faire mieux demain Songwriters: Renaud Rebillaud / Kendji Girac Que Dieu me pardonne lyrics © Peermusic Publishing (c) Translation and commentary - T. Wignesan, Paris, May 27,2019 Translation with Commentary of ON EST LES OUBLIES by T Wignesan Translation of « On est les oubliés » (They/We are the neglected and forgotten lot) by the songster-poet Gauvin SERS (For the last two years, this young unassuming Frenchman, full of verve and disarming airs has been making his quiet ways around the provinces in Pas-de- Calais and Bretagne/Brittany. Now, this song is making its own way up the charts for his championing of a cause: the neglect of the far-flung regions from the French capital. The tone of the song is not patently and virulently demanding of reform; it merely resorts through an attitude of resignation to upholding and exposing a truth that cannot be denied. Four backup videos root the cause in Ponthoile village and the teacher Jean-Luc MASSALAN features in them with his students. T. Wignesan) Devant le portail vert de son école primaire (Standing in front of the green gate of his primary school) On l'reconnaît tout d'suite (It's easy to see at one glance) Toujours la même dégaine avec son pull en laine (Always looking oddly the same, clad in his woolen pullover) On sait qu'il est instit (Little the doubt he's the Teach') Il pleure la fermeture à la rentrée future (He laments the closing down when school resumes for the next year) De ses deux dernières classes (Of his two last/lowest classes) Il paraît qu'le motif c'est le manque d'effectif (It seems the reason's the lack of enough students) Mais on sait bien c'qui s'passe (But one knows in one's heart the real cause) Refrain: On est les oubliés (We are the forgotten lot) La campagne, les paumés (The countryside, those in want) Les trop loin de Paris (Those who live far too far from Paris) Le cadet d'leurs soucis (The ones who they hardly bother about) À vouloir regrouper les cantons d'à côté en 30 élèves par salle (By wanting to re-group in the districts nearby classes crammed with thirty children each) Cette même philosophie qui transforme le pays en un centre commercial (That same philosophy destined to convert the country into a grand shopping mall) Ça leur a pas suffit qu'on ait plus d'épicerie (It didn't make them happy enough to watch the only grocery pull down its shutters for good) Que les médecins se fassent la malle (Nor to see local doctors pack their bags to leave) Y a plus personne en ville, y a que les banques qui brillent dans la rue principale (There's hardly a soul moving about the vicinity, short of the banks which shine in the main road) Refrain: On est les oubliés (We are the forgotten lot) La campagne, les paumés (The countryside, those in want) Les trop loin de Paris (Those who live far too far from Paris) Le cadet d'leurs soucis (The ones who they hardly bother about) On est les oubliés (We are the forgotten lot) Qu'il est triste le patelin avec tous ces ronds-points (How sad it is to live in the back of beyond with all these roundabouts) Qui font tourner les têtes (Which make one's head reel around) Qu'il est triste le préau sans les cris des marmots (How depressing to find the covered school yard devoid of the cries of kids) Les ballons dans les fenêtres (Balls dashing on window-panes) Même la p'tite boulangère se demande c'qu'elle va faire (Even the little baker-woman wonders what would become of her) De ses bon-becs qui collent (Her sweet mouthfuls remain stuck one to the other) Même la voisine d'en face elle a peur, ça l'angoisse (Even the neighbour woman opposite takes fright, seized by anguish uptight) Ce silence dans l'école (Due to the silence reigning in the school) Refrain: On est les oubliés La campagne, les paumés Les trop loin de Paris Le cadet d'leurs soucis Quand dans les plus hautes sphères couloirs du ministère (When in the high echelons and corridors of ministerial power) Les élèves sont des chiffres (The students are but mere numbers) Y a des gens sur l'terrain, de la craie plein les mains (The people on the spot, their hands full of chalk dust) Qu'on prend pour des sous-fifres (Whom they consider mere underlings) Ceux qui ferment les écoles, les cravatés du col (Those who shut down schools, neck-ties around high-collars) Sont bien souvent de ceux (Oftentimes they are those) Ceux qui n'verront jamais ni de loin ni de près (Who'll never have whether close-up or from a distance) Un enfant dans les yeux (Ever looked a child in the eyes) Refrain: On est les oubliés La campagne, les paumés Les trop loin de Paris Le cadet de leur soucis On est troisième couteau (One's an absolute nobody) Dernière part du gâteau (The last to be served) La campagne, les paumés On est les oubliés Devant le portail vert de son école primaire (Standing there in front of the green school gate) Y a l'instit du village (You can espy the village Teach') Toute sa vie, des gamins (All his life, devoted to children) Leur construire un lendemain (In order to prepare for them a stolid future) Il doit tourner la page (Yet he has to turn the page) On est les oubliés (For his lot's too the forgotten lot) (c) Translation and comments: T. Wignesan - Paris, May 25,2019 Songwriters: Gauvain Thibaut Sers Les oubliés lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group Translation with Commentary of a Wild West Classic: SUMMER WINE by T Wignesan Translation with commentary of an archetypal Wild West Classic: ' Summer Wine ' (I'd wage my bottom diamond dime future generations will re-discover and treasure this true American classic like only a few others of its kind taken from the sixties. It may have only peaked at #49 in '67 when Nancy Sinatra's ' These boots are made for walking ' and ' Bang Bang My Baby shot me down ' topped the charts for understandably obvious reasons with its slick brillo melody and bravado sentiments backed by the maestro father and introduced by the King of Rock, yet Nancy comes of age on her own with some precious help from Lee Hazlewood's lyric compositional talents. One can never know if Lee consciously re-modeled Keat's ' La belle dame sans merci ' (' The beautiful lady without pity ') myth to produce the duo with himself in the role of the medieval ' Knight-at-Arms ', but the admixture of the seductively conniving in-between contralto-soprano voice with the masochistically victimized deadpan tone of the baritone leaves little doubt on what tugs at the heartstrings - the ironic display of ' male ' innocence being beguiled and betrayed by the enticing promise of ethereal ' nectar ' which, here, is ' summer wine ', an euphemism for what intoxicates the senses beyond one's control. The metre's however too irregular to make Hazlewood's ' poem ' fall within the common ballad measure, but the theme rests strictly transposed. ' I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful - a fairy child. ' ……………………………………….. ' She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four. ' ……………………………………….. ' I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; // ……………………………………….. ' I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I woke and found me here, On the cold hill's side. ' John Keats (1820) Oddly eough, in real life Hazlewood got his own back on Nancy by sailing off soon after - without a word - to make his own career in Sweden. If only the two extant video clips could have been re-styled within an ambience of libidinous non-chalance, say, in a one-horse one-saloon town with a haystacked barn and a corrall with the two love-birds playing their ticklish parts… perhaps the song could have topped the charts! Translation of ' SUMMER WINE ' by Lee Hazlewood (NANCY) : Des fraises des cerises et le baiser d'un ange au printemps Mon vin d'été est fait de toutes ces choses-là (LEE) : Je marchais dans la ville sur des éperons en argent dont le tintement s'accordait Avec une chanson que j'avais chanté uniquement à l'encontre de peu de gens Elle regarda les éperons argentés et elle m'invita à passer du temps avec elle Et elle m'a dit: ' Je te donnerai du vin de l'été Ohh-oh-oh du vin de l'été ' (NANCY) : Des fraises des cerises et le baiser d'un ange au printemps Mon vin d'été est fait de toutes ces choses-là Enlève-toi tes éperons en argent et aide-moi passer le temps Et elle m'a dit: ' Je te donnerai du vin de l'été Ohh-oh-oh du vin de l'été ' (LEE) : Mes yeux s'étaient alourdis et mes lèvres ne pouvant plus formuler point mot J'ai essayé de me lever et je ne pouvais plus rester debout (je ne pouvais plus trouver mes pieds) Elle me rassurera en utilisant des mots peu familiers Et puis elle me donna encore plus du vin de l'été Ohh-oh-oh du vin de l'été (NANCY) : Des fraises des cerises et le baiser d'un ange au printemps Mon vin d'été est fait de toutes ces choses-là Enlève-toi tes éperons en argent et aide-moi passer le temps Et elle m'a dit: ' Je te donnerai du vin de l'été Mmm-mm du vin de l'été ' (LEE) : Quand je me suis levé, le soleil brilla dans mes yeux Mes éperons en argent n'y étaient plus-là, ma tête me semblait gonflée à deux fois de sa taille Elle avait volé mes éperons argentés (et) un dollar plus un centime Et me laissa avec une envie pour consommer encore plus du vin de l'été Ohh-oh-oh du vin de l'été (NANCY) : Des fraises des cerises et le baiser d'un ange au printemps Mon vin d'été est fait de toutes ces choses-là Enlève-toi tes éperons en argent et aide-moi passer le temps Et elle m'a dit: ' Je te donnerai du vin de l'été Mmm-mm du vin de l'été ' © Translation and commentary - T. Wignesan, Paris, May 21,2019 NANCY SINATRA- 'SUMMER WINE' (LYRICS) 3,059 views LIKEDISLIKESHARESAVE Ron Wells Published on Dec 23,2017 SUBSCRIBE 5K 'SUMMER WINE' peaked at #49 on 4-8-1967. LYRICS: (NANCY) : Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring My summer wine is really made from all these things (LEE) : I walked in town on silver spurs that jingled to A song that I had only sang to just a few She saw my silver spurs and said let's pass some time And I will give to you summer wine Ohh-oh-oh summer wine (NANCY) Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring My summer wine is really made from all these things Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time And I will give to you summer wine Ohhh-oh summer wine (LEE) : My eyes grew heavy and my lips they could not speak I tried to get up but I couldn't find my feet She reassured me with an unfamiliar line And then she gave to me more summer wine Ohh-oh-oh summer wine (NANCY) : Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring My summer wine is really made from all these things Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time And I will give to you summer wine Mmm-mm summer wine (LEE) : When I woke up the sun was shining in my eyes My silver spurs were gone, my head felt twice its size She took my silver spurs a dollar and a dime And left me cravin' for more summer wine Ohh-oh-oh summer wine (NANCY) : Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring My summer wine is really made from all these things Take off those silver spurs and help me pass the time And I will give to you my summer wine Mmm-mm summer wine The Night Soil Man - Part One The Night Soil Man I Nothing sticks to-get-her like turds No border line nor skin to cross Condescension's never a case for loss High birth's distilled from fermenting curds The day dawns where sleep reigns loud Where the pitchblack venomous karunagam* slithers out from its hideout in the ox-bow touch-me-not underbrush to make its hungry way into Vanar Kampung Sandal-less the coarse makeshift sweat-soaked thalappa* fits his disheveled scalp like some portrait halo yet to hang high Thodti* strides majestic loping down the mired mud gravel pathway (Who defers to whom: the ' cobra ' or the ' pariah '?) One is out to catch rats romping in the rafters zinc-roofed one-storeyed houses nailed planks on cement stump stilts The other to fetch slippery rubber pots laced with diarrhoeac splashes phlegm menstrual blood the day's un-read newsprint soaked with urine mixed with spermatozoic squirts The spent air breathes carbide dry on the back of the late-afternoon thunder storm the dense morass of foliage the taste of mashed mango leaf the scent of spermatozoa durian reek Late night cinema-goers lie clutching the blind Lata Mangeshkar hits piped-dreams spreadeagled on stained yarrow or atap mats The Sikh guard lays out his elaborate night-out at the Chinese saw-mill gate his un-used one-barrel rifle bedded down on his string-bed fast asleep while the hurricane lamp flickers dying by dawn Crackling frail cicada wings pizzicato symphonic milling frog harmonics organ jamming rapping bagpipes heaving A lone sentinel owl keeps base time stalked by panther pawed musang* in one crook of the sprawling rain-tree's over-arching ghostly lumber limbs The moon's full pallid sick for the earth Road lamps dim into their dull amber cocoons time out of time The jungle-green sanitary van throbs discreet on the overgrown tarmac under-brush sidetable the Malay driver eyes the quasi-un-clad nightsoil women their paps prurient in sack-coloured khadar* sari cloth as they hover on their hinds for the Night Souled Man to bring in the fresh-filled pots the leprous bleach of his hands and feet glint and glower as the whites of his never-opened eyes strain in the half moonlit dimness at every giant distracted step a trail of human dung streaming down his loin cloth Resources *karunagam (Tamil) : a variety of cobra; *thalappa (Tamil) : a variety of headwear; *Thodti (Tamil) : ' night soil man ' in common parlance; *musang (Malay) : wild ' undomesticated ' cat; *khadar (Tamil, from Hindi) : rough un-smoothed-out cloth. © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 17,2019 Villanelle: If you haven't had that, what have you had Villanelle: If you haven't had that, what have you had* If you haven't had your life, what have you had In fear of what lies beyond the locked safe-door Live you now the moment, not for what's ahead Fear of what others may think, nothing's more sad Yet if you abandoned all care, who'll forbear If you haven't had your life, what have you had Since James*, Mottram*, Barrau* live not a day dead Yet don't they live safe as Confucian State's heir Live you now the moment, not for what's ahead Or do they live safe to be thought Reason-bred The best of all the Worlds where Time's a mere snare If you haven't had your life, what have you had Walk Eternity back to Big-Bang zero-bed What has no Beginning cannot End-fruit bear Live you now the moment, not for what's ahead No Future's secret the Yi Jing* has not read Don't ephemeral hordes breed the Jün Tzu* to bear If you haven't had your life, what have you had Live you now the moment, not for what's ahead Resources/Notes 'Quotation from Henry James' Ambassadors: ' If you haven't had that (your life) , what have you had ' 'Henry James (American novelist) , Eric Mottram (British poet, professor, critic) , Aurélien Barrau (French astro-physicist, philosopher, poet) 'Yi Jing: the ancient Chinese Classic of Change 'Jün Tzu: the Noble or Superior Man, the advice given in the Yi Jing is meant primarily to distinguish the Superior Being, all the rest are mutatis mutandi ' ephemeral beings ' which makes one wonder if Life on Earth is not a mere breeding-ground experiment to produce the ' Superior Being ', the rest - if you believe in ' samsara ' or reincarnation - condemned to be born again and again until they make the grade. © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 14,2019 Translation of THE WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND by T Wignesan Translation of Les Moulins de mon Coeur-THE WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND by T. Wignesan (For the orignal text in French by Eddy MARNAY: see here below. The English version by Marilyn and Alan BERGMAN differs considerably from the French original, but arguably it could lay claim to originality of versification in its own right. The musical composition is by Michel LEGRAND, though his duet renditions in French and solo in English are not by far the most delectable. The always exquisite Barbra Streisand performance, which one intimately associates the words with, uses the the English version only. For these reasons, I felt it useful to translate the French original into English. I have not tried to keep to the rhyme scheme - neither does the Bergman version - of alternate rhymes mainly: ABCB/DCDC/EFE/FE(?) F// GHGH/IHIH/EFE/FEF// JKJK/CLCL/FMFM/DFDF//, with a discernible refrain repeated in the three stanzas of 14,14 and 16 lines respectively, followed by the refrain (Patricia Kass, however, ends with the refrain in English) , making the first two somewhat Petrarchan sonnets if they were iambic in tempo: that is, the octave formed of two quatrains, followed by a sextet in EFE/FEF, but then this assertion is quite un-called for here. One might note en passim the spiraling cascading images of the external world collapsing into the persona's vacant and desolate heart, the pathos brought about dexterously by the ' absence ' (or disappearance of a loved one) : ' The bird fell from its nest '// ' Like the songs which die/ As quickly as one forgets them '//, the quintessential sentiment held together and underlined by the image of how autumn leaves turn to the colour of the absent one's hair. The entire ' poem ' (I prefer to call it so) constructs itself on a cascading sequence of similies twirling in a maelstrom of natural objects and eddying into the persona's lonely heart: ' stream ', ' rain ', ' snow ', ' ocean ' (water) , ' wind ' (air) , ' sand ', ' moon ', ' stars ' (made up of the same constituent particles as earth) , ' leaves ', ' flowers ', ' sea-gulls ', (living ' creatures ') , ' heart ' (self or soul) , ' summer ', ' autumn ', 'hours ' (time: yes, both time and space in cosmological terms are ' objects ' like us in the uni-or-multi-verse) , etc. Enjoy the music. T. Wignesan) Like a stone one throws In the running waters of a stream And which provokes in its trail Thousands of swirling circles Like a carousel round the moon With the manes of horses as stars Like a ring of particles around Saturn A carnival baloon Like the concentric movement of circles Which define the course of the hours The voyage around the earth (Like) the sunflower worshipping the sun You succeed in turning with your breath All the windmills of my heart Like the tangle of wool Inextricably confounding a child's hands (Like) the words of a corny tune Caught within the harpstrings of the wind Like a swirling avalanche of snow Like the startling flight of sea-gulls Over the forests of Norway Over oceans of woolly lambs Like the concentric movement of circles Which define the course of the hours The voyage around the earth (Like) the sunflower worshipping the sun You succeed in turning with your breath All the windmills of my heart Remember that day close by the summit Only God knows what you said But the summer by then nearly at an end The bird fell from its nest And, like it or not, on the beach Our footprints already leave no trace And I'm left alone at table Which resounds unde my fingers Like a tambourine in a lament Under raindrops which pound Like the songs which simply extinguish As quickly as they are forgotten And the leaves of trees in autumn Find themselves under skies less blue And your absence taints them The aging colour of your hair © Translation and comments: T. Wignesan - Paris, May 12,2019 Les Moulins De Mon Coeur (The Windmills Of Your Mind) This song is by Patricia Kaas and appears on the album Piano Bar (2002) . Comme une pierre que l'on jette Dans l'eau vive d'un ruisseau Et qui laisse derrière elle Des milliers de ronds dans l'eau Comme un manège de lune Avec ses chevaux d'étoiles Comme un anneau de Saturne Un ballon de carnaval Comme le chemin de ronde Que font sans cesse les heures Le voyage autour du monde D'un tournesol dans sa fleur Tu fais tourner de ton nom Tous les moulins de mon coeur Comme un écheveau de laine Entre les mains d'un enfant Ou les mots d'une rengaine Pris dans les harpes du vent Comme un tourbillon de neige Comme un vol de goélands Sur des forêts de Norvège Sur des moutons d'océan Comme le chemin de ronde Que font sans cesse les heures Le voyage autour du monde D'un tournesol dans sa fleur Tu fais tourner de ton nom Tous les moulins de mon coeur Ce jour là près de la source Dieu sait ce que tu m'as dit Mais l'été finit sa course L'oiseau tomba de son nid Et voilà que sur le sable Nos pas s'effacent déjà Et je suis seul à la table Qui résonne sous mes doigts Comme un tambourin qui pleure Sous les gouttes de la pluie Comme les chansons qui meurent Aussitôt qu'on les oublie Et les feuilles de l'automne Rencontrent des ciels moins bleus Et ton absence leur donne La couleur de tes cheveux Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever spinning reel As the images on wind Like the circles that you find In the remainds of your mind Credits Music by: Michel Legrand Lyrics by: Eddy Marnay (original French text) , Marilyn Bergman & Alan Bergman (English text) Lyrics licensed by LyricFind ARE YE GOIN' TO MARRY THAT WITCH OF A DAME - Counterfeiting the CANTICLE by T Wignesan ARE YE GOING TO MARRY THAT WITCH OF A DAME - Counterfeiting the CANTICLE by T. Wignesan (With self-lacerating apologies and scathing penance to that great troubador medieval English poet who longed for his lovely lass during expunging pilgrimages to Scarborough Fair. T. Wignesan) Are ye going to marry that b**ch of a dame Peanuts quail venison on lime Remember what she did to make you so lame For she's bound to ditch ye if you hardly rhyme Tell her to stop painting her leathery face Peanuts quail venison on lime Without no mud nor slime on lewd grimace She's bound to ditch ye if you're stumped for a rhyme Have her stripped in yon dark desert lithium mine Peanuts quail venison on lime Remember how good she's at the roller-coaster grind She's bound to ditch ye if you feminine rhyme Have her read to ye Gulliver's Travels in bed Peanuts quail venison on lime And ride all Yahoos till their butt-ends turn red Then she's bound to stitch vowels in your rhyme Have her show ye all her unkempt drawers Peanuts quail venison on lime In between her sonorous sighs and rough coughs in tatters Then she'll witch her wiles for the guile of a dime © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 8,2019 YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS DUMB - A Benign Parody by T Wignesan YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS DUMB - A Benign Parody (with sincere enough apologies and more to those who made the original composition an all-time great. T. Wignesan) Refrain: Yesterday when I was dumb I couldn't tell a song from any sore thumb All the tunes I hummed with my silent tongue Were but tinnitus on my ear-drums sweet songs I sung All the pretty frisky girls passed me quickly by Yet I don't know why I couldn't even cry I couldn't remember the sounds made by warbling birds Nor the thunderous laughter I heard bursting from the clouds All the songs I learnt line by line by heart Kept mocking me in the stillness of my thoughts (Refrain) The wintry winds I weathered in my feathered bed Warmed by lilting melodies in my love-sick head All the words of songs lame casualties on my tongue I could not sleep nights heaving on one lone lung In my dreams I tussled with girls sticking out their tongues I lisped some sounds like grunts to appease their wrongs But I'd as lief be made a clown sans papier-mâché crown Than be mocked by childhood girls I rolled atop meadow down (Refrain) Each full day I prayed for the right word to come to mind Nothing doing! I always mixed and twisted words on the line Then I always drop shut the shutters, drew the curtains tight Shut myself up in the shower to croon some line just right ' No bloody use ' the misted mirror said: ' You cannot win a Grammy ' ' Oh! What use is a tongue if it cannot taste the kiss of melody! ' I've lived so long to know there's only one way to say: ' Goodbye! ' No words on lines nor tunes, just a look, a wave of a hand and a sigh! (Refrain) Yesterday I was dumb but today I have my own pounding tom-tom With signs and signals to speak the language of the drum And the orchestra sweeps over strings and the smiling moon And I no longer seek to put words on line to croon Oooh! Yesterday! I felt the stings in the cockles of my heart Yet today I sing blood red the sounds surging through the chart Oooooh Oooooh…. Yesterdaaay…. © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 3,2019 Translation of YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS YOUNG by T Wignesan Translation of YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS YOUNG By T. Wignesan (Written by: Herbert Kretzmer) (Variously sung in a host of styles, moods and orchestration by exquisite soul-movers like Roberta Flack, Shirley Bassey, Charles Aznavour, Glen Campbell, Andy Williams, Roy Clark and others (?) , but shouldn't one not raise a glass to the DUSTY SPRINGFIELD version even if the orchestration somewhat bullies and drowns her pathetic intimate tones somewhat ' maladroitly '?) Yesterday when I was young the taste of life was sweet as rain upon my tongue. I teased at life as if it were a foolish game, the way the evening breeze may tease a candle flame. The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned I always built alas on weak and shifting sand. I lived by night and shunned the naked light of the day and only now I see how the years ran away. (Hier quand je ne fus qu'un jeune homme La joie de vivre n'était que comme la pluie douce sur ma langue. Je me moquais de la vie comme s'il ne fut qu'un jeu Comme la brise du soir taquinait la flamme de chandelle nue. Des milliers de rêves que je songeais, les choses merveilleuses que je réaliserais, Mais hélas j'ai fondé sur des sables poreux et mouvementées. Je me fus cloîtré dans la nuit fuyant la lumière du jour Et juste aujourd'hui que je me rends compte comment les années passaient sans retour.) Yesterday when I was young so many drinking songs were waiting to be sung, so many wayward pleasures lay in store for me and so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out, I never stopped to think what life was all about and every conversation I can now recall concerned itself with me and nothing else at all. (Hier quand je ne fus qu'un jeune homme Encore à chanter tant des chansons de la taverne, Tant de plaisirs inespérés m'attendaient pour jouir Et tant de peine encore mes yeux glacés refusaient à voir venir. Je courrais si vite que je ne voyais comment le temps et la jeunesse se vidaient au pire Je n'arrêtais jamais pour réfléchir sur le but de la vie, Et toutes les conversations que je puisse m'en souvenir Ne fussent que sur mon propre personne et rien d'autre de la vie.) Yesterday the moon was blue and every crazy day brought something new to do. I used my magic age as if it were a wand and never saw the waste and emptiness beyond. The game of love I played with arrogance and pride and every flame I lit too quickly quickly died. The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away and only I am left on stage to end the play. There are so many songs in me that won't be sung; I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue. The time has come for me to pay for yesterday when I was young. (Hier encore la lune brillait bleu Et tous les jours promettaient quelques choses folles de nouveau. J'utilisais mon âge magique comme s'il fut une baguette Et je ne me prévoyais jamais le gâchis et le néant qui me guettent. Le jeu d'amour dont je pratiquais avec arrogance et fierté Et chaque flamme j'allumais n'avait éteint qu'avec trop d'alacrité. Les amitiés que j'avais nouées toutes semblaient avec l'aise à dissiper Et je me trouve tout seul sur la scène la pièce à achever. Il y reste tant des chansons en mon soi sans qu'on prête de voix de personne; Je ressens le goût amer des larmes sur ma langue. Le temps est déjà arrivé pour que je paie pour l'hier quand je fus jeune.) © Translation: T. Wignesan - Paris, April 29,2019 Translation of Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly with his Song by T Wignesan Translation of Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly with his Song by T Wignesan https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=kgl-VRdXr7I Refrain: Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly with his song Telling my whole life with his words Killing me softly with his song (Ses doigts piquaient les nerfs de ma douleur comme sur un guitare les cordes En chantant ma vie avec ses paroles En m'assassinant doucement avec sa chanson En m'assassinant doucement avec sa chanson En racontant ma vie avec ses paroles En m'assassinant doucement avec sa chanson) I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style And so I came to see him to listen for a while And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes (J'ai entendu parler qu'il chantait bien et qu'il était doté d'un style particulier Ainsi je me suis allé lui voir un peu pour lui écouter Et là ce jeune gars me semblait à mes yeux une étrange vision) Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly with his song Telling my whole life with his words Killing me softly with his song I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on (Je me suis senti sur le coup d'une fièvre accablante devant la foule dans l'embarras Je pensais qu'il ait trouvé mes lettres et les lisait chacune à voix haute-là Je priais que la lecture soit achevée mais il continuait sa récitation) Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly with his song Telling my whole life with his words Killing me softly with his song He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there But he just carried on singing, singing clear and strong (Il chantait comme s'il ait eu connaissance de l'abîme de mon désespoir Et puis son regarde posa sur moi comme si je n'y fusse pas là Mais il n'arrêta pas à chanter, chantant à voix haute avec détermination) Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly with his song Telling my whole life with his words Killing me softly with his song Songwriters: Norman GImbel / Charles Fox Killing Me Softly lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc Artist: Roberta Flack Album: Killing Me Softly Released: 1973 Genre: Classic Soul Awards: Grammy Award for Record of the Year, Grammy Hall of Fame, Grammy Award for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance © Translation: T. Wignesan - Paris, April 23,2019 Translation of Those were the Days, My Friend by T Wignesan Translation of ' Those were the Days, My Friend ' by T. Wignesan Ces jours éloignés que nous avions partagés, Mon Ami (A re-make of an earlier Russian song, produced by Paul McCartenay and sung by Mary HOPKIN in 1968. I have not tried to stick to the original rhyme scheme for obvious reasons, preferring to compensate by adhering to internal rhyme: ABCB/Refrain: DDEFFE/Refrain/GEHE/Refrain/Refrain/AIAI/Refrain/JKJK/Refrain. Slight variations occur in the refrain, though, together with the substitution of the refrain by onomatopoetic repetition of the refrain's rhythm with ' La la…dai…dai..) Il fut un temps il existait une taverne Où nous trinquions un à l'autre avec un verre ou deux Souviens-tu nos rires aux éclats pour faire passer le temps Et les grandes choses nous songeons pouvoir accomplir plus tard Refrain Ces jours éloignés que nous avions partagés, Mon Ami Lesquels nous pensions alors ne prendraient jamais fin Nous chantions et dansions pour toujours et encore un jour Nous vivions notre vie à notre guise Nous ferions face aux difficultés sans s'y perdre nos vises Puisque nous étions jeunes et sûrs de pouvoir mener à bien notre vie La la…dai…dai…. Puis les années chargées de souci coulaient si vites Nous perdions nos précieux idéals pendant ce temps-là Et si par hasard je te rencontrerais à la taverne Ne sourions-nous pas un comme l'autre et ne dirions pas: Refrain Justement ce soir-ci je me suis trouvé devant la taverne Ni une chose semblait d'habitude d'être comme auparavant Dans les vitres je voyais une étrange réflexion D'une vieille femme délaissée - fut-elle vraiment moi Refrain A travers la cloison des rires aux éclats familiers J'aperçu ton visage et entendu ta voix prononçant mon nom Hélas! Mon Ami! Nous sommes plus âgés mais à peine plus sages Car dans nos coeurs les idéals rêvés restent toujours les mêmes Refrain Those were the days, My Friend Once upon a time there was a tavern Where we used to raise a glass or two Remember how we laughed away the hours And dreamed of all the great things we would do Refrain: Those were the days, My Friend We thought they'd never end We'd sing and dance forever and a day We'd live the life we choose We'd fight and never lose For we were young and sure to have our way Refrain Then the busy years rushing by us We lost our starry notions on the way If by chance I'd see you in the tavern We'd smile at one another and we'd say: Refrain Just tonight I stood before the tavern Nothing seemed the way it used to be In the glass I saw a strange reflection Was that lonely woman really me Refrain Through the door there came familier laughter I saw your face and heard you call my name Oh, My Friend! We're older but no wiser For in our hearts the dreams are still the same © Translation: T. Wignesan - Paris, April 19,2019 Villanelle: Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Villanelle: Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Let tears on High Holy Mass spill down the Seine Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate Is the Lord's mise en scène an act desperate A dire call to fill Church benches lone vain Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Who'd wish the Crown of Thorns be crushed under weight Aging oak high rafter timbers tumble rain Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate Witness the Lord's will red-hot Spire irate Whose felo de se the Flèche pierced heart in pain Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Montmartre's severed head Saint Denis lugged Frankish hate Who'll don Louis IX Tunic to rule Louvre brain Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate Could Man his collapsing structure rebuild to date Lord's Agent be or manage the mise en scène Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate © T. Wignesan - Paris, April 17,2019 Translation of the COMPLETE VERSION of Scarborough Fair by T Wignesan La Fête foraine de Scarborough (La Version complète) For the medieval English poet and Simon and Garfunkel -In admiration - Allez-vous à Scarborough fête foraine? (Sur la côte d'une colline dans le vert intense d'une forêt) Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Parlez de moi à une fille d'antan (Suivant un passereau sur la terre comblée de la neige) Elle fut jadis mon amie intime Dites-lui de me coudre un Cambric chemise (Couvertures et linge du lit l'enfant de la montagne) Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Sans bordure ni de la finesse (Dormait-il ne rendant pas compte de l'appel du clarion) Et sûr elle restera mon amie intime Dites: faites-le dans une ruelle de sycomore/recoltez-le dans une faucille en cuir* (Sur la côte d'une colline, les feuilles des arbres éparpillées) Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Et le recueillir dans un panier des fleurs/dans un bouquet de bruyère** (En lavant la tombe avec des larmes en argent) Ainsi elle restera mon amie intime Dites: lavez-le dans ce puit sec (Un soldat nettoie et fait briller son fusil) Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Où l'eau ne monte pas ni pluie tombe raide (La guerre résonne, éclatant parmi des bataillons sanglantes) Ainsi elle restera mon amie intime Dites: trouvez-lui un acre de terre (Les généraux requirent leurs soldats de tuer) Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Entre les flots et sur le rivage sableux (Et de batailler pour une cause dont ils avaient depuis longtemps bien oublié) Ainsi soit-elle mon amie intime NOTES *Variant version of the line: ' Tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather ' ** Variant version: ' And gather it all in a bunch of heather ' Persil/Parsley stands for ' comfort '; sauge/sage for ' strength '; romarin/rosemary for ' love ' and thym/thyme for ' courage ' Scarborough Fair Are you going to Scarborough Fair? (On the side of a hill in the deep forest green) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there (Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground) For once she was a true love of mine Have her make me a cambric shirt (Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Without no seam nor fine needle work (Sleeps unaware of the clarion call) And then she'll be a true love of mine Tell her to weave it in a sycamore wood lane (On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme And gather it all with a basket of flowers (Washes the grave with silvery tears) And then she'll be a true love of mine Have her wash it in yonder dry well (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Where water ne'er sprung nor drop of rain fell (War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions) And then she'll be a true love of mine Have her find me an acre of land (Generals order their soldiers to kill) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Between the sea foam and over the sand (And fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten) And then she'll be a true love of mine © Translation: T. Wignesan - Paris, April 12,2019 Translation of the Canticle: Scarborough Fair by T Wignesan La Fête foraine de Scarborough For the anonymous medieval poet and Simon & Garfunkel - in admiration ************ Allez-vous à Scarborough fête foraine? Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Parlez de moi à une fille d'antan Elle fut jadis mon amie intime Dites-lui de me coudre un Cambric chemise Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Sans bordure ni de la finesse Et sûr elle restera mon amie intime Dites: faites-le dans une ruelle de sycomore Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Et le recueillir dans un panier des fleurs Ainsi elle restera mon amie intime Dites: lavez-le dans ce puit sec Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Où l'eau ne monte pas ni pluie tombe raide Ainsi elle restera mon amie intime Dites: trouvez-lui un acre de terre Persil, sauge, romarin et thym Entre les flots et sur le rivage sableux Ainsi soit-elle mon amie intime Scarborough Fair Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there For once she was a true love of mine Have her make me a cambric shirt Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Without no seam nor fine needle work And then she'll be a true love of mine Tell her to weave it in a sycamore wood lane Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme And gather it all with a basket of flowers And then she'll be a true love of mine Have her wash it in yonder dry well Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme where water ne'er sprung nor drop of rain fell And then she'll be a true love of mine Have her find me an acre of land Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme Between the sea foam and over the sand And then she'll be a true love of mine © Translation: T. Wignesan - Paris, April 12,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVI IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXVI IF ever I had a Country with or without any ' Wood ' in the aching aping Film Industry And if ever (you know the refrain by now) I were NOMINATED - not hoodwinked into assuming the role of the Chief FILM CENSOR by every paid-up (most likely not) member of the millions of ciné-clubs, cinémathèques, Actors' Studios, Film-Workers' Unions, Cinema- Makers and Cinema peddlers' and Distributors' sororities and fraternities The first thing you bet I'll do is to issue an Irrefutable Command to burn every spool or reel of film (excepting one of each as evidence in case of litigation) made after the Year Elia Kazan stopped filming ' America! America! ' and ' Viva Zapata! ' - not to mention documentaries And then proceed forthwith and/or thenceforth without any hesitation whatsoever to ban all films based on the undeviating formula of extended excruciating display of VIOLENCE for the sake of relishing VIOLENCE in the name of our children watching with us into the latenight on the sofa including the repeated RAPE against the wall on the kitchentable astride the toilet-seat of poor but heavily-snorting apparently DEFENCELESS but willingly-ripped actresses on scene leading to the apochryphal MURDER of the hero or heroin with electric-saws and choppers à la ' Massacre à la Tronçonneuse ' butcheries Then shut out of my chaste and highly-principled patrie ALL box-office breaking films especially those crowned with Oscars and Ceasars Grammies and Bears which encourage and advocate the use of pernicious drugs and hard liquor while the cameras O! so casually! pick up the eternal ' bar ' scene of the Western giving us what they really want to: the lewd swaying of nakedlyclad lithesome nubile dames in the distance - the lazy loose car-screen wipers - the ' porno ' of nunneries You bet also invite ALL ME-TOO gals and Orphaned-Boy Cubs victims of Paedophilic Preachers and Priests and Professors posing as Critics to rip up cinema seats and leave behind just enough methane gas to blow up theatre halls after being subject against their will to watch copy-cat Hollywood Bollywood Chollywood Nollywood versions of Michael Jackson's beyondthe- grave calesthenics even while being attired in ' Prince in New York ' Eddy Murphy fineries And this, if ever I were appointed the Chief Film Censor of my highlyprincipled moral Philistinic Country spurning aping Bolly-Cholly-Nolly antics of Miss Holly in the pantry And even if I never ever had no country worth acting out in the wild woods of the Imaginary © T. Wignesan - Paris, April 10,2019 Translation of Pablo Neruda's IN YOU THE EARTH by T Wignesan Si de pronto no existes, (If of a sudden you were no more,) si de pronto no vives, (if of a sudden you live no more,) yo seguiré viviendo. (I'll continue to live.) No me atrevo, (I do not dare,) no me atrevo a escribirlo, (hardly will I find the courage to write this) si te mueres.(if you were to die.) Yo seguiré viviendo. (I'll go on living.) Porque donde no tiene voz un hombre(Since there where a man be not invested with a voice) allí, mi voz. (there, my voice will be heard.) Donde los negros sean apaleados, (There where Negros be skinned,) yo no puedo estar muerto.(I cannot be counted among the dead.) Cuando entren en la cárcel mis hermanos(When my brothers are put in prison) entraré yo con ellos.(I'll be in their ranks.) Cuando la victoria, (When victory,) no mi victoria, (not my triumph,) sino la gran Victoria llegue, (when the great Victory is attained,) aunque esté mudo debo hablar: (even if I were dumb, I'll open my mouth to speak :) yo la veré llegar aunque esté ciego.(yes, I'll see it arrive even if I were blind.) No, perdóname. (No, do pardon me.) Si tú no vives, (If you are no longer of this earth,) si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú(if you, sweetheart, My Love, if you) te has muerto, (were dead,) todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho, (all the leaves will fall on my chest,) lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día, (they will rain on my soul day and night,) la nieve quemará mi corazón, (snow will consume my heart,) andaré con frío y fuego(through the cold and fire, I'll continue to walk) y muerte y nieve, (and through death and snow,) mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero(my feet will want to walk on towards the place where you sleep, but) seguiré vivo, (I'll go on living,) porque tú me quisiste sobre(because you wished that I were) todas las cosas indomable, (over all things not to be trampled upon,) y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre (and, My Love, because you know that I am not just a/one man) sino todos los hombres(but he who stands with/for/among all men) Pablo Neruda (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 10,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part IXL IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: IXL IF you pull a long dopey face E'en if it were in your own bloody way Stick two sore thumbs in your own nose To spite your snubbed mug and blast bray If you pulled a long resigned face 'Who put me here' you're not allowed to say Now 'I don't want to go yet' there's the choice You can neither at will come nor go or e'en stay If you pull a long recalcitrant face Whether you feel down and out or e'en gay In the confines of your own private place That won't do take you must part in global play If you pull a long stumped face There's little to be happy about much as you lay Whichever way you face damned be the case Think you then you can make your own pay If you then must pull a long damned face Take the final curtain call and bow out of play None'll let you keep your own face in this human race Vow to suck up to man-made gods dent not their sway © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 31,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXV IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXV IF ever I had a country with flaming flags flying on every lamp-post weathercock and tree And if ever I were by my highest degree qualification appointed the Director- General of Museums Zoos Botanico-Ornithological Gardens Parks and Cemetries I would make it a point of the Most Urgent Order that every bird gaily chirping warbling shrieking or even grumbling in its own particular brand of cursing for free Either lone or in chorus or in competition with its own kind or in contempt of other feathered outlandish melodies Together with every howling hound bellowing beast croaking crocodile cursing cat or mocking monkey That they be taught and made to learn by rote under pain of plunder and pillage of their property to belt out the National anthem every dawn and at the crowing down of the Sun in its reverie Or else be banished tarred and feathered forthwith from My Dearly-Beloved Country after forfeiting their tongues never to sing again and this after coughing up an astronomical fine of a fee for the capital crime of Lèse Majesté That is, if ever I were appointed the Most Distinguished Protector of the Patrimony as the Director-General of Museums Zoos Botanico-Ornithological Gardens Parks and Cemetries Even if I never ever had no country where no birds trill tongues or beasts bellow bestialities and mockeries © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 26,2019 A Self-Tutoring Translation of Rimbaud's Final Version VOWELS in Contemporary Terms A Self-Tutoring Translation of RIMBAUD's Final Version ' Vowels ' in Contemporary Terms (' Vowels ' (final version, without the definite article, with the poet's corrections) in RIMBAUD OEuvres complètes. Ed. by Pierre Brunel. Paris: Livres de Poche/La Pochethèque,1999, pp.279-280. Please see notes following the translation. T. Wignesan) A, black; E, white; I, red; U, green; O, blue; vowels, I'll invoke true to day how your latent forms take shape A, velvety black corset shiny bluebottles armour-plate ape Pullule hovering over putrefying carrion stench gruels By leeway gulfs. E, glaring white sheets(1) of vapours and tents, Icy surges prideful, Oriental Potentates (2) , fluttering parasols umbellate, I, attires purple(3) , spat-out blood, laughter from Synchrotron(4) lips ondulate Through anger or from inebriate benumbing of penitents. U, cycles, the divine vibrations of emerald-green seas Peaceful grazing grounds teeming with animals, reposeful furrowed pleats Some alchemically concocted hand imprints on great foreheads studious; O! stentorian Bugle! the laden strident shriek deranges, The calmness pierced by disrupting Worlds and Angels… --- O! the ultimate Omega, the violet tincture of Her Eyes(5) ! Notes (1) ' frissons ' (word effaced by Rimbaud, according to Brunel's footnotes, to avoid repetitious recall of the same word in the next line and substitured by ' candeurs ' signifying ' ingenuousness ' though in its etymological sense: ' blancheur ', i.e; , ' whiteness or innocence '; (2) ' rois blancs ' (' White Kings ', according to Brunel's footnotes: ' souverains orientaux ', i.e., ' Oriental Monarchs ') ; (3) ' pourpres ' (now in the plural referring to ' accoutrements ' and hence I have used ' attires ' not to give it its pejorative sense in English; (4) ' belles ' (' beautiful ' is a hackneyed and meaningless epithet; by contrast, the CERN Synchrotron is the most daring, infinitesimally elegant and awe-inspiring human creation) ; (5) ' Ses Yeux ' (first letters capitalised by Rimbaud - from what I can gather from the notes and biographical information - refers to a ' violet-eyed damsel ' with whom Rimbaud turned up in Paris one fine day) . The colour ' violet ' also according to the notes is the last of the colours of the spectrum or ' prisme ' just as ' Omega ' is the last letter of the Greek alphabet. © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 23,2019 A Self-Tutoring Translation of Rimbaud's THE VOWELS in Contemporary Terms A Self-Tutoring Translation of RIMBAUD's ' The Vowels ' in Contemporary Terms (' The Vowels ' in the Paul Verlaine (first version) copy in RIMBAUD OEuvres complètes. Ed. by Pierre Brunel. Paris: Livres de Poche/La Pochethèque,1999, pp.279-280. Please see notes following the translation. T. Wignesan) A, black; E, white; I, red; U, green; O, blue; vowels, I'll invoke true to day how your latent forms take shape A, velvety black corset shiny bluebottles armour-plate ape Pullule hovering over putrefying carrion stench gruels By leeway gulfs. E, shimmering of vapours and tents, Icy surges prideful, white grapes*, fluttering parasols umbellate, I, purple, spat-out blood, laughter from Synchrotron** lips ondulate Through anger or from inebriate benumbing of penitents. U, cycles, the divine vibrations of emerald-green seas Peaceful grazing grounds teeming with animals, reposeful furrowed pleats Some alchemically concocted hand imprints on great foreheads studious; O! stentorian Bugle! the laden strident shriek deranges, The calmness pierced by disrupting Worlds and Angels… --- O! the ultimate Omega, the violet tincture of her eyes! Notes * ' rais blanc ' (' raisin blanc '? , hence: ' raisiné ': blood, claret) ; ** ' belles ' (' beautiful ' is hackneyed and meaningless; by contrast, the CERN Synchrotron is the most daring, infinitesimally elegant and awe-inspiring human creation) ; © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 21,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XL IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: XL IF you pull a long Quixotic face At your own mirror image en face at play Your Right from Left your Anti-Self confuse Myriad selves your chained Parallel Lives portray If you pull a long ironic face Your Right eye looks into your Left in dismay Who looks at whom to cock-eye whose gaze Who called out to whom to glimpse past Milky Way If you pull a long dispised face At each glance preen looks made of clay The more you look the more your face you raze How many torture your face like you do, pray If you pull a long insidious face Connive at ruses to make you the Other's prey Pretend you pass glass wall some Other face efface The insecure Twit calls out to the Other gay Jay If you pull a long auto-da-fé face E'en Hollywood Quasars collapse into Black-Holes some day The face is mirror of the heart not just the brain's Suffice it not to smile to win the heart of any Dame, nay, Gay © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 18,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXIX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: XXXIX For Aurélien BARRAU, the consummate millenial teacher IF you pull a long perplexed face At the way this World has come to stay Bad Guys always running the human race Good Guys have no recourse but to pray If you pull a long victimized face Hoping somehow the Meek will win out some day That all it takes is to lose meantime some face Now and then to those who make you unwilling pay If you pull a long anxious face Fretting every morn the issue of the day Which Frost road to take to avoid the pitfall place Bad Guys will revel to see you fritter energy away If you pull a long downcast face At the way Justice fails to pave the way For Truth to triumph while mediocre mettle prevails Does not Yang need the Yin to keep both at bay If you must then pull all kinds of face At, say, Pullitzers Bookers Goncourts all mainstay Nobels pariah Will the whored beggar Welles or the squealing Kazans they replace Be the Dantes erecting on quicksand grounds the Divina Comedia © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 16,2019 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXIV IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXIV IF ever I had a country proud of its sacred Soul Patrie And if ever by a long shot I was nominated - not spuriously elected - Chef Ministre d'Etat Plenipotentiary The first thing I'd do is to give the Minister of Justice the sack in a hurry I'll then take over his post and issue a long awaited (you'll agree) and needed decree That henceforth any razor-sharp lawyer and his erudite team appointed by a client for a very very high fee To defend protect and facilitate the ' escape ' of any known criminal whose ill-gotten gains burst bank-vaults to a brain-numbing degree That the lawyer and his team be given the DOUBLE of the sentence meted out to the criminal and be put away minus their licences to practise LAW in an Alcatrazlike penitentiary And this even if I never ever had no country to call my own with or without any patrimony (The late eminent Vietnamese-French lawyer, Maître JACQUES VERGES, renowned for among other feats the defence of KLAUS BARBIE, the NAZI ' chief ' under the French Vichy regime, was also the Secrétaire de la Conférence des Avocats/Examiner for those wishing to practise law in France. And yet, in a case where I was concerned with revolting Master's and Doctoral students at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University, he subtly had my case scuttled to prop up mainly Muslim and African-origin students - openly backed by JAMES BALDWIN - who objected vehemently to being taught, besides numerous other Commonwealth authors, V. S. NAIPAUL's The Guerillas, together with Eva Peron and The Killings in Trinidad, students who also took exception to any comparison, by way of structural influence, of WOLE SOYINKA's The Road, with Greek tragedies.) © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 8,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXVIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: PART XXXVIII IF you pull a long vacant face Might be you just have nothing to say Which is not a crying disgrace Empty drums need be beaten to bellow away If you pull a long puzzled face Just read what poets have to say On their ilk and how they pretend to liaise Both thoughts and feelings rare they portray If you pull a long insensed face At the affronts you have to put up with all day Pull the shutters close round face Read - not repeat - those long inhumed ages away If you pull a long proud face Your evanescent words others must attention pay Have your ephemeral self bolstered through praise You deserve to inhabit Xanadu Laureat of all you survey If you must pull a long misunderstood face Little the use reading faces e'en the Chinese way A long unread face unveils e'en the masked ignoramus ace Don't Gecian myths enrich the Iliad and Odyssey © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 5,2019 Translation of Marcel Moreau's A L'Amour by T Wignesan Translation of the Elegy: On Marceline Desbordes-Valmore - À L'amour - Poem by Marcel Moreau Translated by T. Wignesan Reprends de ce bouquet les trompeuses couleurs, (Take back the dubious colours of this bouquet) Ces lettres qui font mon supplice, (These letters the cause of my calvaire) Ce portrait qui fut ton complice; (This portrait which once was your peer) Il te ressemble, il rit, tout baigné de mes pleurs. (It looks like you, it laughs, my tears full it bathe) Je te rends ce trésor funeste, (I let you take back this damnable treasure) Ce froid témoin de mon affreux ennui. (This cold reminder of my painful boredom.) Ton souvenir brûlant, que je déteste, (Your scorching memory which I cannot endure) Sera bientôt froid comme lui. (Will like the portrait turn cold soon) Oh! Reprends tout. Si ma main tremble encore, (Oh! Take all back. If my hand still trembles) C'est que j'ai cru te voir sous ces traits que j'abhorre. (It's probably due to the abhorrent underlying features) Oui, j'ai cru rencontrer le regard d'un trompeur; (Yes, I thought I perceived his looks treacherous) Ce fantôme a troublé mon courage timide. (This phantom has rendered my courage timid.) Ciel! On peut donc mourir à l'aspect d'un perfide, (Heavens! One can even die from a perfidious spectre) Si son ombre fait tant de peer (If his shadow does indeed cause much fear) Comme ces feux errants dont le reflet égare, (Like errant fires whose reflections disappear) La flamme de ses yeux a passé devant moi; (The flame of your eyes dance past me after) Je rougis d'oublier qu'enfin tout nous sépare; (I blush forgetting that in fact we have nothing in common) Mais je n'en rougis que pour toi. (But I only do so for your sake) Que mes froids sentiments s'expriment avec peine! (May my frozen sentiments be laboriously expressed!) Amour... que je te hais de m'apprendre la haine! (Love… I'm damned hating you teaching me how to hate!) Eloigne-toi, reprends ces trompeuses couleurs, (Take back the dubious colours of this bouquet) Ces lettres, qui font mon supplice, (These letters the cause of my calvaire) Ce portrait, qui fut ton complice; (This portrait which once was your peer) Il te ressemble, il rit, tout baigné de mes pleurs! (It looks like you, it laughs, my tears full it bathe) Cache au moins ma colère au cruel qui t'envoie, (Conceal at least my anger to the hard-hearted who this sends) Dis que j'ai tout brisé, sans larmes, sans efforts; (Say that I have destroyed all, without effort, without tears) En lui peignant mes douloureux transports, (By relating to him the anguish of my insufferable feelings) Tu lui donnerais trop de joie. (You will confer on him joy that never ends) Reprends aussi, reprends les écrits dangereux, (Take also back, take back your dangerous writings) Où, cachant sous des fleurs son premier artifice, (Where hiding beneath flowers his first artifice) Il voulut essayer sa cruauté novice (He had wanted to foist his cruelty as a novice) Sur un coeur simple et malheureux. (Over a simple heart doomed through pinings) Quand tu voudras encore égarer l'innocence, (When you might want to lose your innocence) Quand tu voudras voir brûler et languir, (When you might want to see it all burn and languish) Quand tu voudras faire aimer et mourir, (When you might wish to be loved and perish) N'emprunte pas d'autre éloquence. (Do not seek to use other forms of eloquence ) L'art de séduire est là, comme il est dans son coeur! (The art of seduction is there as it is in your heart!) Va! Tu n'as plus besoin d'étude. (Go! You have no need for advice.) Sois léger par penchant, ingrat par habitude, (Be frivolous by nature, ungrateful by practice) Donne la fièvre, amour, et garde ta froideur. (Proffer fever, love, but maintain the coldness of heart) Ne change rien aux aveux pleins de charmes. (Change nothing of the professions of love full of charm) Dont la magie entraîne au désespoir: (Since such magic leads one to despair :) Tu peux de chaque mot calculer le pouvoir, (You can with each word calculate its power) Et choisir ceux encore imprégnés de mes larmes... (And choose yet those words which with my tears swarm) Il n'ose me répondre, il s'envole... il est loin. (He dares to respond, he takes flight… he's far gone.) Puisse-t-il d'un ingrat éterniser l'absence! (Could he but such an ungrateful one forever feel the absence!) Il faudrait par fierté sourire en sa présence: (One should, emboldened with pride, smile in his presence :) J'aime mieux souffrir sans témoin. (I'd rather suffer all alone.) Il ne reviendra plus, il sait que je l'abhorre; (He will no more return, he knows how I abhor him) Je l'ai dit à l'amour, qui déjà s'est enfui. (I have with loving words told him, he has already gone away.) S'il osait revenir, je le dirais encore: (If he dares return, I'd tell him the same again :) Mais on approche, on parle... hélas! Ce n'est pas lui! (But one comes close, one talks… alas! It's not him!) Recueil: Élégies (1830) . Marceline Desbordes-Valmore From the collection: Élégies (1830) . Marceline Desbordes-Valmore © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 4,2019 Translation of Marcel Moreau's: A Paris by T Wignesan Translation of Marcel Moreau's ' A Paris ' by T. Wignesan IN PARIS Paris bores me no end without you My heart weighted down with melancholia The spleen given over to asthenia Empties its own sense of loss on to me, too. Sometimes I revisit this bistro Over a coffee I remain speechless Sweetened yet acerbic and joyless I recall the charm in your words true Then I amble through the boulevards The streets and alleys spoking out from thence Foraging for some spoor of your presence Some trace of you I find not hereabouts Those monuments I remember were so elegant Today I reject them as monstrous abominable Enveloped in dark coal shades below gables Robed in hideous scaffoldings repugnant Lyon Station pounded under a thousand feet The crowd surging in a hurry, most fearful Like ants storming plundering plentiful Beneath the clock tower no chiming bells treat Austerlitz Station, an insalubrious grinding battle Austere, wildly noisy and of a temperament savage Swallows and regurgitates a refluxing sludge Of people, its unending food-chain to trundle The Pyramid looms stripped of attention There before the Louvre now of faded stature In no way willing to own up to the exposure Of taking in the Joconde in fleeting succession Like Her, I too have become a fossil in every way So I set about moving up along the Champs Elysées To hang about the great museums of the avenue Like an unsung mortal of the Grand Palais Paris still bores me deprived of your presence From the Champs de Mars to the Notre Dame Everything looks morbid, I feel by all condemned During this month's lack of effervescence: ' November exudes a sentiment that's cruel You do wish to see me drown in the Seine! On which bridge might one picture the scene? Sully, Saint-Louis or Carrousel? ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, March 1st.,2019 The original in French re-produced with the written permission of the poet: À Paris - Poem by Marcel Moreau À Paris, je m'ennuie sans toi… Mon coeur tagué mélancolie, Ce spleen, sensible à l'asthénie, Vidant l'incertitude en moi… Je reviens parfois à ce bistro, Devant un café sans éloquence Sucré d'âcreté déplaisante Rêvant au charme de tes mots. Puis j'erre sur les boulevards, Rues et les voies adjacentes À l'enquête de l'évidence Que je ne trouve nulle part. Ces monuments étaient si beaux, Aujourd'hui je les abomine Dans la noirceur qui les domine Et les hideurs de l'échafaud. Gare de Lyon, mille piétons, Foule pressée et alarmante Comme des fourmis déroutantes, Sous l'horloge sans carillon. Gare Austerlitz, l'infect combat Austère, bruyante et sauvage Avale et vomit un breuvage De monde, son continuel repas. La pyramide sans attrait Devant ce Louvre humeur flétrie Ne partage guère l'envie De voir Joconde aux tirets tirés. Comme elle, j'ai les traits tirés À remonter les champs Élysées, Je me cramponne aux grands musées Comme un mortel du Grand Palais. A Paris, je m'ennuie sans toi Du Champ de Mars à Notre Dame, Tout est morne, tout me condamne Et ce mois qui s'attache au choix: ' Novembre au sentiment cruel, Tu veux me plonger dans le Seine! Sur quel pont conserver la scène? Sully, Saint-Louis ou Carrousel? ' (c) Marcel Moreau - Paris IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXVII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXVII IF you pull a long repentant face It avails you to pull it where no one sees you pray For forgiveness though not after being caught outright losing face A stricken conscience e'en coached by counsel may not pardon parley If you pull a fresh Wu Wang face Better pawn it to those who would the right price pay Such as a plea-bargain reduction in sentence Which could pave the way to a bestseller screen play But if you pull a long mea culpa earnest face Just when the Eldest Son Zhen spring awakens the Lunar Year The noble Fa-Ling lined Ganesha ' A Daniel come to Judgment ' may take offence And thunder quake: ' I'll nail you to the Cross ' if you lie this cleansing day If you yet could pull a long masked vengeful face For slights or stings being overlooked by the Master riding high in clover Then all exceptions undeleted none may plan to profit from this case Might not things right themselves before the year runs out and make villains pay If you must then pull a long Sacrificial Lamb face Note how even the Mid-East Patriarch's foundations tremble on the very same day No Saviour may lead his flock thrice out of the Walled Wilderness e'en into Outer Space For he ' who comes to Equity must come with clean hands ' or else the ultimate price pay © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 28,2019 Translation of Marcel Moreau's Je t'ecris by T Wignesan Translation of Marcel Moreau's ' Je t'écris ' by T. Wignesan I WRITE TO YOU I choose green ink to write to you For Love does not prescribe any one hue In the hope you might take shape When desire seizes me agape You, the enigma of my dreams Come, meet me when the day dawns To share but one solitary pillow Where we may entwine Love herebelow I pen these words in green ink For pleasure makes one think Of the patient sweetness of kisses Of the exalting ardour of passions I write to you in green ink taint For passion at dawn heralds no end To diverse phantasies that lie in wait At the edge of a bed left quite unmade I write one lone evening in autumn The green ink has lost its vibrant tone Sick my soul for the want of you The world split apart in more than two I write no more to you, dear Angel All colours of ink I have let spill Into the sea where currents collide Waiting hardly makes you come with the tide I shall write you no more my Sweetheart No more the flame lights up in my heart That flame I lit up when winds coursed through Like a tearing apart of emotions true Should I write to you again Of star-studded heavens you to win Even the body to embrace you now pales I have only my spirit left your Love inhales © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 25,2019 Je T'écris... - Poem by Marcel Moreau Je t'écris à l'encre verte, Car l'amour est une porte ouverte À l'espérance de te découvrir Dans des moments de désir. Toi, l'inconnue de mes rêves, Rencontre-moi au jour qui se lève Pour partager mon seul oreiller Sur lequel on peut s'aimer. Je t'écris à l'encre verte Car le plaisir est une pensée À la patience des doux baisers, À l'ardeur de s'exalter. Je t'écris à l'encre verte Car la passion est une aube ouverte À l'attente des fantasmes divers Au bord d'un lit découvert. Je t'écris un soir d'automne, L'encre verte devient monotone; Le mal de vivre, le manque de toi, Un monde de désarroi. Je ne t'écris plus mon ange, J'ai jeté toutes les couleurs d'encre Dans la mer aux flots récalcitrants, L'attente n'a plus de sens. Je ne t'écris plus mon âme, Mon coeur n'a plus cette jolie flamme Que j'attisais à l'heure des vents Comme un long déchirement. Dois-je encore t'écrire Du monde étoilé pour te séduire? Je n'ai plus de corps pour t'embrasser, Je n'ai que mon esprit pour t'aimer. (c) Marcel Moreau- Paris IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXVI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXVI IF you pull a long-famished face Chances are you'd pull derisive looks your way Some might relent Others spite your face For not pulling your weight in every way If you pull a long symbolic face Your words no meaning profound convey Mallarmé's ill-armed ideas make poems fall on face Try E = mc2: Poem = idea + words2 to force poiea If you pull a long straight face The contradiction might show through the gap in the veil Sure as Rita Hayworth ' put the blame ' on Orson Welles If you're not sure of the signs in poems you use in braille If you yet pull a long-forsaken face Stymied by photons neutrinos criss-crossed by Cosmic Ray Stop wondering what happened to meaning words efface Just listen to rhythmic rhymes in the musical phrase at play So if you must pull that long-mutated face With time won't ideas coalesce words into Shakespearean play At will stream out of computer softwares at mind-boggling pace Leave neither poet nor poetaster critic nor customer with pay © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 25,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXV IF you pull a long croquet face While picking your teeth index and thumb over molar Canines will drip corrosive acids on knuckles and nails E'en if you lose anonymous self in a crowded alley If you pull a long twisted itching face All through childhood while making hay You risk being stung by bluebottles and fleas Right where you may not much like 'em to stay If you pull a long self-conscious face Guilt straining your under-your-wear during play Tell-tale signs beyond control those stains on lace Parents by Law only keep teens so long as they obey If you pull a long pre-maturé face E'en a Mahatma Gandhi married at puberté At 36 assumes Brahmacharya celibate sacrifice To libido's extra-marital experience falls prey If you must pull a long pedo-de-filed priestly face Pull it not on homeless orphan or pious nun gone astray Tussle all alone the Devil in you from pantry to pillow-case Or else the Man in Hu-Man would drive the Wo-Man gay © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 21,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXIV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXIV For Mickey COTO and his PTS-ed cohorts IF you pull a long patriotic face ' My Country My God boundup in one alloyed essay The blood I spill for either in one compounded commonplace For Mother and Father begot me Soul and Body I let slay ' If you pull a long cramped face In galactic worlds speeding pell-mell trillion light years away The Glory of the Nation ancient History pure Superior conquering Race Will Voyager II blot out from the Carter message the stain in our DNA If you pull a long arrogant face Vying with one another your Party's Will to impose in mellée Loud yet dumb those who'll vain political power embrace Won't names on plaques and stiff statues with time decay If you pull a long populist face Confound callow youths' psychés through geo-political play The Enemy's the one with the ethnic-God's alien grimace Won't ' Demo-Cracy ' make ' People-Crazy ' Passionarias pray If you must pull a long pro-patria-mori face Then breed the orphaned cloned-robot grandes armées Mediativize the great onslaughts from Sun Tzu & Cong strategies Won't the Populace then exult betting on their revered contrées © T. Wignesan, Paris, February 16,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXIII IF you pull a long non-plussed face Astrophysicists declare Science no Absolute Truths underlay Big-Crunch might on Big-Bang back bounce about face Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay If you pull a long heretical face Opt for accidentally ordered Life as did Hawking portray Almighty be a Barrau's ' tout comme ' Lord of Multiverse Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay If you pull a long Question-Marked face Two brothers in '43 jumped into the Future to aver Great Lakes all make for one big sea surface Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay If you pull a long besotted face Long walls of Black Holes tugging pulling us in disarray Andromeda throttle surge through our Milky Way interlace Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay So if you must pull a long-lost inane face Light-propelled ET-ships visit us NASA-men say If you can the future tell e'en of one of the human race Then nothing anyone can ever do the FUTURE gainsay © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 14,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXII IF you pull a long ME-TOO victimised face ' Look Mom! Dirty-Ol'-Sod oggles me carriage sway! ' ' Dear Girl! Of what use curves under pretty face? Be like Mona Lisa, look neither Louvre either way! ' If you pull a long ME-TOO martyred face ' Oh, Mom, look! He looks through under wear! ' ' Dear Child! Eyes are made for hills and dales On desert sands, looks stretch mirage bare! ' If you pull a long ME-TOO bothered face ' Oh, Mom, look! Light's changed we've right of way My Zebra thighs cross at every stride his lurid gaze! ' ' Oh! Ne'er you mind, for all you know he's gay! ' If you pull a long ME-TOO frenzied face ' Oh, Mom, look! The cad swims under my belly! ' ' Pretty Mome! Wish not he breaststrokes to spoil grace! The flip and the flop of diving: Not on my nelly! ' If you must pull a long ME-TOO sacrificed face ' Oh, Mom! That pedophile's looks drip lecherous leer! ' ' Sure, Baby! That's the look perpetuates the human race Yearn not for a YAHOO's horse to mate and rule us here! ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 9,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXXI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXXI IF you pull a long lagging-behind face You deserve your copycat status in more than one way Marco Polo brought back cracker-power not to powder face Noble Savage Injuns and Indians shuddered and gave way Now if you pull a long WOG face Aping the Colonial Master in every bourgeois way No use straddling neck feet dangling front of face Giant still supports the Dwarf while striding away If you still will pull that long sullen ' heathen ' face Thinking how easy the tidal wave you'd turn back anyway Vasco's galleons rained broadside thunder balls on village place While your loin-clothed turbaned ancestors scurried in fear If you then pull your long self-satisfied face At your hosts' Midas touch riding main fleets of Raleigh To stud Crown lapis lazuli rubies opal spice and maize Needs he as much now you to beg fawn and yeah-say If you must then pull your long infra-dig face Hankering after titles prizes rubbing shoulders in hallowed hallway Colonial caste of mind gives exacting the Shylock pound of flesh Smites your integrity dignity breaks spirit robs merits if ' I YOU DARE! ' say © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 8,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXX IF you pull a long querulous face At the way Life makes you dire pay For doubts and questions slaps your face Fear keeps you from getting out-of-here If you pull a long-damned face Why woes and wails end not today At your meek efforts scoffs the face E'en Man-made-Laws prolong delay If you keep pulling that angst-long face Your duties to dear-ones holds you prey Hereunder parcours written on tortured face Corridor of Fortune mid Mother-Father ear If you then can pull this long-stretched face Cheek-bone nose shape Fa-ling lines down ear Snub-nosed Socrates quaffed hemlock in disgrace Contours of Fate circulate face year by lunar year So if you must pull a long DNA mirror-face Hide plastic surgery face under mask or clay How long Bushmen took to Chinese their race Yet let the few alter Nature through fore-play © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 6,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXIX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXIX IF you pull a long pained face The kind poets affect and gladly display Throughout the ages with their lonely-heart feelings in lyrical grace You might end up Precious Pearl in harem of some Arabo-Turkish Bey If you then pull that longingly pained long face In verses thin and sweetened long to Your Lord and Master Bey All night long pulling at the tassels of your silken robes pyjama lace Your turn might never come to whisper rosy verses under moonlit ear Yet if you keep pulling that long lone-heart face Know that Eunuchs too might not averse be to your corvée And might listen close to every lilting line behind burka lace Unless in Looney Bin the Bey thinks fit to let you long stay Now if you pulled that long left-alone pale face During long-stricken nights while silken moon-shafts through casements stray Your face wan the tang of your pulled flesh less and less sinuous in bed-wise ways With luck you might at his table serve as a taster of macoronic verse play So if you must go on pulling that long Parson's face Pull it while chopping up pork ribs for crispy crunchy helpings à la Canard Lacqué None will miss appreciating the tango twists and twirls in your hurt-feelings vice-verse Everything's grist to the salmagundi soup the pot-pourri pulsed poem à la Chop Suey © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 5,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXVIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXVIII IF you pull a long perplexed face You could be watching SUMO in Tokyo Bay Or reading this without a NIHONG-GUO dictionary in front of face Rather I'd say you were the victim of WATENAGE If you gasp at me pulling - pardon me - long dude face Most probably you landed on your head due to ****ANAGE Little use then pulling that long RISHIKISHI enigmatic poker face Even if you were a 400-pound local HEBI-KYU god YOKOZUNA Yet if you insist on pulling your long-slapped face It's your own funeral living stabled in a SUMOBEYA When all around GEISHA fans dream behind rice-paint face Of what use then 30,000 YEN KENSHOKIN PRIZE nets you each day If you can't help pulling that long-repressed face Think you can gouge eyes out kick grab groin pull hair Think again you had better throw salt to purify SHINTO DOHYO ring space Or else find your MAWASHI loincloth ripped-off your shame hair rare So if you must pull that 1500-year long SUMO face Make certain you perform KAMI salt-throwing ceremony First of all at TOKYO MEIJI SHRINE like all RISHIKISHIS Before you digest 5000 to 7000 calories of fried diabetic chow each thumping day © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 3,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXVII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXVII IF you pull a long poet's face All things you write go awry E'en fans who cuddle up offer no solace Remember Kipling's ' IF ' the price to pay If you pull a long deserted face E'en friends plot with club members to assail You lose will e'en to tie loose line shoe-lace Damn could e'en petty sins cause such travail If you go on pulling that long worsted face Lines you lilt and rhyme sound airy-fairy You push pen you powder verse till tears race Creative college rhetoric plunder words weary Yet if you pull this long-lined sick face Grinding teeth biting lips till red ink spray Ask who cut off Van Gogh's ear to spite his coal-mine face Will a Gauguin mock a Brando's South-Seas belles-ballet If you pull a long Art-for-Artifice sake face Ask whose Kafkayesque trials plagued a Welles's Moro-Jacobean play Holy-Wood chef-d'oeuvres dictate classic post-modern pace Kaleidoscopic formulae: rape batter murder on Tolstoyian vertebrae © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 31,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXVI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXVI IF you pull that long-besieged face Back and forth to Brussels in Brexit bob-sleigh Deal or No-Deal backstop Customs excise nor phase EU patience and make jingle-bells rein deer neigh If you pull that plucky long face You risk boxing the Left's adamant Brexit-Deal ear ' EYES ' to the Right ' NOSE ' to the Left ' have it ' put Westminster grace out-of-place No argument on amendments ' PROSIT ' with Franco-German beer Then if you pull that long disfigured face The Celts will with Scots not in English parley To invite reigning Norman to fly in the face into Brexit space Not mind you on skis past Omaha Beach and Isle Guernsey Yet if you continue to pull that long-merited face Even Roman legions will over-run the Charlemagne Gaul face rightaway To watch Nero blitz-krieg London while May souffle sur les braises Won't even a Nobel Peace Prize entice a ditch-Brexit May If you must then pull a long-stymied face Carve Britain out add a STAR to the Star-Spangled pot-pourrée Let the Scots the Irish and the Welsh in gaelic discourse While gentlemanly Six Nations Cup supplant Super Bowl rough play © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 29,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXV IF you pull a long face Neither side in tug-of-war giving way Pull in the name of the Populace Neither side will lose face e'ven if they bray But if you pull a long surly face In fear your own clan might fall prey To the Squinting-Lady with the tilted balance Beware of saving face at the expense of the Lay If then you would pull a long-assured face Founding Fathers pull with me on my side today Tomorrow might usher in a benumbing sense of daze If you flout in the face the Law's mainstay: Egalité If you insist on pulling a long smug face House soul-White clean the House on the Hill guilt-grey Might Chosen Few bow to Ol' troubled Abe's wizened gaze Or scowl at the Capital Dome the Bill of Rights to flay So if you must the long face pull with grace Turn a deaf ear to those who at Wall Street pray The streets crawl with people losing ev'ryday a bit of face Futile efforts at making ends meet for their progeny at bay © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 26,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXIV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXIV IF you pull that long martyred face While brake-disks hiss howl metal-doors click-clutch-cluck on railway No Tokyo masks nor hand darts to protect the homefront populace Breeding grounds Underground cooking love-cold soup bacteriae If you pull that damnit I've-caught-it again long distressed face Between fleeing Metro stations unable to turn your face away Holding breath in terror fumigating in deadly solipsistic silence Which year's vaccination failed to mutate and antidotes convey If you pull that long contorted villified face Sandwiched between leaking semen sweat coughing sonorous spray Bacteria exploding tout azimut in jolting standing wool-crammed space Smiles stuck in smart-phones fingers deftly messaging con-art display If you then pull that fully-drenched long face Face to face with guys who repress no more pent-up phlegm volley Adding to that splash short staccato sharp poop-stench promise Who nurses not nor lodges the germinating common denominator heir Yet if you must pull that long innoculated face Remember the doctor the nurse the pharmacist all give willing way To the vast multi-national over/under the counter panacea commerce To keep the influenza germ indoors at soaring fever pitch - Hurray! © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 25,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXIII IF you pull a long-pained face After tumbling down the Stairway Do not the blame put on loose shoe-lace The fault, pained-poet, may lie in gut-loose kidney Now if you still pull that pained-look victim face Watching others trip down whistling care-free gay Turn back the pages and ill-fraught lines replace With clippety-cloppy trained strides in horse-shoe gait Yet if you insist on parading your long-pulled face Draw not attention to the Maker of the Stairway Nor sit on High Horse of thorough-bred DNA race Most if not ALL will slip down the slippery Stairway If you go on pulling that long-dethroned face Know that ev'ry race-winner aloft long does not stay Be it White Brown Black Yellow or of mixed-race No use then claiming favoured-place with Potter of clay So if you must pull that long Pale Face Do it where you don't step on toes in any way Sunscreen melotinine paves not way to pride of place If you believe in One Maker why d'you to One Son pray © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 23,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXII IF you pull a long lonely face Standing all alone near or on a busy airport flyway Sans kith ni kin nor traffic police or friends en surplus Hell you'll be mowed down by plane's landing gear out-lay Now if you pull that lone long face Since with none you can co-habit you say Too true as that might be do as penance purchase A man-sized mouse-trap stick neck in and pray But if you pull long neck out to save long face Don't blame me if by chance the spring gives way Mouse-traps are made only for rats running in rat-race If you want out post (on this site) your sworn statement apostasié Yet if you pull your changed-mind long face Take vows of celibacy eat nor enjoy flesh either way Even as anthropophage Andromède chew on Ethiopian rock face None'll make a shrine out of bones buried under compost pourrée So if you must pull a lone long face Seek not other lone long faces who pray and flay Their backs and with cat-o'-nine-tails their face Lacerate till Antonioni films Sophia L. with St. Francois d'Assis in Mandalay © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 22,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XXI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XXI IF you pull a long Moon face Watching our Earth clad in sparse swirling white sarée Her aqua-marine waters cuddling her reddish brown body-surface The dazzlingly rare Pearl now throttled by deadly débris If you then pull a long Other-Moon face Rolling weightless in a space-ship bathed in thermo-dynamic ray You turn your thoughts on the marvels of the man-made science race And then give the credit to Our-Nation GOD Is this really okay Then if you pull a long bright Sunny face And forget the reasons why this World of ours has gone astray Man's inhumanity to Man how warring nations destroy Nature's grace Pollute the depths of oceans cancer in the bowels flora and fauna sans say If you continue to pull a long self-satisfied face In the name of the Lord for every national achievement His blessings pray Then repeat non-sensical myths and rituals in His Honour according to race Reduce the United Nations to hypocritical inner politicking yeah-say Thus if you must pull a long-travestied face All through the Ages on the dictates of your incontrovertible DNA Seek by every economic ruse power of class and caste on skins of race Sing not of the beauty of this rare Pearl decorating space Put the blame squarely on Divine Lila play © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 20,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XX IF you pull a long-haughty face Some would not your game play What irks you most is not their voice But runs they chalk up during volley If you then pull this long face With those in the same métier Beware some might your castle raze Out of a need to debunk the phoney Yet if you pull that self-same long face Know it's your own face you sadistic flay Whoever for whatever reason takes offence Stretches his face beyond the Milky Way Now if you keep pulling that long-ridiculed face Despite what others do to keep us down I'd say Go on keep pulling that by now long irate face There's no better lesson you could give or take Olé So if you must pull your long-inured face For ages whipping on slave-ship galley Go on live in bliss with Moon-mirror face The Sun darkens skin with un-ending ray © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 19,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XIX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XIX IF you pull a long plucky face Even when I-Ee-You let you have your way Placed no impediment for the divorce Let you keep key to backstop exit doorway You yet keep pulling that long stubborn face Yes you want out when I want you to stay House in utter disorder your comeuppance Mary Queen of Scots no tough Liz will obey If you keep pulling that long war-weary face What must I do or say your fears to allay The fault lies squarely on Henry the VIII's mace Even Papal Borgias did male heirs coolly lay Yet you keep pulling that long staunch face Again and again for you Excommunication I delay You want both: eat cake while pulling a long face Even Luther would think twice such customs waylay So if you must pull a long navel face Build yourself a Wall right round: call it Isles of May Expel your Blacks and Asians born with jus soli grace Turn Old Vic plays into Tower Terror bloody display © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 17,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XVIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XVIII IF you pull a long dopey face The least one can in this case say You don't belong to the eskimo race Who lament the sun sunk in iced bay Now if you pull that long limp face Hoping someone will notice your dismay Best not to peek through burka-nikah lace Take the next flight out of tent on any airway Yet if you keep pulling that long hangdog face Ev'ry chance you'd be called upon to act in a play For who knows how to imitate Droopy's face Who has heard of a cartoon dog star on Broadway If you pulled hard at that long hangdog face Through wearisome rehearsals day after day Fat chance you'll be nominated to play Scarface No long-faced dogs allowed on stage in Broadway So if you must pull that long hangdog face Make certain the collar the leash does not betray The long-buried wolf in the dog might surface And actors feast on wolf sans ShutDown back pay © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 9,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XVII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XVII IF you pull a long bored face Oh What's the use no way to be gay Ev'ry effort gets bogged in rigged rat-race Some covert service blocks my way Yet you pull that long out-of-shape face Bored by the way things turn out every day No use turning out the lights in bed to efface Lessons learned during the day you must weigh If you go on pulling that long elongated face You risk also pulling your hair out I dare say Your eyes and ears too without using pliers End up as Moon pulling tides on Earth all day Then if you pull a long-pulled face Forced you say to grunt low bleat and neigh LIFE's not for sure a pleasure cruise in space Measure of grains aroma ensures in cup of café So if you must pull a long out-of-shape face Depressed by the way the skies turn gray Look straight ahead not downcast askance The END's believe it or not but a sly moment away © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 15,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XVI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XVI IF you pull a long limp face Long as a mile of lies made of clay Little the wonder no kind of praise Can pull you out of utter dismay Then if you pulled that long clay face Right round the block up your driveway Complain not how your face you deface Your driveway's not a public pathway Now if you pull that long haughty face No matter how hard you worked to stay On top of the world's profit-trade chase Stache not losses onto the company's outlay For if you pull that long uppity face Walk you must the plank on Judgement Day Blindfolded waist and wrists bound in disgrace Ev'ry dog has its day since yes crime does pay So if you must pull that panicky long face No chauffered limousine to pave your way Corporate tax cuts do political parties brace High tit for tat makes for democratic sway © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 12,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XV IF you pull a long long aching face Thinking this's it the end of my heyday STOP think again stretch not an oval face To look rhomboid rubarb in triangular tray If you pulled a long winding road face And looped it round a rail-road cross-way And pulled it through its empty space You'd likely see many holes in your driveway If you pulled a long battered face Some might say that's in no way okay A battered look looks not long in the face Others that's alright who cares anyway Yet if you pulled a long soft lean face It could tear open some part of the way Leaving strands of matted hair in its place Stuff the skull to stop what it might say So if you must pull your worn-out long face Thinking what good there be beyond Milky Way Slam not the door on our teeny-weeny space Around which star must we ride in chained galley © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 11,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XIV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XIV IF you pull a long stiff face Week after week while you parley You risk stoking the furnace Ill-chosen words all ending in nay If you keep pulling the long red face The Picador will puncture your vertebrae Blood-splashed mane from banderillas Beware you'll be the only felled prey If you keep pulling that long mane face The blood-thirsty chorus crowd cry Olé Eyes mist over ears dim to the populace Beware Beware the Torrero about to slay If you insist on pulling the long bull-face Horns flayed by muleta-faena coup d'épée The Torrero bucked up with rude applause Take heed the estocade's only an inch away Now if you must pull that long lost face Neither party willing to give some leeway No Wall can stop the People ALL debase Hell to pay in havoc-wreaked 2020's back pay © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 10,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: XIII If you pull a lean long face Each day in fear of the next Saturday Time to tone down High C voice in Elysée Palace Yellow Jackets are closing in on the Champs Elysées Then if you insist on pulling that lone long face Just think on what could happen on Bastille Day Guest of Honour Outre Atlantique might pull your face If sacré Fourteenth of July fell on a Yellow Saturday Now if you cannot prevent pulling that lone long face On the pretext your corporate tax cuts benefit the lay You should've first laid out your plans to the populace And obtained their consent by referendum if you may No use pulling a lone long lean face When Yellow Jackets choke the roads and railway Time to move house to the Versailles Palace And there reign as Monarch of all you survey But if you must keep pulling that lone long face Best to follow in footsteps of itchy-foot Corsican's Grande Armée Take to the Chunnel set up House in Buckingham Palace Before Brexit gets pulled off by plucky Santa Theresa May © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 8,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XII IF you pull a mighty long face Such as even Bollywood can't display Put not the blame on the mixed human race The fault most likely comes from animal DNA Now if you go on pulling that long long face People'll rightly think you're going out of your way To attract attention to your you-think handsome face And some might wish you'd look in the mirror right away Yet if you insist on pulling that long-gone face The kind Penelope pulled with suitors in Odyssey While Odysseus loped with sirens on Scylla & Charibdis You risk adorning some niche at museums in decay If you can't resist pulling that long-tired face Whenever your siblings marry and are whisked away Remember Sita pining for Rama in Ravana's Palace Even if some still wonder at Hanuman's role in epic play So if you must still keep pulling that long face Favourite sport with chicks watching films from Bombay Just keep watching Beau-Boy Khan in tear-jerking DEVDAS The all-time record at pulling faces in every love-sick way © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 7,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part XI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part XI If you pull a long face Not knowing whether it's Night or Day That may simply mean you lost your face You have gone past your very Last Day No use then pulling a long lost face For all the days you failed to pray High Up or Deep Down where you surface Angels or Devils note down crimes to pay Now if you keep pulling that wraith-long face Thinking WHO's to know whether your taxes you pay Remember Arch-Angel Collector of Taxes His Grace Reads every twitch on faces the mirror-image of DNA Yet if you still keep pulling that long face Hoping you can put off Tax Declaration Day Dictatorship out there needs no majority in Congress To impeach even Ultime Unction pardon on dying day So if you must pull a long long face Pull it wherever no one dares say Ill-gotten gains make for national disgrace Tho' trillions in debt pile up in You-Yes-Yeah © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 6,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part X IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: PART X IF you pull a long face For ten straight nights starting today You bet you'd look like Canada Bernache Though fat chance like swan in Norway But if you pull a very very long face Your rivals might not like it in the Sea-Ay-Yeah And might seek to shorten the nautical-mile face To a right and proper mile-long face all in a day Yet if you keep pulling that mile-long face The wilds of the Siberian Goulag would you slay After long lone nights the firing-squad to face Notes from the Underground your mind mainstay Then if you pull the lone long face In Algerian quarries Who will your ransom pay Thirty-thousand ducats El Manchot to brace Battling windmills in Castillian Quixotic disarray So if you must pull the longingly long face Your chef-d'oeuvre will-o'-the-wisp bright stay Your day of glory on the Internet mere pittance Think of all the great works slush piles overlay © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 5,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part IX IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: IX IF you pull a long face Being born with a long face bytheway Then you have at worst a problem face None will know if you're sad or gay Now if you keep pulling this long face Mostly at the dinner table, say Most would think it a commonplace To pull the leg off the mint sauce tray Yet if you keep pulling the same face Some mugs who thrive on mere hearsay Might try to pull your long aching face To pave the way for a new long Broadway And if you keep pulling that long face Long as Sphinxes' smirks look from far away Remember how Ol' Ceasar fell for Cleo's grace And Antony dragged half-sister to Rome as prey So if you must pull a long face Seeing who pulls spiteful faces in disarray At those faces being belittled for their race Put on balance long face and Sphinx to weigh © T. Wignesan - Paris, January 2nd,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part VIII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part VIII IF you pull a long face On 2019 New Year's Day While at 2018 stick tongue out of face You bade Her badbyes, everybody'd say But if you pulled a long face On the Eve of New Year's Day Your Belle at Ball slapped your face Leave her high and dry on Wedding Day Now if you pulled along face Thinking how 2018 made you pay Wait to see how the 2019 Mephisto chase Will mock cock eye and good ol' Faust slay If you yet pulled a long face All Eve-night with no-one to lay Stay condemned by contumace While plea-bargain culprits bray So if you must pull a long face Year in and year out up Calvary way Don't buy taser to ease disgrace Yama follows Atman just as June May (2+1+9=12=3 follows 2+1+8=11=2) © T. Wignesan, Paris, January 1st.,2019 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part VII IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: VII (Thoughts on a fast-receding fearful Me-Too Year) IF you pull a long face And you can't make it go away try as you may No use putting on a pretty smile on the face The smile will likely turn leer in a day If you pull a long face And it keeps coming back every other day Then it's an illness at the serious phase No doctor can tell you to call it a day Yet if you only pull a long face On certain days in the week like Sunday It might mean you're allergic to Holy Mary grace Not much Good will it do you to choose, say, Friday If you still keep pulling a long face No matter which church-going week day you pray No doctor can save you from losing face Best to wear a Monte Cristo mask all your livelong day So if you must pull a long face The sledge kind Santa Claus pulls on Xmas Day Make sure no Me-Too Gals your drinks lace You might live to regret it some far-off day © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 29,2018 Translation of Catherine Lara's Awesome Night by T Wignesan Nuit magique (Awesome Night) Catherine Lara (A lilting catchy French tune with a ' barbed ' message addressed to oneself or to any damsel in distress. Free translation by T. Wignesan) Okay Il n'y avait rien à faire (One felt free with nothing to do) Okay Dans cette ville étrangère (In that foreign outpost) Okay Tu étais solitaire (You were all alone) Okay J'avais l'coeur à l'envers (I was feeling quite out-of-sorts) Okay Tout ça n'était qu'un jeu (I felt there was nothing to lose) Okay On jouait avec le feu (Though one sensed danger approach) Okay On s'est pris au sérieux (Yet one couldn't help being in earnest) Okay Le rire au fond des yeux (Deep down though one kept feeling light-hearted) Nuit magique (Imagine) Une histoire d'humour qui tourne à l'amour (An humourous episode that gave way to romance) Quand vient le jour (When light thrust open the night) Nuit magique (Imagine) On perd la mémoire au fond d'un regard (One's thoughts grow blank in the depths of an absorbing glance) Histoire d'un soir (As the evening drifts by and takes its toll) Nuit magique (Imagine) Si loin de tout sans garde-fou (Way away from home with your defences down) Autour de nous (To keep us from harm) Nuit magique (Imagine) Nuit de hasard on se sépare (On an hazardous night one takes off) Sans trop y croire (Not quite convinced) Okay C'est une histoire de peau (It's a question of skin colour) Okay On repart à zéro (One tries to start all over again) Okay On oublie aussitôt (Yet one forgets it happened just as quickly) Okay Qu'on s'est tourné le dos (Turning one's back on it all) Nuit… (the Night…) (The song continues with these lines repeated thrice: Une histoire d'humour qui tourne à l'amour (An humourous episode that gave way to to romance) Quand vient le jour (When light thrust open the night) Nuit magique (Imagine) On perd la mémoire au fond d'un regard (One's thoughts grow blank in the depths of an absorbing glance) Histoire d'un soir (As the evening drifts by taking its toll) © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 28,2018 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part VI IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE: Part VI If you pull a long face On great Government Shut-Down Day Just think who'll replace The Walls of Jéricho on Shout-Down Day Yet if you pull a long face While Dow Jones on downward swing stay Just you wait to see how whose face Wails to pull Wall down Méjico Way If you then keep pulling a long face Captain pulls selfie-face in Mid-East mélée Never you mind the hotting-up furnace Ice-cubes in high-balls melt during any fray Yet if you pulled a long face All year long to New Year's Day You'd have pulled your pretty Rahab face Only from deaf ear to another Joshua'd say So if you must pull a long face While all around you the damned World boils away Just you keep on pulling that long face Never you mind what lies in store past Doomsday © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 28,2018 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part V IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part V IF you pull a long face Especially on Christmas Day You might put out-of-place Your face on every other day If you keep pulling a long face No matter what anyone might say Some faces might wear a grimace By contracting a long face each day Yet if you must pull a long face Just when darkness dims day by day Winter Solstice might lift the burka lace To show more of wanton autumn play Now if you go on pulling a long face On the Gran Via while Reyes Magos lead the way By comets and shooting cars in criss-crossing race Pontius Pilatus Police could you in gulgülta dismay So if you still must pull a long face On holy church-going psalm-rhyming day Make sure you confess all dirty-linen disgrace ' Eli Eli lama: Please don't lead me astray! ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 25,2018 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part IV IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part IV IF you pull a long face Just because no one will you lay Never you mind the disgrace Every body's bound day by day to decay But if you pull a long face At your own mirror image night or day Then you have to blame only your face For pulling a long face for no pay If you pull a long face While with your darling you sway Remember another would her embrace And likely put her in the family way Yet if you keep pulling a long face Your father mindless your mother did lay Through no fault of your own or race Put the blame on stars of your birthday So if you must pull a long face Every time a girl you want slips away Don't go chasing legs under loose lace Turn transvestite change sex or just go gay © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 21,2018 Villanelle: Paint no colours on plain words lest the poet stops writing Villanelle: Paint no colours on plain words lest the poet stop(s) writing Paint no colours on plain words lest the poet stop(s) writing Out of fear for what he writes makes no sense to the wise reader Can words of encouragement be best meted out unreviling Tell no white lies under the guise of covert praise inviting Better still no swill wallows under poems by suitor Paint no colours on plain words lest the poet stop(s) writing If you tell a poet what's wrong with his poetising You'll do him a greater service than any imposter Can words of encouragement be best meted out unreviling The kind of heedless praise gushing will longrun prove crippling That which soothes bolsters the ego comes from flatterer Paint no coiours on plain words lest the poet stop(s) writing Watch what the flatterer says it's self-compromising See how he lures you back to his page as cunning visitor Can words of encouragement be best meted out unreviling If you learn to write with conviction not by ruse conniving Two hoots will you give to thumbs up or down on what you proffer Paint no colours on plain words lest the poet stop(s) writing Can words of encouragement be best meted out unreviling © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 19,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once Bull-Frog of a French Syndic - Part One Limerick crochetes: Once a Bull-Frog of a French Syndic Part One Once a Bull-Frog of a French Syndic Croaked Janitress Porc-U-Pine music She found much in common With Janitress-Husband They sucked Co-Proprietors' Council sick Now Janitress had much lard to spare Front back cheeks belly thighs but spare hair So Bull-Frog humped her back To keep her hair intact Bull-Frog ate Porc-U-Pine falling hair Now Co-Proprietors' presidents Saved lots of hair-wilting rodents Pipes stuffed with hairs pubic Made proprietors sick Porc-U-Pine made pubic wig from rodents Yet Porc-U-Pine wailed all day and night ' How am I to keep flying my kite? Flying saucers see nought On my scalp lives no thought! ' Appealed to Town Hall Caïd for more might ' Porc-U-Pine, Dear, your sting I like best! Can you this Injun now put to rest? ' ' Yes, Sir! You know how well Your words make my lard swell! I'll put this Ol' Bum on acid test! ' ' I'll ask Syndic Bull-Frog to puff hard Through his WC pipe under board I'll stuff hoards of pubic hair Plus more from rodents' lair To force Ol' Bum to swim in building's turd! ' ' Now, My Darling Porc-U-Pine! How nice To know you and I share the same vice Ask Mason Brother Police To salute you, as-you-please Kiss your cheeks up or under likewise! ' Bull-Frog croaked: ' She's under my orders! No way I'll be made to suckle udders! Tell the Lord President I'm thick as she's cement Nothing less than top Republic's honours! ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 18,2018 Villanelle: Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire Villanelle: Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire Pull Pound down tear veil off event horizon holes All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre Invent a machine feed it Homeric fire No enjambement perfect rhyme rhythm metre folds Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire Whoever tops the charts which poem's ire Shines through Apollo's defiant mien Zeus scolds All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre Ne'er short the naive champion of the ephemère Paid up club member the mutual backscratcher roles Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire Machine that thinks can it rasa taste inspire Mete out criteria merit sound sense enfolds All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre Art of artifice best profits business liar Poets at the stakes burn to free the poems' souls Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 15,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXIII - Continued IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXIII IF ever I had a country re-made by the Revolutionary And if ever I were that Corsican Napoleon who appropriated the Apollonian sanctuary ' gymnase ' and the ' lycée ' I'd let no fifteen-to-eighteen year old lycéen or lycéenne barricade the portals of their holier than holy Athenian lycée to camp on rubbish bins en grasse matinée Luscious objects of voyeurism for the highly titillated TV-public and the uniformed police and grande armée But, believe me, I'd stuff these nubile kids in the plastic garbage cans and seal them all air-tight with searing burners, yes, Sirée And then let their cohorts yellow-jacket teachers all products of the Sexual Revolution generation torch the bins and choke in the resulting chemical fumée Yes, Sirée, that's what the present Philosopher-King ought to do before he too joins or already joined the ranks of the revolutionary sexually-emancipated lycée And even if I never ever were tutored in no lycée blessed by Apollo of Lykeios in gaie migrant-purée Paris © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 8,2018 Villanelle: Who lies to defend his kind tells he no White Lies Villanelle: Who lies to defend his kind tells he no White Lies Who lies to defend his kind tells he no white lies Encircled by scheming vile wicked harmful people White lie harms no one not e'en those it underlies Tell me not authorities may at will spew lies For the higher purpose preserve State, not people Who lies to defend his kind tells he no white lies Can White lies be not lies without being Black lies Unless lies change colour from mouth to mouth at will White lie harms no one not e'en those it underlies Now he who embodies State on whose bed he lies Do bodies that stewed in his bed most lies sprinkle Who lies to defend his kind tells he no white lies If liars all came together to stop White lies Would Black lies undermine Truth to make lying simple White lie harms no one not e'en those it underlies Next time you tell a White lie make certain it dies The death of a Black lie in the mouth you stifle Who lies to defend his kind tells he no white lies White lie harms no one not e'en those it underlies © T. Wignesan, Paris, December 5,2018 My Recurrent Dream, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Sonnet: Mon Reve Familier My Recurrent Dream, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Sonnet: Mon Rêve Familier I'm often subject to a strange and invasive dream Of an elusive woman whom I love, and who loves me And who at every encounter might not the same be Nor altogether another be, yet forbearing in her love seem. For knowing how my open heart laid bare will confirm How for her alone it beats, helas! I can breathe free Yes, for her alone, the paleness of my brow dewy She alone knows how to relieve, her tears stream. Is she a brunette, blond or russet? - I ignore. Her name? I recall it sounds sweet, echoes in the ear Like those of lovers Life puts apart. Likewise her looks, the gaze of statues, And, as for her voice, distant and calm, and the art Of the gravity of cherished voices long since mutes. © T. Wignesan - Paris, December 1,2018 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part Three - Continued IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part III IF you pull a long face As long as two thousand years, you say Think someone looked after your place Now is he the one who must the price pay Now that you pull a long face Just because you lost your way Why shouldn't someone take your place For you're bound to lose face anyway Now if you pull a long face Forced, as you say, to go away Come not back to a land to say grace Turn not Allah away from Yahweh So if you must always pull a long face Pull not a gun to make him do as you say Pay him the rent you owe, ne'er him displace Share and share alike none will you slay Yet if you must pull a long face At some kin on whom you prey You should really fear losing face For, from you, the World'll turn away © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 28,2018 Villanelle: Those whom the Muses love die Martyrs' deaths at lone stockade Villanelle: Those whom the Muses love die Martyrs' deaths at lone Stockade Those whom the Muses love die martyrs' deaths at lone stockade Not yearning for success excuses each seek to elude Fame stops at no stranger's door the loafer to persuade Yet legions make it to the top in their time and period They pass their lives in adoration midst the multitude Those whom the Muses love die martyrs' deaths at lone stockade Yet rare the martyr who in his lifetime has it made Most die in misery and bear their lives in rectitude Fame stops at no stranger's door the loafer to persuade Can Art be some pursuit that brings joy to any renegade Rather the squeezed out sweat which makes much of Life's attitude Those whom the Muses love die martyrs' deaths at lone stockade At every turn of the spit their lives roast marinade The ephemeral breed contrive to block them through feud Fame stops at no stranger's door the loafer to persuade Perennial works all prove to us Life's lasting brocade Shines brighter down the ages as craftsmen toil in solitude Those whom the Muses love die martyrs' deaths at lone stockade Fame stops at no stranger's door the loafer to persuade © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 26,2018 Translation of Bury Me in a Free Land by Frances E W HARPER 1825 - 1911 Translation of ' Bury Me in a Free Land ' by Frances E. W. Harper (Homage to Frances Ellen Watkins HARPER, the First Black Lady of America,1825 - 1911, Orphan, Poet, Novelist, Civil Rights Activist, Public Speaker, Suffragette, whose memorable lines of subdued indignation arise from controlled passions of the never-daunted Soul.) Enterrez-moi dans un pays libre Enterrez-moi où que soit vous voulez Dans une plaine basse ou sur une colline élevée Faites en sorte que le tombeau soit parmi les plus simples Mais pas dans un pays où il y a d'esclaves Je ne pourrais pas m'endormir si autour de ma tombe J'entendais les pas d'un esclave tremblant Son ombre couvrant ma tombe silencieuse La fera un endroit où règnera une ambiance désastreuse Je ne pourrais pas me calmer si j'entendais les pas D'un coffle en train d'être conduit vers les corvées sans repas Et la crie d'une mère désespéramment sans espoir Montant comme une malédiction tremblant dans l'aire Je ne pourrais pas m'endormir si j'apercevais le fouet Buvant son sang dans chaque entaille qu'il faisait Et je voyais ses bébés arrachés de sa poitrine Comme des frémissantes colombes de leur nid d'origine Je me réveillerai secouée tout d'un coup si j'entendais le hurlement Des limiers en train de capturer leur proie humaine Et si j'entendais ensuite leurs cris de supplice en vaine Tandis qu'on rattachait de nouveau leurs pénibles chaines Si je voyais des jeunes filles arrachées des bras de leurs mères Et marchandaient et vendues pour leur jeunesse et beauté rare Mes yeux seront illuminés d'une flamme de tristesse Mes joues d'une pâleur de mort deviendront rouge sang de la détresse honteuse Je dormirais, chers amis, où le pouvoir arrogant Ne pouvait pas dérober aucun homme de son plus précieux droit existant Mon séjour dans n'importe quelle tombe serai en paix Là où personne peut dénommer ses frères des esclaves inégaux Je n'ai aucune envie pour qu'on se souvient de moi par un monument, fier et imposant, Pour attirer l'attention admirative des passants Tout ce que mon âme réclame avec soif Est qu'on ne m'enterre dans un pays d'esclaves © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 22,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXII - Continued- IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXII IF ever I had a country with or without nationality And if ever I were elected or nominated Chief Patriot of this God-forsaken miscarriaged country And if ever my country - minus the nation - were to be on the verge of being invaded by other countries which religiously subscribe to the notion of ' Godbless- us-first ' in all exclusivity I would make it the point of utmost urgence to challenge such insolent uppity countries on their concept of nationality by tabling a motion on the definition of patriotism as opposed to that of nationalism in the United Nations General Assembly All at the risk of being expelled from that august self-effacing ineffective body and my own blasted country in utter ignominy And I'd command all patriots to take up arms against and shoot at sight the back-thumping nationalists within my country for fear they may join hands with the invading xenophobic nationalists to enslave and throttle all patriots - y compris the Chief Patriot - in my dear old patrie And this, even if I were to be unconstitutionally nominated Chief Patriot by all die-hard nationalists in within my own country Even if I never ever had no country not legitimately sworn in at the United Nations General Assembly © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 20,2018 Villanelle: In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man Villanelle: In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man One man's still at the helm where one woman pulls the purse strings Political structures still rest authoritarian Is Reich's Function of the O.ga.m lame duck also ran Do power struggles at all levels bounce bums on bed springs In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man Strikes protests manifestations mere excuses we ban Face-saving measures populist fire-brand broken wings Political structures still rest authoritarian Does kiss-tail orgasmic reflex replace sublime élan The chimère of suppressed masses condemned to strum heart strings In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man Who hoists family father-figure as revered top sultan No authority at home spells chaos at source well-springs Political structures still rest authoritarian Sans moral consciousness the substratum cracks in ev'ry man Abuse an innocent child he'll in turn abuse all beings In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man Political structures still rest authoritarian © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 17,2018 Villanelle: Nothing Human Insect Bird Animal is not Woman Villanelle: Nothing human insect bird animal is not woman Nothing human insect bird animal is not woman E'en animals lock horns to deserve right to propagate She's Man child daughter mother sister all that is human Kun the Earth brings forth Life when sired by Jian Lord Heaven Who toils the seed to succour cosette push forth cultivate Nothing human insect bird animal is not woman Men spurned them with half their pay yet none risked talk-back dungeon While men drank down beer in smoke-filled dens their women to mate She's Man child daughter mother sister all that is human Watch media wise women wonder how their lives they govern They do all that men do as much at home to pull their weight Nothing human insect bird animal is not woman From unpaid kitchen slave to nursemaid and bed to husband She bore ev'ry lewd abuse to rise now to manage State She's Man child daughter mother sister all that is human Who wants to be woman and bake Man's fun cake in oven Not until Jian the Creator turns transvestite mate Nothing human insect bird animal is not woman She's Man child daughter mother sister all that is human © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 17,2018 Villanelle: The Smell of Woman the Whiff of Chaste Nutmeg Cinnamon Villanelle: The Smell of Woman the Whiff of Chaste Nutmeg Cinnamon The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon The lone mythic bird gone to sing in other dulcet climes She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond Her lips velvet unbuzzed petals dewy beds chrysanthemum Deep lost hidden chasms the taste of feminine rhymes The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon Her looks demure proud eyes shy shades distant firmament Meadow cheeks where swath of lily and lilac swaying chimes She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond Her crown of caressing curls churning deep musk-scented ocean Virgin forests semi-quaver ragas titillate mimes The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon Her tapering fingers arching rainbows fun gifts from sun The mother's milk embrace that never curdles trust with crimes She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond No wind breeds from sewers nor loose limbs to quell chaste woman Nor nasty tongues lash the holy citadel in grimes The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 14,2018 Villanelle: Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate Villanelle: Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate Ask only why your actions lead down the wrong path All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate Neither Past nor Future time exist inchoate All and everything's rolled in ever Present birth Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate Are alll lives exemplary and of equal rate Or only those fated to be humoured by Death All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate Is Life just a gift of the gods or Man's mandate The Buddha's metaphor of bleeding arrow worth Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate Those who preach living Life to the full suffocate Carpe Diem is fine if you can afford mirth All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate No trace of passage on earth makes one contemplate If lives we leave behind acts of blind psychopath Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 13,2018 Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story - X-XII Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story - X -XII - Continued for Georges VOISSET, the 'Master Keeper-Nurturer' of the Malay Pantun (The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf ' Poietics of the Pantun ', pp.49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad: Cyberwit,2008, xix-244p.) X Go West on horseback and fire pistols point blank Union Pacific galloped at City Lights The Wench prefers red-hot fire not bullets blank Old Men let horses ride bareback on Wench sans tights XI Go West on quick-shunting trains and let fall frontiers Go East on horseback and churn Post-Colonial craze East or West the Wench licks the Master's rears and tears Not so the Youngster his Beat poems Old Men praise XII Shunt not trains which Kipling coupled lest they break wind Old Men returned from the East rest traumatic The Wench can take any Beat grind save the hind kind Not so the Youngster e'en pistol-packing mama flic © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 12,2018 Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued for Georges VOISSET, the 'Master Keeper-Nurturer' of the Malay Pantun Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf (The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf ' Poietics of the Pantun ', pp.49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad: Cyberwit,2008, xix-244p.) VII The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell They know how to stoke the Imagination with love They need no how-to softwares to write a novel VIII The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax IX The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11,2018 Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story - IV-VI Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story (Continued) for Georges VOISSET, the 'Master Keeper-Nurturer' of the Malay Pantun Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf (The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf ' Poietics of the Pantun ', pp.49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad: Cyberwit,2008, xix-244p.) IV During the intervals of the play the actors Spy on older folk queueing outside the lone loo The Wench in the hall twists and turns on spectators Not so the Youngster his pen stiff in the igloo V Middle-aged couples in the audience flick through The programme not reading even the title page Long years since they thumbed dog-ear-ed novels stuck in glue Not so the Youngster who jumps high from page to page VI Old Men trundle back to their seats trailing wet patches Not regretting over-coat flirts with hat-check Wench Old people read novels in bed but in snatches Not so the Youngster who throws into works his wrench © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 10,2018 Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story Variations on the Malay Pantun: The Old Man and the Short Story for Georges VOISSET, the 'Master Keeper-Nurturer' of the Malay Pantun Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf (The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf ' Poietics of the Pantun ', pp.49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad: Cyberwit,2008, xix-244p.) I The Old Man often stops by the hedge or dark bush His back to the World, the Youngster can hold his own The short story is written through spurts in a rush Not so the novel which calls for much breath word blown II The poem most write confines itself to the page Cousin brother to the short story told in a day Old Men take less time to leave the Wench in a rage Not so the Youngster whose novels always end gay III Plays are staged with intervals peer to the novel Essays take longer to read than the short story The Wench smokes cigarettes waiting to stoke yell Not so the Youngster whose next essay's more gory © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 9,2018 Villanelle: Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line Villanelle: Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line (Bo, Hexagram 23 (November 6 to December 6) : The mountain falls down on the earth and crushes it. Result: neither side wins completely, only broken bones, bruises, bumps and bleeds in evidence all around. Guai, Hexagram 43 (May 6 to June 6) : The situation is reversed. Total victory for those who emulate the Superior Man of the Yi Jing. Solution: Re-do the electoral calendar - May 6 instead of November 6.) Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line Yet the Yang and Yin toil and tussle and leave their feathers shorn On May 6th five Yang lines reign supreme and oust the lone Yin line Thunder in autumn rolls down plains hushed in grumbles feline Zhen the Eldest Son will wake strong in spring resounding new born Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line In temperate climes in the northern hemisphere the Laws confine Both the Yang and the Yin within the Year of Seasons foregone On May 6th five Yang lines reign supreme and oust the lone Yin line The electoral calendar then makes both parties anodine Destined always to quarrel and plunder each other's platform Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line Heaven and Earth toil to produce conflict no matter which the line Hexagrams depict the family constellation all forlorn On May 6th five Yang lines reign supreme and oust the lone Yin line Reign of Darkness recedes as winter solstice Light begins to shine Then the Good in Man if cultivated will thunder and storm Five Yin lines on November 6th overcome the top Yang line On May 6th five Yang lines reign supreme and oust the lone Yin line © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 7,2018 Villanelle: What DESIGN made the emerald EARTH defile its lone joy Villanelle: What DESIGN made this emerald EARTH defile its lone joy What DESIGN made this emerald EARTH defile its lone joy No washer-woman nor City Hall replace Nature's cares Blow wind blow comb the beaches clean drain the ravines dry So easy to put the blame on Mars for its first meteor fly Churn our oceans into crawling Primal Soup unawares What DESIGN made this emerald EARTH defile its lone joy H2O is all the planet needs the Monster Man to buy While in between reptiles birds animals small change scares Blow wind blow comb the beaches clean drain the ravines dry Both Man and Beast must replicate much as cells multiply As eat they must to produce more and more from their rears What DESIGN made this emerald EARTH defile its lone joy Till mighty men rise from urns to share power on the sly With clever men who prey on masses with their must-buy wares Blow wind blow comb the beaches clean drain the ravines dry Yet mighty men must let clever men this world with banks buy Would winds lash the Earth to make ZHEN thunder our world fears What DESIGN made this emerald EARTH defile its lone joy Blow wind blow comb the beaches clean drain the ravines dry © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 6th.,2018 Villanelle: If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back Villanelle: If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back Seize the best missed chances men let drop through self-righteous pique Make learning processes Life's axiom out of lack Naïve unheeding men bear treacherous women on back Women who trick playing on heartstrings sympathetique If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back Make Alexander believe Zeus his father, alack! Exiled jealous usurp Philip's throne through palace intrigue Make learning processes Life's axiom out of lack Whisper in proud Macbeth's ear words megalomaniac Sink the Highland Kingdom down black witches' brew in guts sick If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back Men who out of pity for the fairer sex their minds wreck Their mothers' milk still uncurdled in their mouths saveur unique Make learning processes Life's axiom out of lack How many the missed opportunities lie crushed on tarmac Roads traversed in parallel lives might not they criss-cross psychic If only it were as easy as to turn the clock back Make learning processes Life's axiom out of lack © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 5th.,2018 Villanelle: How many the men gone had something yet to say Villanelle: How many the men gone had something yet to say How many the men gone had something yet to say Had they not thought found they the answer to Riddle Who had not wished how often to tell them, yes, ' Nay! ' Had they not come to some end each in his own way Camus with ' suicide ' the Riddle he would unravel How many the men gone had something yet to say Think of the millions whose lives they did waylay Seize Life with gusto make every moment sizzle Who had not wished how often to tell them, yes, ' Nay! ' The disciple Mottram would lasting values slay Others with less heed to creed their lives in a muddle How many the men gone had something yet to say Can Husserl's Abstract God replace the Yi Jing's sway Do Golden Flower Secrets make men of mettle Who had not wished how often to tell them, yes, ' Nay! ' Yang-Yin interplay ephemeral men dismay Find his way he must out of the Maze's puzzle How many the men gone had something yet to say Who had not wished how often to tell them, yes, ' Nay! ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 5th.,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXXI - Continued- IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXI LXXI IF ever I had a country targeted by no refugee And if ever I were appointed by the Inter-Planetary Committee KING of this territory by Inter-Galactic Royal Decree I'd build wide-gauge rail-roads cushy chopper-pads air-strips twice the size of Kennedy-cum- Singapore airports spacecraft landing coiffured vistas fairweather lulled-water harbours boulevards ten-times the girth of Champs Elysée And there at migrant reception processing posts construct mammoth manufacturing plants rolling out rocks the size Sisyphus repeatedly rolled up Mount Olympus then down into the Aegean Sea And proclaim by sovereign edict that any of my subjects caught FEEDING any rock-throwing migrant-refugee - though out of my great big charitable heart I'd authorise every refugee child left-over Halloween candy I'd have him or her scorched by steel plate-melting torch and dipped into sizzling hot cauldrons of oil linseed and gingerly That is, if ever I were enthroned by the Inter-Planeto-Galactic Consortium KING by royal decree over my territory And this, even if I never ever had no country bed-rock to no refugee © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 2nd.,2018 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part Two - Continued IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE - Part Two (continued) (for sweet-teeth kiddies) IF you pull a long face And that too on Halloween Day Mascara and rouge will drip on lace And Mom will take your candies away If you pull a long face Not caring it's All Saints' Day You're bound to continue losing face If it falls on a hapless holy Sunday Yet if you pull a long face All-Hallows-Tide to All-Souls' Day It matters little which way you face West or East you'll rue the day If you pull a long face While for the Departed you pray Under your masks to win them grace Candies chocs will rain down your way Yet if you pull a long face Loads of paint the leer overlay When the date with Fate unmasks your face None here might remember you and pray © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 1st.,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXX - Continued IF ever I had a country - LXX LXX IF ever I had a country a constant prey to another marauding Bully And if ever by some impardonable mistake I were the intrepid Defence Secretary I'd not scratch my bald pate devising peaceful ways of turning the cheek with love brotherhood and humanity to appease the Enemy I'd simply round up the true villains every secret agent every police chief politician all their colleagues - what d'ya think - the President y compris manu militari Every media baron newspaper and tv editor-in-chief these that kept quiet about the activities of the secret services every Lodge Master of Free-Masonry And have them lined-up on the frontiers as canon-fodder while force-marching them barefoot without ID papers into the jaws of the Bully's iniquity That is, if ever I were even by error the intrepid Defence Secretary with no notion of poetry And even if I never ever had no country prey to a Bully in reality © T. Wignesan - Paris, Octobre 9,2018 Villanelle: Don't tell me you wouldn't your back-aching life now forsake Villanelle: Don't tell me you wouldn't your back-aching life now forsake Don't tell me you wouldn't your back-aching life now forsake Not knowing the interminable pleasures of the dark Unknown When just then Life will beckon you back with a hopeful break How many can say his life he wouldn't want to once again re-make To cast it all over again with others retrieve lost chances be alone Don't tell me you wouldn't your back-aching life now forsake The more you try the more you mire yourself unable to wake Till old you get and yet older stay alone your children want you gone When just then Life will beckon you back with a hopeful break No baby sucks at the nipple if not out of habit or for boredom's sake The role of the dividing cell not out of ennui goes on till full-blown Don't tell me you wouldn't your back-aching life now forsake Some men know why the Whole Thing-in-Itself must not us wake To the point where we can see the design behind the curtain sewn When just then Life will beckon you back with a hopeful break Aren't we all so damned occupied with a measely wage to make None will hardly stop to think why the rat-race turns us care-worn Don't tell me you wouldn't your burdensome life now forsake When just then Life will beckon you back with a hopeful break © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 23,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXIX - Continued IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXIX (continued) LXIX IF ever I had a country in the shape of a sprawling banyan or rain Tree And if ever I were the almost human Lord Chimp of the Kingdom of Chimpanzee I'd secure all the branches plungeing roots leaf-clusters egg-nests and hives with or without a bee All only for those with undiluted blue-black blood directly descended from our Uhr-Father Adam's Dark Continent royal pedigree And ensure that any vagrant migrant gorilla orang-utan macacque long-tailed monkey or other heathen rot come to take the heat off his neck or her butt under the shelter of my bushy tree for free Be subject to Hail Horror torrents of turds accompanied with hot hissing curses to make them stink for at least a century That is, if ever I were the almost human Lord Chimp of the Kingdom of the Chimpanzee And even if I never ever had no country shaped like a Wounded Knee © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 23,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXVII - LXVIII If Ever I Had A Country...(Continued) : LXVII - LXVIII LXVII IF ever I had a country what even Guatemalans would avoid in their hurry And if ever I were the unfortunate illiterate Mnister of Culture I'd make it point of telling every marching migrant what awaits them at destination: ' spooktacular ' Where goblins witches alchemists with Gorgon dreadlocks veritable Dvarapalas would enslave them in Konzentrazions-lager Would make them eat their own tongues for want of soup-kitchen swill or horse fodder Would drive them up greasy poles and down barbed tanks full of pirana in mad rage hunger That is, if ever I were the inculte Minister of Culture And even if I never ever had no country worth a penny LXVIII IF ever I had a free-for-all take-it or leave-it country And if ever I were condemned to accept as a penalty the post of Culture Secretary I'd publish a never-ending list of all the banned Holy-Days in the calender Easter St. Patrick's Day X-mas Epiphany July the 4th and the 14th Ascension Diwali Ramadan-Eid-il-fitr Universal Day of Labour And in their place make Halloween every other day holier In order NASDAQ break all records through sale of sweets cakes ice-cream snickers toffees and karambar That is, if ever I were forced to serve as Culture Secretary And even if I never ever had no country so silly © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 21,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXVI IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXVI LXVI IF ever I had even a third-rate useless country And if ever I were say by wishful thinking put in-charge of the Propaganda Ministry I would campaign to enthrone a Law as an inalienable right of every citizen or migrant To publicly proclaim and denounce by any means at his disposal if he had incontrovertible ……..evidence on any culprit Who was the author of some tort or crime - without having to pay some lawyer - against ……..himself or some other knitwit And have this Law enshrined into the Constitution large and loud writ That is, if ever through even wishful thinking I were the Propaganda Secretary And even if I never ever had no third-rate useless country © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 5,2018 DIARY NOTES: Another Day sets in Paris DIARY NOTES: Mad-House Maths March 30th.,2018 - Another day sets in Paris The home-bound Octogenarian trundles from the Mall's town centre Back laden with the day's shopping His hands numb from clutching load-packed plastic bags during the two Kms and more The sore reddish-smudge of a sun cocks an eye over the jagged rim of the horizon's darkening clouds at early dusk Some chick warbler tries its strength hopping on grim bold knobbly dark outstretched arms as cherry blossoms drop pink and violet on the scuffed grass instead of sprinkling snow fluffs Massive stone or glittering glass official buildings: ' palaces ' or ' hotels ' in catering country hardly impress the growing migrant force in the open shrub-lined plaza puffing hookah-groups form around barbecue grills while foot and basket-balls sting town-hall annexe walls to the tune of revving engines on lone stunt-back wheels the long night vigil commences anew All in view of the Zen-Pagoda High Court looming over the sprawling UPEC faculty complex right across the local ' Palais ' shopping centre The Octo thought he heard a cuckoo call Or was it the turtle dove moaning its mate from last Fall Weary of repairing his second-hand twenty-year old Laguna Sabotaged at every turn He settles for the cheapest car on the market: the basic Spandero No catalogue spells out its dashboard or engine layout He slumps into the brand-new humpless driver's seat To see how he might adapt the old radio for some Miles Davis mind-soul rap A sleek black limousine pulls up behind Out jump three men two old plumpy Andaluzian-looking dressed in rags the third metizo-Black tall and athletic tough in civil light pull-over They adjust police arm-bands and block both the passenger and driver's seats They command the Octo out of his own car The Black shoves him to the back ' You are in possession of arms ', he says ' Empty your pockets, here, on the roof ' The Octo has hardly the time to react As the Black frisks him and shuffs his hands in the Octo's pockets and roughs him up The other short squat gentleman grabs his official Research Fellow ID card and checks it out in the limousine's tele-speaker electronic wares Meantime the tall wide-girthed senior gentleman has edged his way to the open driver door and beckons with outstretched arm: ' The car keys! ' The Octogenarian protests mildly: ' Why do you want my keys? ' ' We are the Judiciary Police, ' he retorts. ' If you don't handover the keys, We'll put you under garde à vue! ' That's 48 hours in a police cell, with no way probably of taking daily cardiac condition pills. The Octo relents. The keys contain the security lock key as well. The gentleman with the ID returns and rails at the Octogenarian. ' What are you researching? Are you looking for ways to becoming a fauteur des troubles? ' That's a trouble-maker. The gentleman in the car has obviously trouble finding machine-guns and bazookas hidden under the car seats. He hands over the car keys. Before they pull out, the Black warns: 'We know you. We'll be watching out for you when you move about the vicinity! ' The very next day, the Octogenarian pens a letter relating exactly what happened and mails it under registered cover with acknowledgement of receipt to the Chief Public Prosecutor (the Procureur de la République) of the region. The Octogenarian has just received a letter, dated August 20,2018, from the latter's office stating that 'no criminal proceedings will be engaged as the facts revealed in this suit are not punishable according to the dispositions of any penal text.' Some ten days after his letter to the Chief Public Prosecutor, the Octogenarian found all the doors of his car left open and the contents of the glove compartment spilled on the floor. He then receives an official document, a month or so later, signed by the Public Prosecutor's Office stating that his car had been clocked for speeding at 124 km on a highway where the speed-limit was 110 in the North-Western region of Paris at 9.42 a.m., and a fine was imposed which if paid without contestation would amount to 68 euros. Since the Octogenarian has never ever been in that area in his life, he follows the procedure laid out and pays the fine, but asks for the PHOTO/Cliché taken by the traffic-control authorities, for the Public Prosecutor's office also required him to undertake criminal proceedings against ' the culprit ' who may or may not have stolen his car on that fateful day in order to effect the change in the number plates and the car papers all over again. The fine was refunded, but the PIC recording the offence has yet to arrive. Strictly speaking, the Octogenarian cannot undertake criminal proceedings without proof of the offence. In any case, who should he sue? The Judicial Police? the Traffic Police? or the Public Prosecutor? Or some mythical Car-Thief with an axe to grind? Sol de France franchi Terre d'asile psychiatrique © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 11,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXIV and LXV IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXIV - LXV NOTE (facts to bear in mind while reading) : Under the French Penal Code, harm done to the infirm, minors and seniors (i.e. over 65) is punishable up to fifteen years in prison, coupled with commensurable fines. In the case of the octogenarian in question, even his ' Family and Accident ' insurance policy to which he subscribed for decades didn't net him, in all, more than 150 euros so far over the near-fatal accident. According to dated statistics one can come upon, ONE in every four Commissaires de Police (police post chief) and Judge or Magistrate is a free-mason in France. Free-Masons are generally referred to as ' les frères ', that is, ' brothers '; yet, there is one Obedience or Lodge reserved only for the fairer sex, and another, ' Le Droit Commun ', meant for both sexes. It is a well-known fact that tourists composing nearly one and a half times the French population come to or traverse the French territory every year. LXIV If ever I had a Country within a country And if ever I were O! Forbid! the Grand Orient Grand Master of French Free- Masonry* I'd put in a straight-jacket the O! So! toasted-Caïd Son of a Mediterrannean Migrant-Refugee Who provided a secure eagle-perch in his migrant over-run township for the octogenarian's ex-spouse of the same ethnic minority The latter police gang-raped infant-abandoning heroïne later a highly-placed Police-cum-S.S. Judiciary-licking dignitary And put them in the same lunatic cell for life to share their belly-bursting experiences in subjecting the octogenarian to Tunisio-Maghrebian and Semitic scull-duggery That is, if ever O! Forbid! I were the Grand Orient Grand Master of French Free-Masonry And even if I never ever had no Country under no Free-Masonic country *Note: Reputedly more powerful than the Chief Executive. Check in this sequence LXII-LXIII. LXV IF ever I had a Country within a country And if ever I were O! Forbid! the Grand Orient Grand Master of French Free- Masonry I'd put behind bars without trial every hospital-assistant nurse medical technician clinical-year student doctor dentist hospital personnel who probably under orders or not or out of mental insalubrity Injures infects inflicts iniquities on the infirm and undertakes subtly-masked attempts on their lives or falsifies documents with impugnity Since the elected celebrities of the country only use-up their limited time in office to attack the opposition parties to justify their vaunted image via the media in any democracy And are obliged to rely on polls and employment statistics to shine with ghostwritten speeches on the World Stage while priding themselves on the domestic tourist-based make or break economy That is, if ever O! Forbid! I were the Grand Orient Grand Master of French Free-Masonry And even if I never ever had no Country under no Free-Masonic country © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 9,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXII and LXIII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LXII - LXIII LXII If ever I had a country with streets under graffiti And if ever I were the Minister of Transport who travels about for free I'd give a free ride to the Minister of Justice Home Secretary and the Chief Executice - yes, all three To this township run by the waxworks looked-up to Caïd son of a refugee To watch how I paint every allée rue boulevard and avenue with zebra-crossings down on my knee To remind the Police the Pompiers de Paris politicos and motorists that the speed limit on the stripes is under thirty That is, if ever I were the Minister of Transport who travels about doing nothing for free And even if I nerver ever had no country with no streets under graffiti LXIII IF ever I had a country with streets under graffiti And if ever I were put in-charge of the traffic by the Transport Secretary I'd tell the World that no-where else in the Universe(s) a migrant Tunisian speeding motorist can toss up and knock down an octogenarian pedestrian and get off scot-free That is on a zebra-crossing at the entrance to a primary school right under a speed-limit signpost marked in red ' 30 ' thirty Where the victim's heart shocked into arhythmic beat coped with cranial trauma multiple head-to-toe wounds fracture writhed in pain in the thick of winter in over an hour and a half's agony First denied and later delayed for years Police and Fire-Brigade reports minimise the octogenarian's condition as a mere inconsequential injury That is, if ever I were put in-charge of the traffic in this lawless overmigrant- run township territory And even if I never ever had no country with no streets under graffiti © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 7,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LX and LXI IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LX - LXI The Yijing says: ' If the common folk commit crimes, the fault for them shall reside with this one person (i.e., the Sovereign) himself… ' Transl. R. J. Lynn The common taken-for-granted French adage proclaims: ' Sol de France franchi Terre d'asile ' which simply means: ' Set foot on French soil (And) you're on (political) asylum territory ' Forty-six years ago, I was traveling on a two-week ' visit permit ', with my 4- year old son and his mother, from Madrid to London and almost overnight got stuck in Paris as a single parent (yes, laugh out loud) , and for me the above adage reads as follows: ' Sol de France franchi Terre d'asile psychiatrique ' That is: 'Set foot on French soil (And) you're in lunatic asylum country' IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LX -LXI LX If ever I had not just a country And if ever I were wedged in between the TWO States of this country To free myself I'd first ask myself which State embodies real authority The shady lasting ONE run by the Free-Masonic Grand Master Or the elected ONE managed somehow by the President and the Prime Minister* Who knows the truth knows who goes to whom to pass muster That is, if ever I were wedged in between two colliding States in within one Country And even if I never ever had no State in no Country 'Note: In France, the CEOs who exert influence in some areas of governmental authority are ' traditionally ' appointed by the Grand Master of some Masonic Obedience or Lodge like the Grand Orient (and they are five in number) . The Prime Minister Monsieur Jean-Pierre RAFFARIN (May 6,2002 to May 31,2005 under Jacques Chirac's presidency) wanted to retain his choice, François Roussely, as the head of the Electricity Board (EDF, one of the major mainstays of the French economy which peddled lucrative favours to its self-chosen fancied counsellors.) Try as he may even legally, the project failed to hold since the Conseil Constitutionnel ruled it foul as the candidate had just then attained retirement age at 65, and he was replaced by Pierre Gadonneix, who then headed the Gas de France, the candidate over-whelmingly supported by the former Grand Master of the Grand Orient, Alain Bauer. Humiliated and cowed, Raffarin tended his resignation as PM to President Jacques Chirac. Cf. Sophie Coignard's book: Un Etat dans l'Etat, Le contre-pouvoir maçonnique. Paris: Albin Michel,2009. LXI If ever I had not just a country And if ever Tunisian turds streamed down my Stateless Country* I'd bore a tiny hole in the right place to sink the Ship of State Rather than let the ceiling cave in through Migrant hate Or let the stinking rotting floor boards give under my bed weight All this in a country over-run by lawless migrants upheld by either State That is, if ever Tunisian turds streamed down my Stateless Territory And even if I never ever had no State in no Country 'See PIC at authorsden.com/twignesan3 © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 5,2018 Letter to Ronald Hull on his comment on Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn LETTER to RON' Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn - A Year Ago Yet Now No Change ' Reviewed by Ronald Hull 8/19/2018 'Quite a lament! The state of Paris at dawn. Just the thought of sewage seeping down through the walls gives me the willies. Yes, Paris is not the same. But has it ever been? Always being overrun by the disenfranchised from the world over. Making their mark in art and artistry. Creating the trends.' At www.authorsden.com/visit/cat_poetry.asp Bonjour Ron! True, Paris was a trend-setter in the Arts A magnet not only for the disenfranchised Hemingway Fitzgerald Henry Miller Durrell Anaïs Nin Burroughs Joyce Picasso Baldwin Wright Sekoto Later expatriate hordes imitated their life-styles And fell far short of their weight in words And you must agree Paris has since given way To other renegade catalysing milieux NY London Berlin Amsterdam LA To name en passim just a few What has changed in between Is that the français de souche Justly proud but Drunk arrogant with their Napoleonic past Let the last Mohican De Gaulle bear the brunt of decadent glory Such that even the well-entrenched Well internationally-knit Jewish community Victims of Petain Vichy Collaboraters of the NAZI Are beating a retreat In the face of Maghrebian dual-nationality Being substituted in power positions professions and in the art of enticing the mademoiselle though the Jewess preferred the eminent French Asians not to be un-done Have poured through in chain-gang droves To colonise arrondissements Not to mention 93rd and 94th départements Cambodians Formosans Vietnamese Laotians Chinese Indians Pakistanis Bangladeshis Sri-Lankanese Iranians Turks Egyptians Syrians Iraqis Yugoslavians Poles Spaniards Russians Italians Portuguese All crowd out the local menial work market And the lucrative spicy import-export racket Though only one Nobel Gao Xin-jian Left to wonder in expatriate limbo alone The French love their leisure and pleasure Love to dine out disappear on an August trot-about Lose themselves in the heights of February ski vacations Slumber through Christmas confessions Find less and less workdays in May There's nothing wrong in that Who would not say But can they count more than two establishments In the first hundred top university list of accomplishments But migrants hard on their heels Quick to take offence at Sarkozy's Sarcastic ' Riff-Raff ' compliments Rail rage burn and sack the capital To fray a disrupting brêche Into the higher echelons around Elysée Palace Everyone knows the custom here is Hoodwink the Law if you can with ease And no one's more adept at this game Than the migrant still to make a name © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 19,2018 Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn - A Year Ago Yet Now No Change Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn A Year Ago and yet now No Change ………………………………………..…at the heart of the chef lieu township ten-ton buses throb empty …………………………………….their drivers slumped in the heat ….behind their steering wheels listening to their favourite stations ………hot full of drowsy hissed talk on the pregnancy of pop stars at junctions…overhead drives…bridges…roundabouts….crossroads …..you see mothers with shopping bags dragging woeful tearful ………………..toddlers waiting at traffic lights where no traffic waits the air disgorges itself of fumes ………………….and no birds would sing to a deserted plain ……..at the academy building where garden warblers vied with larks aspiring choruses at street operas …………..only the abandoned rickety scaffolding drip with stale paint (since the staid Academy preens itself with fresh paint face-lift) the Great Tit so insistent in her quest …….driven away with late June cracker blasts at midnight …………has joined some vagrant migrant lot to the Mediterranean mists only stray magpies quarrel in undertones swearing cursing scraping the mind ……..pigeons and turtle doves forage along pathways mocking foot-falling steps …the route round the back of the Prefecture for a year now is closed to the public ……..(there at the mall end this year a fountain spouts from under the beatendown rushes and showers on itself into the lake: the Canada geese and swan no longer dry themselves on the bank along the cemented gated walk) ………..a reminder to the Charlie Hebdo ISIS fiasco and the joggers take to the thoroughfare in their tell-tale whallop-y shorts …….at the kinder-gartens lone working mothers hang out with texting iPhones for the evening bell the beggars…..all……gone to sun themselves (yes…this's cruel) on the Riviera …….leaving four wizened figures (now there's only the dazed recalcitrant Pole) long un-paying residents by the law faculty mounds seated next to next on the sidewalk stone bridge barrier in their unwashed best……………exchanging unkempt bearded memories ……….like the kids they may have been at tenement blocks on an abandoned culvert…………..without bikes nor toys …………the skies cloud over and dissipate without complaint now and then Atlantic winds bring news of thunder …………………………………………………and have us short-changed ……the last we heard was the early morning 5.20 metro pull out of its shed at the drug-and-grocery stores….supermarkets…..only the migrant lot meet to chat …………..the Mall stays chockfull of lush-green girls dressed in their mothers' best …………………..looking for a fix …..the queues thin at the chemist's …………………………………………………security guards tire of looking into bags ……..their migrant conniving smiles tell-tale some privately-stached thought perhaps at some chance encounter or at some pungent lascivious repartee ……the Maghreb-ian neighbours still won't give up their heedless tapage ……….you can even hear their gasping breath on creaking boards and floors while their adeptly trained children drop at all hours of the day or night bags of marbles to keep time with their high Tutsi booted hops (only this year again they deliberately let their toilet spill and seep under the parquet boards to flood your cramped book-lined quarters and the basement caves all for the irrepressible merriment of the local authorities bent on evicting you at last) those who come and go at the entrance still spy on the locks and keyholes of your battered door……..theirs to pick and click at will ………..waiting to tell the gardienne or some official still on vacation the usual figures flit through the early light to dig into the rubbish bins with bare hands …………..lepers of our remains ………………………………………………….where do they bunk ………………in what mountain hold or time silently busy…….not-caring …………………………………………………what the world might think © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 24,2017, updated August 18,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LVIII and LIX IF ever I had a country: LVIII - LIX LVIII IF ever I had a fantasy country And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality I'd certainly opt for a country not run by one who studied philosophy For the simple reason you can blame any other kind of dope for sheer hypocrisy For not having studied philosophy and pretending to be very democracy savvy Especially when the victims* of the country's secret services can hit back at the ruling party That is, if ever I were left to choose a non-hypocritical country existing in reality And even if I never ever had no country (not) up to my fancy Note: * It's a published fact that a French writer and literary anchor on French TV (whom I once met, in 1974, selling his self-published book in the streets of the Latin Quarter) never slept in the same bed for fourteen months for the late President François Mitterrand had ordered the secret services to snuff this son of an Admiral out. His ' crime d'Etat ' happened to be a manuscript he authored on the President's daughter whose mother was his mistress while in office. The ' crime ' however was expunged when the author in the presence of TV cameras burnt the manuscript at the portals of the Elysée Presidential Palace. LIX IF ever I had a phantasmagorical country And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality I'd certainly not opt for a country where the S.S. and the Police drug gangrape and press-gang the mother of your infant son with impugnity Nor opt for a so-called champion human rights country which hinders your every step and plunges you into solipsistic ignominy Keeps you embroiled in litigation instituted managed and obstructed by nearsighted authority While it siphons and floods your tiny ground-floor apartment with the precious toilet refuse of fourteen storeys of family That is, if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality And even if I never ever had no country to fancy © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 17,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LVI and LVII IF ever I had a country: LVI - LVII LVI IF ever I had a Stateless country And if ever I were a Stateless Person citizen patriot ready to lay my life down for the statelessness of my country I'd ask myself first who rules in this Country without a State to make it a country Whether this Stateless State is in a State without a country and/or without membership in the international community Or a country without legitimate citizens to elect those who represent the State with or without democracy Or whether the One-Party State is better for the Stateless Person citizen than the divided-state of the system of the non-Nicomachean Two-Party dog-eat-dog bi-cameral idiocy That is, if ever I were a Stateless Person citizen with Stateless Nationality in my country And even if I never ever had no citizenship in no Stateless country LVII IF ever I had a Stateless country And if ever I were a Stateless Person citizen patriot upholding with my life the Statelessness of my country Would I exist in a state of Statelessness along with other Stateless Persons in a State without a country In a State without a State University to award certificates of statelessnesses as a statutory degree A State without the usual ecstatic state of political inadequacies iniquities and other abnormal psychological incompatibility In other words a State over which all normal countries would be eager to wage heroic war in order to exercise their authority That is, if ever I were a Stateless Person citizen patriot upholding with my life the Statelessness of my country And even if I never ever had to call my own no Stateless country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 15,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LIV and LV IF ever I had a country: LIV - LV LIV IF ever I had even at an Event Horizon a country And if ever I were by self-arrogated Divine Right His or Her Imperial Majesty I'd clamp in pig-irons every one of the Courtiers y compris Sir Walter Raleigh For any offence thought not to be higher or lower than lèse majesté And have them all dumped in the cramped Black Hole of Calcutta without pity For plotting and planning some centuries hence the Art of Conning the People through Democratic Demon-o-kratie That is, if ever I were by self-arrogated Divine Right His or Her Imperial Majesty And even if I never ever had at any Event Horizon no country LV IF ever I had even at an Event Horizon a country And if ever I were by self-arrogated Divine Right the Heir Apparent future Imperial Majesty I'd sit on His Majesty's Crown of stolen diamonds opels moonstones and gilded finery To warn all my Princes Princesses Lords Ladies Dukes and Marquis on bended knee That I'd send them forthwith down pitch-black Black Hole for standing uppity on their assumed Noble Ancestry And remind them all every one of us are descended sans exception from the Black African humanity Tree That is, if ever I were by self-arrogated Divine Right the Heir Apparent future Imperial Majesty And even if I never ever had at no Event Horizon a country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 13,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: LII and LIII IF ever I had a country: LII - LIII ' How can the life of such a man Be in the palm of some fool's hand? To see him obviously framed Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land Where justice is a game ' Extracted from Bob Dylan's ' Hurricane ' LII IF ever I had by error stumbled upon a country And if ever I were a resident in an area run by the son of a Mediterranean refugee I'd say to this powder-puff Madame Tussaud clay-face sooner rather than later (t) his realm I'll flee to be free For all the migrant force he currys favour with gratuitous doles from the common coffers fee To turn them into replica models of his own wax-works jamboree Will melt under the sun of his own exposure into insipid putrid curry That is, if ever I were tortured to my dying day by this mis-leading son of a refugee And even if I never ever had stumbled by error into no such country LIII If ever I had by error stumbled upon a country And if ever I were subject to the Third Degree by the Maudit Son of a refugee Who commands his grass-mowing corps to funnel exhaust fumes into my hovel square metres under thirty Who provokes other Mediterranean mugs mitoyen-masons to stuff my abode with merde and pee Who protects and pushes the Co-Proprietors' Council Administrator and Janitorcouple confrérerie To keep me from getting even a night's sleep in twenty years from the migrant crowd cacaphonic battery That is, even if I were about to die I'd say find yourself another wax-work victim who cannot repartee And even if I never ever stumbled by error into no such country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 10,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: L and LI IF ever I had a country: L - LI L IF ever I had even in my dreams a country And if ever I dreamt I were the Minister of Defence I'd order every single soldier airman sailor or M.P. not to take offence At the guns cannons missiles rockets depth-charges torpedoes or crackers across the fence Aimed at US by other soldiers airmen sailors and M.P.s unaware of comeuppance Lest the word get around in our background I was talking nonsense That is, if ever I dreamt I were the Minister of Defence And even if I never ever had in my dreams no imaginary country LI IF ever I had even in my dreams a country And if ever I dreamt I were the Defence Secretary I'd make it an impardonable offence for every soldier airman sailor or M.P. I embody To think that right across the fence every soldier airman sailor or M.P. was not my enemy And I'd fire every last soldier airman sailor or M.P. on or off-duty Who did not fire his machine-gun cannon missile rocket torpedo at every Tom Dick or Harry That is, if ever I dreamt I were the Defence Secretary And even if I never ever had even in my dreams no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 9,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XLVIII and XLIX IF ever I had a country: XLVIII - XLIX XLVIII If ever I had even on a rocky wayward moon of a gaseous planet a country And if ever through successive assassinations of previous party cronies I were the Minister of Labour I'd instantly expose those in government who fiddle employment statistics in their favour Such as fictive employments of high class ladies fairies cousins camp-followers or paramours Especially of those who get elected by courting the few hundred new migrant citizens of colour In their tiny village hamlet or township constituencies of no particular worth or valour That is, if ever through successive assassinations of previous party cronies I were the Minister of Labour And even if I never ever had no rocky wayward moon of a gaseous planet country XLIX If ever I had a country even in a parallel universe galaxy And if ever through successive mis-counts in previous elections I became the Labour Secretary I'd overnight put an end to the farce of allowing charitable organizations play Robin Hood with hard-earned money Prohibit under threat of castration the printing of thick unread colourful magazines with starving children charitable beggars subject to sodomy And save the over 60% tax-deduction amounts to balance the budget in every poor country While giving to thrifty research and caring aid bodies who contribute to the quality of life one $ or € deducted from every salary That is, if ever through successive mis-counts in previous elections I became the Labour Secretary And even if I never ever in any parallel universe had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 7,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XLVI and XLVII IF ever I had a country: XLVI - XLVII XLVI IF ever I had in Andromeda a country And if ever by rights I were the Chief Collision-Conglomerate Six-Star Plenipotentiary I'd moot and execute a permanent plan for the establishment of a concentration camp penitentiary For all the Milky Way terrestrial chieftain priests and leaders of the twentytwenty- first century During the aeons-long Andromeda Purification-Invasion of our choked and soured Milky Way of uniting humanity And set up the Sixty-Four Wise Yijing Learned Men and Women Councils to rule each and every confounded in-human country That is, if ever by rights I were the Chief Collision-Conglomerate Six-Star Plenipotentiary And even if I never ever had in Andromeda no blasted country XLVII IF ever I had in Andromeda a country And if ever by rights I were the Six-Star Armed Forces Commander-in-Chief of the Milky Way invasion I'd warn all Inter-Stellar Fleet admirals and generals to guard against sharp human practices ruses and gifts of pretension Marked by the human mania for masking their faces crown of heads bellies but not bums and their servile submission To lying cheating imitating stealing back-biting fornicating bum-licking maiming killing and splitting the Almighty for selfish possession All for the sake of amassing more money more pleasure more fame more pride more hatred more envy more of everything as their only ethnic life-mission That is, if ever by rights I were the Six-Star Armed Forces Commander-in-Chief of the Milky Way invasion And even if I never ever had in Andromeda no green patch or parcel of a country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 3,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XLIV and XLV IF ever I had a country: XLIV - XLV XLIV IF ever I had a country even beyond this galaxy And if ever I were by no stretch of the mind the very first - ever - educated Minister of Education I'd install television cameras in every class-room and lecture hall so that the entire population Whether always asleep born dead drugged or driven out of its mind by the ' quality ' of television Can get an idea of the kind of authoritarian drilling to which our poor innocent children are subject to manipulation And leave it to each dutiful parent to lynch or waylay the culprits to administer the appropriate correction And this, if ever I were by no stretch of the mind the very first ever educated Minister of Education And even if I never ever had even beyond this galaxy no country XLV If ever I had a country even beyond this galaxy And if ever by no stretch of the mind I were the first ever educated Education Secretary I'd make it a capital crime - the act of plundering student minds - of the first degree Any teacher thesis director who steals the candidate's research y compris member of the viva jury Who then publishes the same under his or her name en toute impunity I'll have their plagiarised erudite works put on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum and ban them from the profession for lacking pedigree That is, if ever I were by no stretch of the mind the first ever educated Education Secretary And even if I never ever had even beyond this galaxy no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, August 1st,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XLII and XLIII IF ever I had a country in this galaxy: XLII - XLIII XLII IF ever I had a country in this galaxy And if ever by no stretch of the imagination I were the Minister of Information I'd make it my sworn duty to pin up on every door long lists of the crimes of hypocrisy Like which nations carried out nuclear tests to pollute the air and seas far from their country Like which nation talks tough about maintaining the peace with nuclear thunder war after war in history Like which nation actually used the fission bomb over civilian cities and the never-ending lists of casualty That is, if ever by no stretch of the imagination I were the Minister of Information And even if I never ever had no country in this galaxy XLIII If ever I had a country in this galaxy And if ever by no stretch of the imagination I were the no double-speak Press Secretary On the top of the lists of the crimes of hypocrisy I'd pinpoint my first query How is it a tiny nuclear power country in the Mid-East is not party to the Disarmament Treaty Who made it possible after the demise of Colonialism now nearly half a century That this same country shackles an entire people under the guise of preserving its inalienability That is, if ever by no stretch of the imagination I were the no double-speak Press Secretary And even if I never ever had in this galaxy no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 31,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXIX and XLI If ever I had a country: XXXIX - XLI XXXIX If ever I had a country And if ever by some fluke I were the Minister of Trade and Commerce I'd round up these Protected Species of vicious witches who live off the fat of the tenement purse In cohorts with the ' assured ' companies and the conniving hoard of expert ' kick-back ' curse I'd line them all up and get the duped flat owners to kick boot holes in their puffy sagging backs Have them stewed in pig-fat cauldrons tarred feathered and pilloried on stinking rubbish stacks That is, if ever I were by fluke the Minister of Trade and Commerce And even if I never ever had in Gaie Paree no country XLI If ever I had a country And if ever by fluke I were the Trade and Commerce Secretary I'd bundle them all up and send them home to their menopaused Mediterranean Sea Seek ferret out and topple those who protect them ensconced in the coulisses of local authority And oblige the Natives to do the easy ' dirty ' work instead of just that of hard adultery Such that even the Poles who la-di-da with exotic Migrants will return to their Catholicity That is, if ever I were by fluke the Trade and Commerce Secretary And even if I never ever had in Gaie Paree no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 27,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXVII and XXXVIII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXVII - XXXVIII XXXVII If ever I had a country And if ever by some magic I were the Minister of Housing Development I'd make it my life-long mission by swearing upon it as a Holy Sacrement To rush to the rescue of every poor defenceless and distraught old tenant At the mercy of villainous old women pests who run or administer housing tenements With beaks claws sharp canines of vultures hyenas who suck vampirically emoluments That is, if ever I were by some magic the Minister of Housing Development And even if I never ever had in Gaie Paree no country XXXVIII If ever I had a country And if ever by some magic I were the Housing Development Secretary I'd ordain ripped from every thesaurus encyclopaedia and dictionary Words which denote or connote that special breed of vilely hissing spying bodies Concierge Housekeeper Portero Janitor and all such idiotic parasitic discrepancies And free the sleepless care-worn tenement city populations from these harpies That is, if ever by some magic I were the Housing Development Secretary And even if in Gaie Paree I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 26,2018 The Select Poetry Class The Select Poetry Class ………………………………. the idea is to aver the overt statement appear somewhere ……… even if it stultifies… in rarefied realms sophisticate ………………… tuck the image in wayward by all means deride the rhymer ………………. as the pen buckles under the eye's squint-eyed callousness some cribbed unfinished line ……….. a well-named bird say thrush leaving its claw-prints …………………………………… clear ……… perspicacious …………………… on early-sprinkled snow It matters little …………………………. in fact ………………………………… not at all where the thought laid off nor which the word ………………………………… betrayed the thought …… matters only ………… the elegant sway of the print …………. the spare rustle rice paper feel then dress the thought the way the club ordains and practises pressed with care ………………………….. the demure pleats of the skirt all in assumed array …………………………………. for no rhymed reason still the hopping bird about to take flight the impression must give the feel ……………………………………………………. something must not seem to be said ………………..'tis enough to let the words slide along the secluded path …. rare ……………. bold ………………………… used in its obsolescent sense No way the Select ……………………………. must condescend to court the Internet they only write within behind closed-club sessions ……………………….. the idea is not to have les foies… ' sa hautaine foi apparaissait en filigrane ……………………………………………………………… dans ses paroles ' NOTES 'avoir les foies' means 'to be scared to death' and the rest in French means: his words hardly veiled his haughty creed or (as in this piece) manner of writing. © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 19,2018 The art of saying what cannot be for Harriet Monroe The art of saying what cannot be ………………………………………..for Harriet Monroe … said ………………or need not be What's the difference if you call tinnitus or l'acouphène a 'tintement, a 'buzzing', a 'chuintement', a 'whistling', or pure sounds of music: it is still not stilled in him who lies still. ……………………… he left his spectacles on a narrow ledge and pulled the lever ………….to let the trough down slopping mélange of cement paint and the sneeze of bird droppings carried by swirling winds … did he fear his glasses would come off ……… or was it just the fear of mélange slurp on his glasses … a near-full trough wobbled with the first jerk of the pulley … a treacle of a drop streaked thick chased by a heart-shaped losange …………… long before the splash hit the ground he thought of whom he might excise ………………. from his last will and testament with a vengeful codicil ……………………….. the greediest ………………………........... the laziest or the great spenders he might not have thought it important but was it the moment his foot caught the snake coils of a rope high on the scaffolding …………… did he think he heard a saffron-robed monk knock the tool-box down in haste a faux pas he felt was not to his taste ……………….. at least at that very moment still he let himself be led …………………………. half-blind into realms not so bizarre ………………………… after all with only the colliding tinnitus …………… reverbrating in his ears What would anyone think if he or she would come upon his eyeless specs: ' … best to leave said or unheard things alone… ' © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 23,2018 Translation of David Broza's Ay Amor Que seria de mi, Lyrics by E N Glass Translation of David Broza's '! Ay Amor! Que seria de mi! ' by T. Wignesan (I'm not certain if this' s the original title of the lyrics composed by Eitan Nahmias GLASS. My translation is made from the translation into Spanish by Javier RUIBAL, I presume, from the original Hebrew. I cannot help feeling that Consuelo's ' Bésamé Mucho ' lyrics are at the root of much similar compositions ever since the early radio versions. The music and the virtuoso vocal performance, of course, belongs to David BROZA, himself, and is included in the TODO O NADA 2002 album of extremely catchy memorable and remarkable lyrical ballads in the folk or ' unrequited love ' Romantic vein, such as, the dramatically nostalgic and elegiac title song: ' Todo o Nada ', itself. His intimate voice and the haunting melodies reach deep into one's psyche and appropriate one's awareness of even one's self: the identification of one's sensibilities with the tragic themes becomes instantaneous and wholesome, such is the magic of his voice, their rich aptly controlled musical modulations and compassionate confessional tones. The Andalusian or Gypsy evocations in the music add to the urgency of the intense feelings expressed through highly dramatic and elegiac strains in Lorcan Canto Jondo fashion. I give the Spanish translation here with the appropriate acknowledgements unless this may be construed as a breach of rights, in which case I'll delete the addition should I be required to do so. - T. Wignesan) O! Love! What would become of me! If my lips forget the taste of yours And some dark presage of pain Lights my way on to the wreck Of seeing you desert me O! Love! What would become of me! If in the realm of water I have need of your sea And at the balcony of your bodily casing I cannot lean over If the road that leads to you should lose its way O! Love! What would be my fate! Even before the heart might throb At the juncture where we bid farewell Even before the century of bullets Undermines reason Even before it could turn poisonous The blood of the roses of Eden Trap me in your mouth for my own good If tomorrow the summer dries up the jasmin flowers And in vain my eyes water your garden And lets fall into my hands a lethal thorn O! My Darling! What do you think could happen to me? If the thrust of the wound traverses the threshold Where Life and the Void were to get severed by chance If you're not there to receive me in your bosom when I arrive O! My Heart! What would become of me! Even before the heart might throb… …………………………………….. Even before a single sigh escapes You know well Who will keep safe this love of ours Hoping I'll not fall the moment I'm hurt May the rivers of the soul Flow in tranquillity Who will then recall my song OOooooo…. Even before the heart might throb… …………………………………….. © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 20,2018 Lyrics in Spanish: Si olvidaran mis labios tu sabor Y un oscurro presagio de dolor Me llevara al naufragio De verte partir Iay, amor! Que seria de mi Si en el reino del agua me falta tu mar Y al balcon de tu piel no me puedo asomar Si perdiera el camino que me lleva a ti Iay, amor! Que seria de mi Antes que doble el Corazon La esquina del adios Antes que el siglo de las balas Me robe la razon Antes que sea venenosa La sangre de las rosas del eden Atrapame en tu boca por mi bien Si manana el verano secara el jazmin Y mis ojos en vano riegan tu jardin Si es la suerte en mi mano una espina mortal Iay, amor! Que me puede pasar Si tocado y herido cruzara el umbral Que la vida y la nada separa al azar Si no encuentro tu pecho al llegar alli Iay, amor! Que seria de mi antes que doble el Corazon la esquina del adios antes que el siglo de las balas me robe la razon antes que sea venenosa la sangre de las rosas del eden antrapame en tu boca por mi bien antes que un suspiro tu lo sabes quien me guarda este amor que en la herida no me cae que navegara en calma los rios del alma quien recordara mi cancion antes que doble el Corazon… crédits de l'album? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? -? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? // David Broza - Todo O Nada (All Or Nothing) , paru le 1 janvier 2002 Lyrics By: Eitan Nahmias Glass Spanish Translation: Javier Ruibal Music: David Broza ? ? ? ? ? : ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? : ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? : ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? licence tous droits réservés IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXV and XXXVI IF ever I had a country: XXXV - XXXVI XXXV IF ever I had a country And if ever by any stretch of the imagination I were the duely-elected President of the Republic I'd tell each and every oath-taking Grand Master of Free-Masonry: No question of sharing power in a democracy I'd purge the Courts first then the Police and Secret Service of every trace of their hierarchichal papacy Then seek and weed out every one of their moles in the Administration as a policy Which abhors power exercised by unauthorised coteries in the body-politic as the bane of national meritocracy That is, if ever I were by any stretch of the imagination the duely-elected President of the Republic And even if I never ever had no country so sick XXXVI If ever I had a country And if ever I were but the President PM or even divine King I'd lose not any sleep over who makes the belfry bells toll or telephones ring I'll not fret and frown every time trade unions business or professional guilds sing Out of tune with the voices of aides aide-de-camps or Chiefs of Staff in the West Wing I'd keep a finger on the Peoples' Pulse and when I rule I'd know I'll be doing the right Thing That is, if ever I were but the President PM or even divine King And even if I never ever had no country to wring © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 16,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXIII and XXXIV IF ever I had a country: XXXIII - XXXIV XXXIII IF ever I had a country And if ever by hook or by crook I were the Secretary of HEW and Culture I'd make it compulsory for any being who wishes to run for office To first undergo psychologcal tests to prove (s) he's sufficiently mature Pass televised Public Examinations on Constitutional Law Logic Economics and Political Philosophy for the novice In short, revive some sort of the old Confucian Mandarinate system of competitive torture That is, if ever by hook or by crook I were the Secretary of HEW and Culture And even if I never ever had no country to torture XXXIV IF ever I had a country And if ever by hook or by crook I were the Imperial State Counsellor I'd advise the King PM or President to put political aspirants under psychiatric surveillance For it's most surprising that those who have more or less no vestige of culture would wish to be other peoples' manager Furthermore, I'd insist that once elected they take the Oath of Anonymity and Silence And watch how long they would then want to hold on to their power That is, if ever by hook or by crook I were the Imperial State Counsellor And even if I never ever had no country to empower © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 15,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXXI and XXXII IF ever I had a country: XXXI - XXXII XXXI IF ever I had a country And if ever by fluke I was asked to audit the National Budget I'd first set out to monitor the Elus' va et vient to the water-closet And clock the nation's time they waste in parroting speeches in their jet Then I'd add-up all the country's time they tweet away the interviews they repeat The tuxedos they jump into to putt golf-balls down the Republic's smooth green parapet That is, if ever by fluke I were asked to audit the National Budget And even if I never ever had no country on which to place a bet XXXII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were asked to write the Constitution by the Founding Fathers I'd have a Hall built in the Heart of the Nation for a Book with virgin pages And thereupon let inscribe every wish of every citizen justly not put in fetters And let no Magna Carta or genial Jefferson nor Freemason Human Rights Charter carve article upon commandment article for hoi polloi brothers And which thus pave the way for NRAs to lock House Senate and Chief Exec in private profit-based manoeuvres That is, if ever I were asked to frame the Constitution by the Founding Fathers And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 14,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XIX and XXX IF ever I had a country: XXIX - XXX XXIX IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Alexandrian National Librarian` I'd drag every under-elected village township city and national politician Handcuffed to the Sistine Chapel-domed book-lined reading auditorium To read aloud and commit to memory every act of the Grand Inquisition And swear by Oath Torquemeda their natural Father denounce Demosthenes the subverted Athenian That is, if ever I were but the Alexandrian National Librarian And even if I never ever had no country/education XXX IF ever I had a country And if ever by chance I were but the Director-General of Prisons I'd make the Metropolis the strictest Concentration Camp for political malfeasance For those who run the State without the slightest prick of even animal conscience And there force them to read aloud plebian-voiced Athenian magnificence while they bake in the heat of the ovens As a reward for bringing Our World day by day to the brink of Hitlerian Final Solution horizons That is, if ever I were by chance but the Director-General of Prisons And even if I never ever had no country/education © T. Wignesan, Paris, July 13,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXVII and XXVIII IF ever I had a country: XXVII - XXVIII XXVII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Registrar of Companies I'd appoint Snoopy - pet-dog Bo's first cousin - Inspector General of Secret Societies I'll tell him to overlook the fiddling of Stock Exchange equities and concentrate on fan-club iniquities To publish lists every morning on each member's earnings pilferings including health reports on their starving unemployment-pay beneficiaries On who pays for the face paint jerseys mass-migration air-tickets five-star hotel and beer and block-seating fees That is, if ever I were but the unpaid Registrar of Companies And even if I never ever had no country company XXVIII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Inspector General of Secret Societies I'd post packs of howling hound dogs to announce at portals of lodges drugcartel penthouse mansions and haute-cuisine fan-club eateries Whose chauffeur-driven sleek limousine dropped off which hired diamond tiara damsel from what political parties Question the secret expense-accounts of fan-club funding at football stadiums' madly-howling jamborees And assess the damage to the GDP despite hipes in taxes imposed by police clashes with fans after crushing defeats at shoot-out penalties That is, if ever I were but the Inspector General of Secret Societies And even if I never ever had no country or society © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 12,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXV and XXVI IF ever I had a country: XXV - XXVI XXV IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Secretary of State for National Unity I'd appoint myself the Director of the National Football Industry Order every child over-weight skinny lame dumb deaf spastic or rickety To go to the school grounds every morning bouncing or kicking balls free With one solitary thought in mind: ultimate World Cup victory That is, if ever I were the State Sec for National Unity And even if I never ever had no country XXVI IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Minister for National Unity I'd appoint every World Cup national footballer Vice-Chancellor of University Have him create as many Chairs as he wishes for the Football Ph.D. Teach every student the art of foul-tackling anybody not from his country Till I'd make it second nature not to play ball but to kick the enemy That is, if ever I were the Minister for National Unity And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 11,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXIII and XXIV IF ever I had a country: XXIII-XXIV XXIII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Home Secretary I wouldn't sit on my baked beans doing my level-best to avoid responsibility While waiting to pat myself on the back on Bastille Day down the Champs Elysée I'd keep both public and pubic forces from running rampage on every refugee But set about tidying the House with bleach to rid oath-taking secret skullduggery That is, if ever I were but the Home Secretary And even if I never ever had no country XXIV IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Interior Secretary I'd neither arrogate nor take for granted Hobbes's Leviathan-authorised cruelty I'd seek and demolish local townships' self-appointed chief mafiosi Who undermine hotel-maids with virile World Bank authority Who add to the You-Too Hall of Fame Hollywood-producer community That is, if ever I were but the Interior Sec in Gay Paree And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 10,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XXI and XXII IF ever I had a country: XXI - XXII ' I will follow that system of regimen which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patients, and abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous. I will give no deadly medicine to any one if asked, nor suggest any such counsel; and in like manner I will not give to a woman a pessary to produce abortion. With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practice my Art. ' Excerpted from the translation by Francis Adams in Wikisource of the Oath of Hippocrates,400 BCE. XXI IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Health Minister And if some breach some tort against The Hippocratic Oath reached my ear I'd rage and storm through ward portals in Olympian Apollonic gear To arraign the culprit whether Male Nurse Sister Matron or specialist Doctor Till no patient need fear contamination poison nor Secret Service murder That is, if ever I were but the Health Minister And even if I never ever had no country XXII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Health Secretary And if some sleepless stateless victim of the Secret Police's Third Degree Was put under Trileptal and made to undergo Tomo-Scintigraphy And the operators abandoned the patient to general tonico-clonic seizure in epilepsy I'd either order the hospital closed or put the service heads out-of-activity That is, if ever I were even the Health Sec in Gay Paree And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 9,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XIX and XX IF ever I had a country: XIX - XX XIX If ever I had a country And if ever I were the Minister of Industry I'd put a stop to the production of machines that disturb the peace Electric-drillers motor-bikes clanking street-cars trains infested with fleas Exile all Formula One champions to Singapore and Monaco Where only the reeking rich besides you-know-who go That is, if ever I were the Minister of Industry And even if I never ever had no country XX If ever I had a country And if ever I were the Minister of Technology I'd clamp huge fines on manufacturers of machines without silencers Banish all noise-making inventors wifeless to the Antartica's fastnesses Lock-up for life all architects and engineers who build tenement-flat cities With walls and floors so paper-thin to permit all kinds of sleepless atrocities That is, if ever I were the Minister of Technology And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 8,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XVII and XVIII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XVII - XVIII XVII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Minister of Education I'd make every child take an Oath of Nature upon leaving school in June That every kid learn by heart by autumn ten local birds' tune The Garden Warbler's varied repertoire the toot-toot of the Owl under the moon To tell which Wood-Pecker drummed which tree out-of-tune That is, if ever I were the Minister of Education And even if I never ever had no country XVIII If ever I had a country And if ever I were the Secretary of HEW I'd make it a certified condition for the leaving of school Only when every teen acquired the skill of notation as a musical tool To stock his memory with quarrelsome magpie curses or soothing cuckoo calls cool And let no carrion crow flutter at school-top eaves calling him a fool That is, if ever I were the Secretary of HEW And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 6,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XV and XVI IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XV & XVI XV IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Treasury Secretary I'd outlaw all big-time ' companies ' who beg for money Especially those who beg in the name of the Almighty I'd write virulent circulars on how to cajole Him through litany To wheedle trillions of dollars euros yuans rupees throughout Eternity That is, if ever I were the Treasury Secretary And even if I never ever had no country XVI IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Minister of Finance I'd make every charitable organization head dance On a tight rope stretched from here to comeuppance For wasting nearly all what we give them on bribes penthouse mags and stamps And take them on a tour of the streets and hovels littered with hungry children and tramps That is, if ever I were the Minister of Finance And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 5,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XIII and XIV IF ever I had a country: XIII - XIV XIII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were the Sports Secretary I'd remind every sportsman performing for money That the buying and selling of humans born free Died with slavery in the Nineteenth Century And put behind bars all club committees found guilty That is, if ever I were the Sports Secretary And even if I never ever had no country XIV If ever I had a country And if ever I were the Sports Secretary I'd fine any sportsman his salary for hood-winking the referee After every judo throw and karate jab above or below the knee Just when the ball's dribbled to the goal --- for a penalty Even if the VAR-referee is blind to what we see on TV That is, if ever I were the Sports Secretary And this, even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY: XI and XII IF ever I had a country: XI - XII IF ever I had a country And if ever I were but the Admiral of the Fleet I'd issue an edict to keep ships out of foreign waters I'd order all on deck on or off duty curse-under-breath sailors To fish out of oceans crushed cans and twisted plastic bottles And whatever else poisons sardines dolphins sharks and whales ………………………………… ………………………………… ……………………………….. ……………………………….. I'd see to it that all our ancestors of the primal soup deep Were brought onto land with all their shredded creep And to the tune of the Divine Land's Anthem make all weep In solemn burial ceremonies commit such memories to keep That is, if ever I were but the Admiral of the Fleet And even if I never ever had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris, June 28,2018 Translation of Besame Mucho, Lyrics by Consuelo Velasquez Translation of ' Bésame Mucho ' from the lyrics by Consuelo Velasquez Refrain: Kiss me longingly long Kiss me, kiss me longingly long As though this night has to be The very last Kiss me longingly long Kiss me, kiss me longingly long For seized am I with the fear of losing you Losing you hereafter (Refrain repeated twice) I long to hold you close to me While gazing deep into your eyes Making us look as but one together The thought nags perchance tomorrow I'll have already gone far away Far far from you (Refrain repeated thrice) For seized am I with the fear of losing you Losing you hereafter The original lyrics in Spanish: Bésame mucho Bésame, bésame mucho Como si fuera esta noche La ultima vez Bésame mucho Que tengo miedo a pederte Pederte despues (Refrain twice) Quiero tenerte muy cerca Mirarme en tus ojos Verte junto a mi Pienso que tal vez manana Yo ya estare lejos Muy lejos de ti (Refrain thrice) Que tengo miedo a pederte Pederte despues © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 12,2018 Khatia Buniatishvili's Piano Concerto 1 by Tchaikovsky Khatia Buniatishvili's Tour de Force of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto N° 1 in Bflat minor on Zubin Mehta's 80th Birthday* … the caged-beast terrified defying the donderbus blasts vollies of muskets and cannons heralding the charge cavernous ton caisses blown asunder one blow after another yapping at the heels tense fingers rouse rout the oceanico- volcanic rumbled roars Napoleonic regiments march to the Hapsburg and Prussian theatre fields socket-bayonets lowering bison hooves churning up fossil-stamped-under turfs prairie cacti the starved beast within clawing at the iron black-andwhite bars 7,800,000 Brown Bess muskets rip the leaden air Khatia pulsating on array upon array of stiff-backed goose-stepping hussars her eyes half-closed under chaffed curls the un-ending march of drilled fingers over ages no single gap within-between mounts of palms pounding the thunder out of the bowels of the earth growling up and down the veins of notes come never come unstuck furious furnaces of maddening cries surging in unison through her stoking arms raking the fire fissioning fusing in the pulsating funnel of her torso-seat furnaces of energy bursting bubbly bold and raw veiled eyes strain on the girdle's romping rise and thumping fall from side to side alternating drawn-out lean dulcet notes in spaced out lulls with bass and clarinet strains the steambrimming summits about to give about to part now yes not yet the ultimate squeezed up orgiastic boil down to laboured thematic repetitions seizing the memory cold the rapid-fire flint-lock musketeers in range after range falling to each triggered chord by the hundreds hussars cavorting high leather squatkicking while strings echo breathless the hind-core juices spouting at her finger-tips cannon calls collide on trumpet blasts clarinets foreshadowing the wayward raga come to nag and jog the sullied brains behind deadpan listening disarmed visages fussillades upon clacking thunderous hussar roars the strings strain and lag to hold together the air after the dispersal of fog and smoke bourrasque after bourrasque of drums pour seething metal over her head and nape in stoop to conquer fixed-bayonet thrusts of notes thump thumping the stoop forty fingers to the fractured nano-second bend blend bake each note into the fury of torrential sound charging down the pent-up waterfall of inturned eyes …. saved by the lone raga come a-loose just in time Hurrah! Hurrah! Cry the Hussars! *Israel Philharmic Orchestra, pub. April 22,2016 © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 5,2018 WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE What's the difference… The difference between the Short Distance's height And the Long Distance's shallowness drawn tight Is that neither knows the hollowness of its might Whichever way they may look: up down left or right If you went up the shallowness of the one you slight You'd end up in the hollowness of the other recondite Or if you slid down the one who stands stiff upright You're bound to fall screaming upside down in a fright Either way neither will say unless it was day or night When Short Distance at last met Long Distance alright Though neither or either will own up to being really tight After running a short then a long distance before the fight If you think you could mock these errant lines downright I challenge you to disentangle them under darkened light © T. Wignesan - Paris, June 13,2018 Villanelle: Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray Villanelle: Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray Mistakes you have made must of needs be also made Don't guiles lies with smiles guide all forms of inter-play If mistakes never lie in wait in one's blind way Each one of us can choose our path in sun or shade Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray True, some like Sexton or Plath would fall by the way What they said somehow reach down to us still persuade Don't guiles lies with smiles guide all forms of inter-play Think of those legions minds deranged maimed shut away Through no fault of their own nor by mid-wives' hands degrade Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray The madness of the moment wreaks mistakes holds sway Some urge some hapless encounter the fated raid Don't guiles lies with smiles guide all forms of inter-play Far too complex far too hidden each act to weigh Sometimes some mistakes lead on to a choice well made Look not back and lament how your life's gone astray Don't guiles lies with smiles guide all forms of inter-play (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Translation of Aranjuez lyrics from the Spanish original, sung by Andrea Bocelli Translation of the Aranjuez lyrics from the Spanish original sung by Andrea Bocelli Your lovely presence still lingers at Aranjuez Aranjuez, A place fused through in dreams of love Where the whirr of fountains In crystal Make believe the waters chatter in the garden In hushed tones with the roses Aranjuez, Nowadays the faded dry leaves Which waft and drift in the winds Recall the tenderness of our tryst there That once upon a time We let surge in our hearts you and I And without cause let befall us oblivion Yet that intense fervour lies safe In some sun eclipsed by the horizon Or in the hint of some breeze or lingering in some flower Awaiting only your return Aranjuez, Nowadays the faded dry leaves Which waft and drift in the winds Recall the tenderness of our tryst there That once upon a time We let surge in our hearts you and I And neglected without reason In Aranjuez, My Love You as well as I © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: Merchants of the Word make Writers write for Prizes Villanelle: Merchants of the Word make Writers write for Prizes Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes Does not the failed writer pose as house editor Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges Prized-writers in our midst make all kinds of noises Matters little so long as till fills publisher Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes Lope de Vega scorned long-suff'ring Cervantes His plight mattered only to French Ambassador Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges Prized-writers need not fear e'en wise connaisseurs Don't they write with flourish cocking-eye on reader Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes Does the Nobel go to some who serve lost causes Or to some who serve publishers like the Booker Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges True, ancient poets sang under patronages Yet those we love most lived life under the jailor Merchants of the Word make writers write for prizes Great treasures of the past were weaned without judges © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 4,2018 Villanelle: O What a way to go They Say locked in Lover's Arms Villanelle: O! What a way to go They Say locked in Lover's Arms O! What a way to go They Say locked in lover's arms Damned he or she be to live curséd life alone Do we not all smother most what we love sans qualms Lone bodies shiver in beds quothing inane psalms No body loses heat when both stoke flesh and bone O! What a way to go They Say locked in lover's arms No Romeo with potion Juliet embalms Had not either to deep mock sleep stayed up immune Do we not all smother most what we love sans qualms Some prefer the chivalrous spears of knights-at-arms Others prefer not to go at all all alone O! What a way to go They Say locked in lover's arms Passion mounts the pressure on lonely hearts' dire charms The choice in these cases is either stroke or be-gone Do we not all smother most what we love sans qualms The lesson here is simple: by the bed stock arms He who must go first may her shoot ere he is blown O! What a way to go They Say locked in lover's arms Do we not all smother most what we love sans qualms © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Olga Scheps embodies Chopin's Piano Concerto No 1, e-minor Olga Scheps embodies Chopin's Piano Concerto n° 1 For a pianist who ponders her prey The taming arms-length erect posture The torso and pulsating violin back encased in red-rich ornate coarse wrap Nape muscles strung by swaying grace-groomed arms branched aloft Pursed lips part for allegro romp Tensile gushed groin screaming on seat-edge flailing fingers Averse to sleek chord whale case under knee-cap check Who is the Master of the indomptable Mistress Does the script express and extend the actress's role Or trundled chords liberate hidden Polish voices yearning Cabriole on prairie pastures The yearling kicking high on the keyboard Startling the chevron-sinewed munching herd Light lambs and kids throwing frolicking fits Round and round the heifer humping high down the meadow Stung to the quick half-recurring bars of the theme The feline fauve now appeased by soft churning cuddles Pages of screwed signals hung on lined sign-posts Roused by nut-cracker knuckles Flush out repartee collective timbre strings Doused by the sweet-sweating triumphal orgiastic release The wilful eyes of the hungry panther Turn soft and pander to the prey Is this when the poised moment of the composed kill Misses the mark just once The sleek black whale bears its twinkling teeth in hollow rage © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: Don't some live Life the way he or she wants it Villanelle: Don't some live Life the way he or she wants it Don't some live Life the way he or she wants it Look around and see who lives resounding lives If I were Life's Playwright won't I so fix it Make both Yang and Yin agree to make things fit Into the entire Scheme of Things which us drives Won't some live Life the way he or she wants it No playwright can banish conflict from his Script He'd play to empty seats actors who mime lives If I were Life's Playwright won't I so fix it So Evil-Doers reign supreme to make it The way the Play devolves on stage each scene contrives Won't some live Life the way he or she wants it Not to shift blame on either won't I judge it Best to make Authorities live double lives If I were Life's Playwright won't I so fix it Doubt not why Evil-Doers always make it Protected pardoned cherished Queen Bees in hives Don't some live Life the way he or she wants it If I were Life's Playwright won't I so fix it © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Is ARANJUEZ a pining after the composer's mother Is ARANJUEZ a pining after the composer's mother? (Joaquin Rodrigo - 1901-1999 - who composed the ' Aranjuez ' concerto on piano in 1938/9 and which later was destined for the guitar and orchestra, turned blind at the age of 3, due to complications with the onset of diphtheria. His Turkish pianist wife Victoria Kamhi whom he married in 1933 is said to have remarked that the exquisitely captivating composition of universal appeal recalled ' happier days ' in his life. What could be ' happier ' than those days at his mother's side. Despite the eminently masterful version by Paco de Lucia, I am convinced Pepe Romero's rendering the most moving and apt. This is a tentative essay in Rodrigo's recall.) T. Wignesan, April 19,2018 Age cannot wither your bright fond face Nor the cares of my shrunken shuttered world Oh! What would I not give for a mere glimpse Of those cheerful tearful eyes orbs of merry gold The silvery dancing glint trailing golden down your uncombed strands The scent of fresh milk drenched in sweat bathed in myrrh breath Your darling eyes doting on my tight shut suckling lids The lambent darkness pulling back the shrouded dawn The myriad pullulating chirping chants rousing up the morn And I in your downy cradled gently lilting lap surfing in your warmth Was that a fleeting memory or a momentous cuckoo call Still dim and growing dimmer by the day All that is real palpable the wet steamy heat of your merciful lips And the humming coaxes of your gently trailing voice Do I still recall as if I were still in your arms Real ripe deep in my thoughts Age cannot wither your bright fond face Nor the cares of my shrunken shuttered world Oh! What would I not give for a mere glimpse Of those cheerful tearful eyes orbs of merry gold The multiple cries you wake to during interminable nights The plastered stink of limbs to dry with Cologne The cooing chest-humming drones along with ticklish cuddles With never so much as a rebounding complaint Who can forget that tell-tale melodious rant And then you dressed me up into stuffed woolen bundles To show me off Every evening bright by the neighbouring patio and plaza Me proud as a pigeon in a fountain puddle The toys you dangled in my cradle The jingle you played with deft fingers on a toy tympan And the excruciating melody Drowning the simmering light in deep dungeon night Never to be released again Never to light up your proud face again Though the sweet scent of your holy breath Blesses ever so gently my temples against yours… Age cannot wither your bright fond face Nor the cares of my shrunken shuttered world Oh! What would I not give for a mere glimpse Of those cheerful tearful eyes orbs of merry gold © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin Villanelle: Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin E'en if the insatiable Beast glowers close behind No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine Merchants of Faith made in mythic images divine Tell us all their gods have told them what lurks behind Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin Each in his own way nailed to some Alien loin All assured this World's for the best of Mankind No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine True gods are those Men who behind the scenes combine Thrust up Leaders who lisp words for Them who us bind Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin Children grow up and swear by their words anodine Believe rot Batman Hulks Wonder Woman's behind No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine Till that day the bubble bursts the last word on line Shows neither Nations nor gods mean well for Mankind Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Isaac Albeniz's Asturias, Three Versions, Three Instruments Isaac Albéniz's Asturias, Three Versions, Three Instruments I By Andres SEGOVIA, guitar,2006 Man lopes up mast-pole Man lopes up mast-pole Man lopes up mast-pole And finds no maiden fair Who mimes his Asturian air II By Andronicus, piano version Man bikes up mountain Man bikes up mountain Man bikes up mountain And espies masts far from there Biscay Basques back with wares rare III By Florin Croitoru, violin-solo Man runs up belfry Man runs up belfry Man runs up belfry To count sinners in every square Come to keep their bosoms bare © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - continued: IX and X IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY… IX If ever I had a country And if ever I were not robbed of my barrister's degree I'd set up shop on a perch at Hyde Park Corner For a chance to plead for the Damnés de la Terre at Old Bailey Receive the eternally forlorn under a tree for no fee And rally all victims of pleadings under my barrister's wig free That is, if ever I were not robbed of that Call to the Bar duty And this, even if I never had no country X If ever I had a country And if ever I were not robbed of the chance to plead for the unfree The poor who tremble helpless at the Law's ermine garb decree The innocent wretched who let fall their inalienable rights and flee The defenceless cowed by the moneyed clients' Big-Time lawyer crap Claim and Counter-claim Summons for Disclosure trap That is, if ever I were not robbed of my self-taught Inns of Court degree And this, even if I never had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - continued: VII and VIII IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY… VII If ever I had a country And if ever I were the Keeper of the keys to the Treasury I'd invite all the tramps from every contree To weigh with sunken eyes the lack of bullion for paper money Into each tattered pocket drop slabs of gold to keep them company During chilblained nights of growling intestinal acrimony That is, if ever I were the Keeper of the keys to the Treasury And even if I never had no country VIII If ever I had a country And if ever I were cast in the role of the Night Soil Men I'd make certain every caste citizen got a taste of it No use pretending you don't know what I really mean It's the stuff caste-men push down gullets with spicy relish And let blast off galore trumpets and bassoons at full throttle That is, if ever I were cast in the role of the Night Soil Men And even if I never had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - continued IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY… V If ever I had a country And if I were the Minister of Justice I'd keep an open eye on covert fascist lechers To arraign dodgers from witch sick woman's clutches Who annul marriages the Holy See blesses To mask her lewd tantrums in the Secret Services That is, if ever I were the Minister of Justice And even if I never had no country VI If ever I had a country And if I were the Home Secretary I'd make all secret files on all dignitaries An open book on the art of rape incest or adultery Pedophily sodomy perversity y compris Not to mention lodge-keepers' skulduggery That is, if ever I were the Home Secretary And even if I never had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: On listening to Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucia - June 12,1980 Villanelle: On listening to Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucia Concert - June 12,1980 Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air Round and round in Rondenôs whisk sparrows Paco aloof in Andauzian tempo Malaguena rare Piroueting incisive onrush cascades bare No strings wave upon wave in strict sweeping rows Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air John abeting Al to shake free from Camaron dare The tsunami shaking out of the Devil's maws Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare All argumentative cursing beginning no-where Irascible abrasive rabid racy tune soars Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air Torrential currents let John loose in manic scare That Al contests entraps in torrid lassoes Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare This salmagundi of virtuoso notes snare One and all from the caverns of Sleepy Hollows Tico Tico swallows tumbling in the frisky air Paco aloof in Andaluzian tempo Malaguena rare © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY… I If ever I had a country And if I were but a low-paid Judge I'd mind every line and leaf of the Law And let no one step over the Bench Nor will I let any Law-Maker Break but a word of his That is, if I were just a judge And even if I never had no country II If ever I had a country And I were but a common policeman No matter how lean my native shores I'd patrol the streets at all hours Citizens, nay, immigrants too, behind unlocked doors Will sleep the sleep of the untrammelled Just That is, if I were even just a policeman And even if I never had no country III If ever I had a country And if I were the Chief Exec And the hoi polloi shunned the polls Abstensions thrice over thrust me up in office I'd rather commit felo de se Than as top Magistrate refuse hemlock That is, if ever I were the Chief Exec And even if I never had no country IV If ever I had a country And if I were the Plenipotentiary And the popular vote went to my Enemy I'd go back to making or losing money I'd surrender my post to run my own company Even if it were under the company of my Enemy That is, if I were the very Plenipotentiary And even if I never had no country © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Random Excerpts - 2: Ice in My Eyes Smoke in Yours, A Novel May 29,1957: …have to think about getting a thesis director…know no professor yet in the department…someone suggested i get hold of Derek Fogg for an intro to the big guns in the philosophisches Seminar…can't bother him too much…i like the way he lectures…lively, informative, obviously in tune with his subject, emitting an air of being on top form nearly always and always ready with an answer…someone said he too is looking for a prof to direct or rather accept his dissert on Bernard Shaw…he's been working on the man for years…he's easily the most knowledgeable on Shaw, the fin de siècle and Edwardian period…guess he knows his Shakespeare too from the constant references he makes to the master… and to Marlowe, Sheridan, Oscar Wilde, and Galsworthy … must admit i like the man…affable, courteous, always considerate and above all open, honest, and forthright…i think he likes me too…he liked my poems…his girl though German is curiously very English…she's a demure, pretty brunette, not as tall as he is but cast in the same mould: not too lean, not too skinny, just right i'd say…she smiles naturally, looks innocent, at least without guile, no hang-ups or pretences…quiet, in any case, doesn't say much whenever i'm around and doesn't object to my presenting myself in their after all tiny Collegium Academicum room…she seems very content with her catch…wasn't she a student of his, someone said…don't know many students at the hostel… the place was meant mainly for scholarship holders and lecturers… (…) …and so has Nature's purpose been achieved: ETERNEL CONFLICT but in cyclic periods, the yearly seasonal changes to the Brahma Day…the YIN half of the year buckling under to the YANG half…to the Brahma Night…the BIG BANG to the BIG CRUNCH…no, no I'm afraid to the gobbling up of all matter…yes, even dark matter in the universe…and even universes through the blackest of BLACK HOLES… …what we see is what we don't if we do not have eyes…light travels in photons always on and on without impulsion without cause until the point of mirage until the point of no return until what we see is circumscribed by reflection of what we can see up to a point… up to a point which is only verifiable with eyes…NO ONE HAS EVER COME BACK…we can never know while still alive if all this and that exists when we are not here…in any case if we see at all when we are gone, it may not necessarily be what we see while still here…all the rest is conjecture…what we see exists what we don't may still exist if we tried to see…Orion exists maybe when i see…does it exist when i'm not looking…does it matter that it exists for my life to be realised…astrologers would say yes…pork-sellers might think it a waste of time even to think of such a thing…all we know is that everything exists for us because we exist…otherwise there's no reason why anything else should be existing…everything else that is we can see…there are things that exist even if we can't see them…like dark matter…that is things exist also if we can deduce their existence…in other words we can see them because we have still eyes….but what happens when we are dead…do we continue to see…the answer to this question is simply we don't really know…it's no use if ONE Christ resurrects…can he return to say he actually resurrected…why can't he…what's the reason…don't tell me it's not the right time yet…that he had sent his emissaries to Lourdes…all that sort of 'reasoning' is conjecture or sophistry…why should there be doubt…why can't life be more certain more definitive…is it because it isn't…that it's just a mirage, an illusion MAYA…you know only what you see what you don't see you don't know is the only possible truth…all other forms of reasoning have given us the gods the faithful the priests the vendors of commodities without proof of the possession of goods…has created classes clergy castes medicine men voodoo women witches prelates churches synagogues mosques temples lodges cathedrals houses of prayer…in short power houses…in turn to keep the faithful orderly not anarchistic obedient herded together disciplined capable of communal life capable of promoting truth…their own truth…their own brand of life…their own insignia of race in the end for faith is race race is faith in the centre of masses leaving the periphery open to conversion even if races have sprung from the bushmen of the east African divide and all the languages from their clickclacking tongue-cluckers... …are the ruba'iyats attributed to Omar Khayyam his and therefore right then…live all you can… Excerpted from T. Wignesan. Ice in My Eyes Smoke in Yours. A Novel. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2016,672p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: If everybody did everything right Villanelle: If everybody did everything right If everybody did everything right No ripple on surface will world betray Wait out the sun till bright light burn outright Yang will marry Yin and Me-Too yin blight No lawyers can then lead us all astray If everybody did everything right Workful day will succeed pleasure-filled night E'en Lone Star will cease to reflect lone ray Wait out the sun till bright light burn outright Won't nations die from want of will to fight And polls abstentions drive leaders away If everybody did everything right Won't ephemeral men increase in might Who needs the Jün-tzu* the Yogi anyway Wait out the sun till bright light burn outright Who would underwrite life by LONE playwright To amuse some conglomerate Milky-Way If everybody did everything right Wait out the sun till bright light burn outright 'The Superior Man of the Yi-Jing © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: The only thing the masses can buy Villanelle: The only thing the masses can buy The only thing the masses can buy That's not listed on the stock market The one-way ticket out of our sky They scrub they shine they barely e'er cry With no bats to defend their wicket The only thing the masses can buy Marx and Engels tried to tell them why Yet unions all the reasons forget The one-way ticket out of our sky Best show on earth watch democrat ploy Big Ben Speaker cry " ORDER" and fidget The only thing the masses can buy Yet the masses sell votes on the sly To slice bi-cameral house in secret The one-way ticket out of our sky Duped by spam tv fearful and shy See they why Socrates kicked the bucket* The only thing the masses can buy The one-way ticket out of our sky * 'The trial of Socrates (399 BC) was held to determine the philosopher's guilt of two charges: asebeia (impiety) against the pantheon of Athens, and corruption of the youth of the city-state; the accusers cited two impious acts by Socrates: " failing to acknowledge the gods that the city acknowledges" and " introducing new deities" . The death sentence of Socrates was the legal consequence of asking politicophilosophic questions of his students, from which resulted the two accusations of moral corruption and of impiety. At trial, the majority of the dikasts (male-citizen jurors chosen by lot) voted to convict him of the two charges; then, consistent with common legal practice, voted to determine his punishment, and agreed to a sentence of death to be executed by Socrates's drinking a poisonous beverage of hemlock.' (Source Wikipedia) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Random Excerpts from Ice in my Eyes, Smoke in Yours - A Novel 'Hey, you philosophysing Hindu. Give me a break, Buddy. I was just pulling your leg. [...] I want the rest of the story. Really, I mean it." Theson said nothing. [...] " I can see you're mad at me. I was only clowning to get you out of there. You realize how long we were in there? The Mensa closes at three." " Really, there's nothing much more to say. I don't know how I fell for your faked eagerness...[...] I don't know if you're serious about Krishnamurti either." " No, really, I swear on my mother's head. I'm dead serious. I want to know all you can tell me about the Baagvedgittaa or what d'ya call it." He came closer to Theson as they got out of the building. " Do ya want me to stand on my head to prove that I mean business? That I'm damned sorry about it all. Hey, Buddy? Then, here goes! " he announced, and proceeded to take the position of the shirshasana yogic posture right there in the middle of the entrance to the Mensa building. Dev interlocked his fingers, knelt down, lowered his head, placed his palms on the crown of his head, and was just about to pivot his legs up and above his head when Theson held his legs and brought him down. Some students who stood nearby in little groups of twos and threes turned to look at them. They probably must have thought Dev was preparing to perform his afternoon prayer, facing Mecca, but then he was facing northwest while crouching down and would only have faced southeast if he could have completed the yogic posture. " Okay, I give in. Let's go sit there. There… under that tree, " urged Theson and directed him by the arm towards an aging oak tree. …how long does it take to live one life…learn the lessons of a lifetime…find the time to live…find the time to sort things out…know what you did was wrong…know in whom lay the blame…what court hears your plea over your unwanted unwilled birth…who is there to tell you here is where you went wrong in the choices you made…take you by the hand and tell you this is not your making…this is all a dream…a dream that'll never come true… what… is the maker a masochist…to what enduring purpose have you been asked to join the rest… would you want sex if you knew who you would put into this world… is there a crime more despicable than the life you engender into a world you cannot foresee… can you live as long as your progeny to protect them from the torture your genes prepare them for… can you provide for the unforeseen… for the dark that awaits you…your own faults visited on someone else you could never have conceived in thought…since the yonder is dark unknowable for all you know empty… why continue… what ultimate purpose aeons from now affects you… is there a purpose to purpose…we search and search and see far enough only to be told we are getting closer and closer to the truth… nearer and nearer to the eternal truth… the one single formula to explain it all… the unified theory of theories… only to be told in between lie the dark matter the black holes three times the known dimensions of worlds hidden within unfathomable dungeons of universes buried beyond sight beyond thought… all exploding colliding intermingling intersecting in the unreachable distance that may have been but never probably was…that the infinitely tiniest world releases the infinitely bigbangish universe… who is to believe we're going anywhere… who is to believe we are going some place…can you conceive of anything of anybody of anybeing of any self-making engine who/which can create an ounce of space let alone the mighty exploding skies hidden within atoms… can you conceive of a plan so complex so minute so self-propagating so complete so thorough from time immemorial to time eternal from the ends of the endless space which could have inhabited some mighty self-sufficient allmightiness… and yet it is true… it must be true…how else can you explain this eternal laila this eternal ephemeralness this eternal dance…nadarajah stomping twisting flailing his six arms in all six pairs of eye-directions…siva the destroyer…siva the adept dancer…siva the twelve to twenty-nine strings dancing vibrating in dimensions unseen to the eye… IT is there to be seen and be wondered at to be felt and to be suffered to be thought of and to keep thinking about to be befuddled about and to be flabbergasted about to know that IT exists… touch yourself and you touch the IT… think you're touching and you're the IT thinking… but spread your fingers and cry abacradabra… no matter materializes no ready-made canvass no finished book no symphony drops from your hand… is this a mystery… is this a joke… if i'm part of the IT why is there no nothing at my command… are we then part of the IT… can we be part of the IT… or is the IT split into smithereens no more the IT… no more the creating preserving destroying omnipotent IT the dancing Nadarajah the thundering Rudra the wailing Vayu the slaughtering Kali the admonishing Krishna the cool beneficent Vishnu…is the IT then in need of its sundered parts…must we all come to gather come together to save the IT and put IT back into place… put IT back in ITS self-conceiving womb never again to see the light of the Brahma Day…is the IT in need of all the consciousnesses IT split into to constitute ITS once inconceivable consciousness…is this the Christian redemption… is this the Mohamedan heaven watered by streams of milk by date-palm oases to the sound of the singing of seventy-two virgins… is this the Buddhist nirvana… is this the Taoist-Stoic submission to the ways of Nature…if not what purpose is there to a finishing finite world… what purpose is there to extending a quest for betterment when the Aztec sun drunk with human blood never rises again…when suns quasars galaxies universes are all doomed to be exploded out of their orbits… what purpose to so much human suffering and animal and insect and plant degradation… (c) T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes Smoke in Yours. Allahabad: Cyberwit,2016, 672p. Villanelle: Who has it the way he or she wants it Villanelle: Who has it the way he or she wants it for Stephen Hawking, à dieu! Who has it the way he or she wants it Unless the World's mistaken: not e'en Trump Maybe Dalai Lama's got the secret Pats Amanpour on the cheek and lumps it But Net-Any-Ahoos ride high during slump Who has it the way he or she wants it E'en Brits have hard time trying to Brexit With Putin vying with Xi to dump Trump Maybe Dalai Lama's got the secret E'en the hard-sweating man seldom makes it Try as he might someone grips on to rump Who has it the way he or she wants it ANZAC NATO and what you may call it All contrive to keep small nations in dump Maybe Dalai Lama's got the secret Out of the Black Hole alas Hawking made it Now all we've got: World according to Grump Who has it the way he or she wants it Maybe Dalai Lama's got the secret © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade Villanelle: If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade For Mozart's solo piano in Concertos Nos.20 & 22, K466 & K482 (1785) If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade The conscious via sub-conscious tease unconscious Tingling dulcet chords chased by strings through cascade If you think you think your ideas in stockade Echoed by winds second cousins vertiginous If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade Aeons of whistling neurones make myriad aubade Flutes clarinets horns bassoons trumpets flirtatious Tingling dulcet chords chased by strings through cascade Runaway scales submerge thoughts mind not fingers made The conscious giving in to outpouring rushes If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade Surrender will till tortuous arguments fade Cascading chords bully strings winds unconscious Tingling dulcet chords chased by strings through cascade If doubts till unborn day ne'er will sink nor downgrade Hark not to high extra-mundane Art grown luscious If you think you think and not feel your thoughts invade Tingling dulcet chords chased by strings through cascade © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: It's all been said said better and bolder before Villanelle: It's all been said said better and bolder before It's all been said said better and bolder before Worse now most repeat over and over again No shibboleths now to test smooth words more hollow Those who trouble not to delve into sages yore Make not but weak links in the derivative chain It's all been said said better and bolder before Those who toiied without e'en recompense for valour Toiled for insights ripped out of seething guts in pain No shibboleths now to test smooth words more hollow Homer Murasaki Valmiki Boccaccio Gilgamesh Beowulf Pillow Sei Shonagon It's all been said said better and bolder before How much the ' creative ' writing courses ignore Those whose suffering wrought talents in deep dungeon No shibboleths now to test smooth words more hollow The reign of digital maths spells poiein woe Business minds now serve as mid-wives during birth-pain It's all been said said better and bolder before No shibboleths now to test smooth words more hollow © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: Do Evil People know why they're so Villanelle Do Evil People know why they're so ' Evil people resemble the Gods in that They too may do as they please. ' From the Thirukural* (Cf. T. Wignesan. The Thiruk-Kural of Thiru-Valluvar. The Secular Yogi in the Temple. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2018, p.75.) Do Evil People know why they're so For if it weren't for them will Life not end Who puts to test the Good must Evil sow If all the World were Yang will any know The purpose of our existence sans end Do Evil People know why they're so Must not Evil People pay the price and go To another world earned karma to spend Who puts to test the Good must Evil sow See you not why the Yin multiply more The Yang isolated stand yet defend Do Evil People know why they're so They prance they dance they lord it and richer grow In their heart of hearts not by courage mend Who puts to test the Good must Evil sow Ask not why we must thus by Fate endure Either this or with endless boredom contend Do Evil People know why they're so Who puts to test the Good must Evil sow. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once a Teacher who didn't like school Lmerick crochetés: Once a Teacher who didn't like school Once a Teacher who didn't like school Since his kids kept calling him a fool Wished to do himself in Lost control of discipline All day his class looked like a swimming pool To this Land of the Bow and Arrow Came Settlers blasting hip pistols two They shot their way Far West Taught the Injuns what quest In Alexander's conquests wasn't tabou Then the Rifle Association Triggered Trump to top the Nation ' Arm all teachers, ' he said. ' Boost rifle sales - the Dead Will bless the use of Ultime Unction! ' With books the Teach packed solitary weapon Hidden under the school's emblem apron Kids laughed loud nonetheless To see Teacher fearless Till Terrorist at window broke open Criss-crossed class red-hot streaking bullets Kids dived under desks yells burst gullets Some clung to the Teach's vest Others hid behind broad chest Struggled he to match bullet for bullets Full square the singeing flare ripped his chest Till rounds automatic echoed the West Some say his looks bereaved Looked very much relieved Like a scion for his kids gave his Life's best. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Villanelle: How much is how near enough and yet not much Villanelle: How much is how near enough and yet not much How much is how near enough and yet not much The measure of the cup is what the hand grabs Must the common man pay the price or all go Dutch Some take more than what is their share in one clutch Most really take what comes trickling down for grabs How much is how near enough and yet not much Many such grow up never knowing what is much Nor how the rich few make an art out of nabs Must the common man pay the price or all go Dutch Most make up the legions who for others march Those who run the State run it for magnate flabs How much is how near enough and yet not much Big fish eat shoals of small fish all in one munch And the bigger they get all the smaller nags Must the common man pay the price or all go Dutch Yet everyone wants to dangle from the high hatch E'en when there's nothing much the Nation brags How much is how near enough and yet not much Must the common man pay the price or all go Dutch (C) T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once a band of non-hearing sans abri Limerick crochetés: Once a band of non-hearing sans abri* Once a band of non-hearing sans abri* Camped on the banks of a highway free Full score years stopped traffic Begged at lights electric Police scrapped their dear home sans country Held on to rubbish rolls quilts rags these gents While township lords robbed them of their tents Down where reinforced slabs Pylons concrete bridge sags To nurse their punctured pride clogged-up vents All day all night long year in year out The crunch of tires on tarmac clout Their senses ear-drums numb Drive them sick deaf and dumb Yet none up high see why they hold out None see them cook none see them strip wash Morning day and night wrapped up in their mush Tipsy turvy happy For them our world's at sea Espy passers-by their eyes in ambush Yet sleep they the sleep pure in spirit But those in power who at them spit Would put'em in HLM* Blot them out overwhelm Insomniac quiet sure'll kill'em no bit! •" sans abri" : French for " destitute, those without shelter" •" HLM" : French abbreviation for " tenement flats of the lowest social scale" © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once North Koreans joined South cousins Limerick crochetés: Once North Koreans joined South cousins Once North Koreans joined South cousins Agreed to let drop divisive sins Formed one team ice-hockey Won bronze not so lucky Each side said: " Not for US, no side wins! " Both sides appealed to prize committee Some judges with none could agree: " South on its own could win Gold! " said Pence swilling gin Kim Jong-un said: " No, Siree! " " Next time round we'll stage World Jamboree South will pay for nukes in joint country! Not cash but solid gold Stand on launching pad bold Remember who stood by US in '53! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once Japanese couple from USA Limerick crochetés: Once Japanese couple from USA Once Japanese couple from USA Skated to stardom near Tokyo Bay Japanese throbbed waived flag To recall champions snag America gives no Trump cards away Not even smiles nor acknowledgement Watching one tier below Kim Jong-un Sister looks down on Pence Even Quest can't fix fence Waiting for fireworks after Pyeongchang © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once our Senorita from Sevilla Limerick crochetés: Once our Señorita from Sevilla - XV Once our Señorita from Sevilla Came to Paris on a flotilla She stepped out on high deck Slipped and twisted her neck Guess what happened to her mantilla She stood under five metres flood pour Couldn't help but gulp Seine while she swore Dreamed of Paris fiesta During noon freeze siesta But the wine tasted nothing like Dior So to set sail called her Armada Up Thames to sip with Liz II limonada Head hit by Tower Bridge Due to thawed Arctic fridge Flamencoes with Raleigh in Andromeda © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limerick crochetes: Once MidEast refugee hijacked plane Limerick crochetés: Once Mid-East refugee hi-jacked plane Once Mid-East refugee hijacked plane At Heathrow Airport without much pain Set course for Florida Down Gulf Stream danced salsa O'er Bermuda Triangle lost brain Raised head in parallel universe Where everybody spoke only in verse Shakespeare just a mere page At beck and call of Sage Who rode on a flying-trapeze hearse Walt Whitman why whipped hard ten times tight For turning fine-tuned verse e'er so slight Beat poets all sweat caned Their howls and growls un-maned Ginsberg last seen dropping out of sight Harriet Monroe drowned in P-Soup To lay P-Foundation nin.com poop Rhyme and dine for a dime At Multi-Verse win prime Refugees now cross Atlantic in sloop At P-Soup Port they re-fuel with port Learn how to parse clichés sans rapport Great poems like Hardy's Drivel from their panties " America" refugees sing out! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Porto Vecchio, Julien Dore's Song Translated by T Wignesan « Porto-Vecchio », song by Julien Doré (Note: If there's a melody that can slither/sail past the ear-drums imperceptibly and settle permanently in the hypothalamus, this's it. The sustained tempo in a low key and the husky but soothing and infinitesimally modulating whispered tones of the songster set in a tropical town on a promontary overlooking a chrystal-clear blue-water bay where a sloop glides as if through the doldrums add to the charm of the sweet sadness which pervades this song. Yes, the lyrics and refrain, too, are equally mesmerising, but the magic of the melody and the words is in the expletives: « ah ah… Ah ah… » --- it gets you till all your defences are down! There's a dulled and lulled moment in the song when Julien Doré dives into the deep, and his pet dog hesitates whether or not to join him, but he cannot find his master, look as long as he may… Just try the clip for a change! For the moment, it's all the rage on CStar channel. Or try mp3.) T. Wignesan [Couplet 1] La lumière est divine sur le Porto-Vecchio Les nuages et le spleen ont tatoué ma peau Je ne pars pas, je nage dans le murmure des vagues J'ai laissé ton nom et mon coeur sur la plage Ah, ah (Stanza 1) Divine is the light over Porto-Vecchio The clouds and spleen have tattoed my complexion I do not (wish to) leave, I swim (floating) through the murmur of the waves I have abandoned your name and my heart on the beach Ah, ah [Refrain] Un soupir se dessine sur le Porto-Vecchio Immortelle, assassine, te voilà sortie des flots Je ne pleure pas, je nage dans le murmure des vagues, ah J'ai oublié ton nom et ton corps sur la plage Ah, ah, ah (Refrain) A sigh sketches itself over Porto-Vecchio Immortal, crucified, here you are come out of the deep Ah I cry not, I swim (floating) in the murmur of the waves, I don't remember your name nor your body on the beach Ah, ah, ah [Couplet 2] Tu m'as lâché la main sur le Porto-Vecchio Je souris au venin qui me brûlait le dos Je ne pleure pas, je nage dans l'océan de flammes, ah Pour oublier ton corps, pour mieux tourner la page Ah, ah (Stanza 2) You let go of my hand over Porto-Vecchio I smile at (the thought of) the poison which kept burning my back (See) I cry not, I swim through the ocean of flames, ah In order better to forget your body, to better turn the page Ah, ah [Pont] Je reviendrai demain sur le Porto-Vecchio Pour oublier ta main et le goût de ta peau, ah (Bridge) Return I will tomorrow to Porto-Vecchio (In order) Not to remember your hand and the taste of your skin, ah [Refrain] Tu m'as lâché la main sur le Porto-Vecchio Je souris au venin qui me brûlait le dos Je ne pleure pas, je nage dans l'océan de flammes, ah Pour oublier ton corps, pour mieux tourner la page Ah, ah, ah (Refrain) You let go of my hand over Porto-Vecchio I smile at (the thought of) the poison which kept burning my back (See) I cry not, I swim through the ocean of flames, ah In order better to forget your body, to better turn the page Ah, ah © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 Limericks crochetes: Once in quest of just a lost penny Limerick: Once in quest of just a lost penny Once in quest of just a lost penny Found at Tumble-Weed Hotel ha' penny Played Trump cards Stock Exchange Now never short of change Bought Sea Anne-Anne: Quest now not so funny! So he thought of making more money Changed his name to Quaid-il-Swamy Found in Red Sea oil-gold Drained Sea Anne-Anne all told Now Quest's back all for just a ha' penny! All day we hear story of penny Penny dropped by woman in a hurry If Quest means good business Quest not lest you make mess Till Sea Anne-Anne Quest really marry! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2018 The PUNISHER and the PunishEd The Punisher and the PunishEd I The Punisher needs the Punishéd to punish (Will anyone argue this point) That is: Who will the Punisher punish If He had no-one to pinpoint Unless He punishes Himself And since we are all per se the Punishéd We must all be part and parcel of the Same-Self Why then punish Himself/Ourselves Some would say: for sado-masochistic reasons Others: if He didn't do that What would He do with Himself If only to amuse Himself Create never-ending limitless demonic Purusha universes The antithesis of Himself That would produce and re-produce Itself/Themselves A never-ending cheap television series The Brahma Day followed by an extinguishing Brahma Night Dissipate boredom Alternate the Yang and the Yin One up One down ad infinitum Time for the Brahman creation Time for the Vishnu preservation Time for the Siva destruction Le théâtre de l'Absurde The Myth of Sisyphus The cavernous cries of those who writhe and rage Le théâtre de la Cruauté Die Verfremde Effekt The Punisher embracing the Punishéd Playing to an empty Brechtian house Who watches us: squirm squirt squeal A magic-lantern Khayyam show The winding caravan heading for a Shangri-la blinded by sand Dogs who bark turned to stone II The Punisher wields the stick The Punishéd stickless flees the stick Fiddlesticks What if the Punishéd also wields a stick Sticks Then you have conflict But for the divine right to a bigger stick The Puppeteer and the Puppet The Trumpeter and the Tyrant The Tortionneur and the Funambulist The Union of Fifty-Sticks waiting for Brexit One more over-used and bloodied stick III The Punisher justifies the need to punish the Punishéd KARMA serves to ease the conscience Of both the Punisher and the Punishéd Makes Yang feel stronger than the Yin Makes the just punishment a case for outright win The Punishéd needs to feel he's fulfilling a debt Hamartia come into its own: make no mistake For some mindless mistake in some irredeemable moment Assuage some masochistic phobia in the memory crypt Watch the virtuous Yang bite the dust And wonder if this up-side-down world Makes any sense to the Just IV Which Playwright would think up such a forlorn plot To drive all actors on stage down the trap-door shut Do not particles aimless in the Primal Soup By trial and error Wrap on centillion Hawking key-boards The perfect Greek tragedy Sans Deus ex machina Make the fate of all mankind A matter of mindful matter No man be so bad As be by his role forbade To assume a role (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock Villanelle: Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock Whether in deference to the past's foiled efforts The tingling ergot fires our desires do unlock Rye clavicus purpurea our joints dislock Till the soil of our conscience deeper than roots Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock Eastern sky pyrotechnics rude rockets won't mock In deference to witches' brews sharp mandrake roots The tingling ergot fires our desires do unlock Infernal fires rage on in limbs of mad rock Gargled warnings in the larvae spouting cheroots Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock Is that Bosch who will St Anthony's fall not baulk Memories of charred instant byres turned to soots The tingling ergot fires our desires do unlock Took thirteen point eight billion years to make a lark How many to buy back twenty-one eight trillion debts Everything takes time: take not time by the forelock The tingling ergot fires our desires do unlock (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Lyrics of Bigflo and Oli's DOMMAGE: What a Pity, Translated by T Wignesan Lyrics of Bigflo & Oli's hit song, Dommage: " T'is a Pity! " Translated by T. Wignesan https: //bigfloetoli.lnk.to/LaVraieVie (Two brothers: Florian (the elder with the " Big" prefix) and Olivio ORDONEZ, born and raised in music from an early age in Toulouse by their musician father, have only - one might say - recently come out of their teens, but have already made it up high in the charts with the likes of Katy Perry and gang on CStar and other channels featuring rap. They have just brought out their second album, and to all intents and purposes, it would seem, determined to rage all over the pop world with their cheeky straight-faced comic clips and savoirfaire. Here's a sample of their catchy and infectious lyrics, for a start - if " they" will not mind. I have not tried to force the rhymes in my rendering though.) Louis takes the bus as usual every morn Walks past the same girl wrapt in sweet parfume If only she'd come to talk, he keeps hoping every day What he feels deep down is what they call love But Louis, he's timid And the girl, she's so beautiful He dares not budge, he's stuck to his seat Once she deigned to smile at him while alighting And ever since that fateful day, he hasn't laid eyes on her again. Refrain Ah He ought to have taken the initiative, ought to have made the move Believe me They all said: ‘Ah! What a pity! Ah! What a shame! That surely was his last chance! ' Yasmine has a great voice, she knows she's well-endowed During the tempests of her life, music served to buoy her Exposed to her melodious strains, the world would fawn at her feet But her father kept insisting, " find yourself a true calling" Sometimes she imagines herself lit up by projector lights Showered on stage with applause and the target of bouquets But Yasmine has gone all rusty, trapped by routine Though sometimes she bursts out singing on the factory line Refrain Ah She ought to have taken the initiative, ought to have made the move Believe me They all said: ‘Ah! What a pity! Ah! What a shame! That surely was her last chance! ' Diego stays sunk slumped in his settee And he scolds his little brother for walking past the telé His buddies had all gone out, he didn't join them Often he finds himself alone with only the moon to keep him company Diego is downcast, he lets the night bypass him He feels depressed for not having found the girl of his life " But, my poor Diego, you can't be more mistaken That was the evening you were destined to meet her! " Refrain Ah He ought to have taken the initiative, ought to have made the move Believe me They all said: ‘Ah! What a pity! Ah! What a shame! That surely was his last chance! ' Pauline she's discreet, she forgets she's beautiful Covered all over her body shades of the colour of sky Her husband will soon be home, she'd rather not let the thought bother When he takes her hand, for sure it's not to make her dance She recalls the day at the Town Hall the decision she took The afternoon when she packed all her belongings She had a future, a son to bring up After the last dance, she has never been able to pull herself up Refrain Ah He ought to have taken the initiative, ought to have made the move Believe me They all said: ‘Ah! What a pity! Ah! What a shame! That surely was his last chance! ' BETTER to endure feelings of remorse than to harbour regrets BETTER to endure feelings of remorse than to harbour regrets BETTER to endure feelings of remorse than to harbour regrets BETTER to endure feelings of remorse THAT's the secret (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Villanelle: Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Life is an arrow stuck in the flesh - ask not WHY nor WHEREFROM, made of WHAT nor HOW just tend to the wound. THE BUDDHA, the Enlightened ONE Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Yet the many dote on the media-made stars Do States rest immune to the hell they wreak insane The secret of success lies in bearing with bane Every ego seeks to exact lost largesse wars Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Disdain's the god-daughter of envy when inane Everything serves to mask one's failed hard-worked chores Do States rest immune to the hell they wreak insane Disdain feeds on high gnarled puritain racial gain Such egos as stand not other ethnic higher scores Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Can the State be envious of Citizen Kane Or just the giant voice on radio Star Wars Do States rest immune to the hell they wreak insane Would the Enlightened One deem today's scene stark vain Is the wound self-inflicted or caused by our stars Envy or disdain which the slave-master of pain Do States rest immune to the hell they wreak insane (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Unquotable Quotes VIIIL: SEXUAL HARASSMENT - the feminist kind Unquotable Quotes VIIIL: SEXUAL HARASSMENT* - the feminist kind (*" aggressive pressure or intimidation" : Is it really " any different" in most cases in the act, judging by Hollywood standards?) STOP: ARREST ALL GIRLS - standing with legs apart on street-corners - sitting with knees exposed on bar stools - lolling with or without protruding bosoms at traffic lights or bus-stops - swaying hips on high stilts on zebra crossings - strolling with transparent bikinis on beaches - reclining one eye shut and jutting exposed legs on airplane aisles - climbing with bottoms stretched on mountain faces - cavorting in up-side-down-T during figure skating championships - gymnasts tumbling on mattresses in Olympic contests - Lolitas copying the alphabet with contorted limbs on swinging rings - getting ready for the shower under spot lights curtain less - with or without swim suits doing the breast stroke - behind high counters with low neck-lines - with un-buttoned uniforms in the armed forces - press-secretaries with false eye-brows and mascara on eyelashes - showing off sets of false teeth under aesthetically shaped noses - after school giggling and disturbing the peace as they pass you - including police women with condescendingly beautiful looks - and wives who open and slam windows while you pass under them YES, ARREST ALL DAMES - and all women teachers who entice male students with high marks - y compris grandmothers - all queens who learn Hindustani from servants for no higher pay - and shop-assistants who caress your palm with short-change - APHRO-dites who make you foam at the mouth - and the three witches made Macbeth fear not none of woman-born - and Lady Macbeth for inciting her Lord to usurp the crown - and Juliet for not letting Romeo know before quaffing the potion - and Gwyneth for turning Tom Boy to entice the lovesick Shakespeare - and Judy Dench for aiding and abetting the actress ARREST ALL VAUDEVILLE and CAN-CAN GIRLS - for throwing up in your face while you let drip Vermouth on your lace - all models who parade cat-walk side-walks - y compris those spruced up in cocoons beside husbands at summits - all women heads of states who rub cheeks to warm starved breasts - y compris Brezhnev and Krushschev for preferring lips to cheeks - y compris aboriginal chiefs who tickle noses with spiked lips - and all sex-starved women who bellow at your bad jokes ARREST ALL - bitches mares felines who lick you to leave sticky needle-sharp furs - she-goats with beards for masquerading as kid-bearing moms - all mares for braying like donkeys - all race jockeys for riding bare-back - all lionesses for throwing up their fore-and-hind legs after a night of… - all elephants who unfurl and dig trumps looking for nuts in holes - all crocodiles for looking all one and the same - all apes for aping humans in the act ARREST - all secretaries who stoop to pick up their bosses pencils with mouths - all sportswomen who roll with pain on the turf without shame - all rugger-women who tear to shreds their partners shorts in scrums - all tennis-women who sprawl between sets to earn free thigh massage - all women cyclists whose hinds swallow up seats ARREST ALL GIRLS - riding in the METRO/UNDERGROUND or BUSES during the rush-hour for they can all potentially sue the men who squeeze them all without - YES - wanting or not wanting to every time the trains or buses jog and pull away at every station or through midway change of speed ARREST ALL CONNIVING GIRLS - who stoop low in search of dropped coins in super-market queues - who suck lollipops at bus-stops and railway platforms for exercise - all damsels in distress on deserted roads and by-lanes - all toughs who kick-start their motor-cycles over and over again - all wanton who want-men for being so darned bloody beautiful and giving-off so much un-merited pleasure - just to be looked at - in such a dreary world without relief without hope if not for their cunning cuddles, caressing coaxes, carefree cavorting and courting curses! ARREST THEM ALL and PUT US ALL IN THE SELF-SAME DEN so that we can continue to be harassed by them SANS END! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle Villanelle: Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle Bosom-fed mouths sing no tame lullabies Innocence raped in the womb heeds no fable Each child on its own must its life enable Who would re-crush the seed ram the egg with lies Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle Bad enough the baby's plucked through tight stable Wrapped in a putrid bag stink slime stuck on eyes Innocence raped in the womb heeds no fable Animals all trained to rut machos enable None sneak in on the sly sans broken horn tries Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle No engine smokes to cut lifeblood off cable Nor let pistons lockstep shunt through torrid sties Innocence raped in the womb heeds no fable Monsters all baked in ovens below navel No use pretending we are the scions of skies Too late too few the tears she sheds on cradle Innocence raped in the womb heeds no fable (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 IF YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE IF YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE… " A quiet and modest life, " says he in German, the most successful of them/us all, " brings more joy than a pursuit of success bound with constant unrest." Albert Einstein's hand-written tip to a courier at the Imperial Hotel Tokyo, November 1922 If you think you're the only one to record the way the world's run Know that every top's naked spun when the wrapped string's outrun Everyone's in such a hurry to step out of this collapsing quandary Even if the one and only query is left without comforting certainty Everybody wants a piece of posterity to be part of everlasting history Even at the cost of mimicry if only to keep shoring up sheer vanity Fire burns out in an empty shell the way the poem slim content quell Who reads for meaning to feel well means to read more feeling swell Roads lead to where one wants to go, lines come to an end in vertigo To each ego own voice sounds best, who renounces the will but hobo Tell this to a Cervantes five years in quarries after the Battle of Lepanto Confront Dostoeyeski with firing squad again after four years in Siberia Tear Theo from Van Gogh's bosom after Gauguin's bullish loud hysteria Tease Mozart in his deathbed with the sleepless scores of his concerto There's no quiet in a modest life for billions will step eager on your face Our world honours the sham strong the phoney the fake the half-baked The weak work all day not to crave success but to fend off all disgrace No true mother harassed by rape abandons the baby for rapists' sake Success is always drenched in sweat except for those fils de Putes Who inherited the earth long before the oldest profession followed suit (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 IF YOU WERE FOOL ENOUGH TO IF YOU WERE FOOL ENOUGH TO…. If you were fool enough to ask me things that better be What I'd rather do twiddle-doo twiddle-dee if I were free Yes, if you lived in a caved-in sagging igloo like our Magoo I'd say go to sleep thinking of sweet Sue in downy mildew Suck honey sirupy through wildly singing tulip stalks Wake up on clouds fluffy where this world ne'er baulks Better be listening to long King Crimson aubades fade Than bang through Doors the mashed ear-drum brigade Toss through worlds where logico-tractatus makes sense Than watch elected hypocrites lipservice nuclear rea mens Who would grudge me leave fuming in contours cannabis Away from all this ritual rigmarole: watch praying-mantis Mount your own back to munch your own squirting penises What a donna-wetter way to perpetuate the human species (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Eric Mottram's The Cat Sat on the Mat Translated by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's The Cat Sat on the Mat, La chatte s'est assise sur la natte by T. Wignesan (Unless I'm sorely mistaken, this's EM's first published poem: Poetry Magazine/Poetry Foundation, Chicago, February 1959, pp.306-307.) La chatte s'est assise sur la natte Assise sur ses hanches de la souche de vin elle Evoque la loi de trépied Et elle lance son quatrième jambe En la direction des parasites La partie supérieur de son cou blanc: un habile Petit coup obsessionnel de ses muscles fins Le soleil se palisse. Des plats nuages font tourner La voile brumeuse sous le ciel. A la limite maniaque du pivot De sa vibrante crise sans fin De son grattement elle s'arrête et fixe son regarde De ses paires d'étangs du sens aux teints vertes Elle s'est enfermée en rejetant Mon sens d'empathie pour son état de dépression. Des marées précoces de la panique Ravagent mes pores et secouent Ma langue fatale pendant qu'elle Reste tout bien protégée. Etendue à l'extrême Dans des toiles tropiques hautaines de nerfs Des grosses images se sont assises les jambes croisées A l'intérieur de son crâne outré et absurde. Une rose blanche ne peut pas croire Que, moi, je l'ai vu désintégrer. Des lianes s'adhèrent dans son coeur, L'impulsion se montre sans même une parole. Sa jambe obsessionnelle s'est sauté dès son coeur Et le mythe silencieux en forme de bec De son amour s'apparaît en se remontrant Prenant entièrement pour proie le nez et l'aine L'isotype* de Venus dans son sang. (Note: * probably an error for " isotope" .) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 7 -excerpts from Notes on Poetics by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private 7 with excerpts from " Notes on Poetics" by T. Wignesan (Note: With this post, I bring to a close EM's pamphlet collection: Faithful Private, GENERA editions by Colin Simms, issue 13 (Place: ?) ,1976, n.p. Translation of No.6: " Courbet, Elegy 8" I had already posted up on September 26,2017. EM's " Notes on Poetics" appeared in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. I, n° 1 (Paris) ,1989, pp.37-44. Founder-Editor: T. Wignesan) " Since the 1960s poetry readings have become seriously effective event in a poet's life in Britain - that is, not some actor actorizing himself at the expense of the poet and the poem, but the interacting performance of poet, his own work and an audience. At least, in a small place. The large hall, probably these days with absurd electronic amplification, discourages interpenetration and encourages poet-demagogues, and keeps the poet apart and evasive - but, of course, some official establishment poets thrive on this, poet-laureates and the like. (…) During the 1970-1976 period when th Poetry Society, later the National Poetry Centre, in London, became for the first time a centre for truly contemporary poetry, we held regular readings, but also public interviewdiscussions - one poet at a time - as part of evenings billed as Poetry Information. (…) Poetry had been taken out of the classroom and the academic judgmental enclosure. (…) …and performance also came to include the longplaying record, the cassette, and the video-tape: the poet's voice and physical presence. The speed of the poem, its sounds and rhythms were offered by their composer as part of poetry, not restricted to print typography. As with music and theatre, performance is the life of the work. Information and exchange of interests founded a poetics that could hold everything within the act of performance between writer, reader, audience and publisher. (…) Most poetry readings are recorded by someone, so that the (poet's) commentary (on his work) and the performance become part of the poem, and as it is with recorded music, readings can, and often do, vary as - with any luck - the performances increase in number. They become part of a general poetics, too: no proper account of twentieth century poetry is possible without them. Poetics is both the sound and the typographic notation - and notational forms are endless, except for the pathetically classicist." (JCL, pp.37-38) 7. est-ce que vous avez envie de commencer? n'importe où ce que ne pas détritus? le baptisme est la tête sous l'eau un prêtre coupe le sexe un examen de sang tenu à l'hauteur du ciel renouvelle les matériaux autrefois les mots une léthargie qui prévoie à présent des parties de la vie pas des conquêtes mais l'acceptation des dons et ne pas de montons ou les restes du festin mais les feuilles d'invitation en avançant nous échangeons des morceaux ayant d'orgasms dans l'un et de l'autre comme on s'en fait avec des photos et des poèmes sans un plafond sur vos yeux: des trous bien définis de faite et l'ambition contribuent à faire celui qui agisse: à l'autorité l'acolyte et le secrétaire caressent les poignées du pontiff le Mohave n'est pas silencieux vous n'arrivez pas l'entendre pas de Kalahari en (Grande) Bretagne en s'excluant Fleet Street Portland Place Shepherds Bush Great Turnstile entendu avec facilité sur chaque signalement de rue dans la ville si vous fermez les presses en dehors dans la parque où Shiva entre en tant que Herne unis pour toujours: partageant le beat aux couteaux: un étranger entre dans cette verdure les crevasses dans le vent d'antan les mauvaises herbes dans les fissures de la ville la glace rivet la terre à la forêt le livre sterling on dit est en train de chuter les banquiers mangent leur repas avec hâte la Presse trouve plus d'actualités: et vous connaissez-vous le remède? Nous oui (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 5 Homage to Humphrey Jennings by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private 5 Homage to Humphrey Jennings by T. Wignesan for Elaine Randell à quoi sert le talent si l'aire la mer et la terre pollués les eaux coulent passant un peuple qui n'a pas l'intention de vivre la-bas où la pelouse est enlevée afin de libérer d'espace pour un homme pour qu'il augmente son espace pendant la période de la guerre Les feus furent allumés un travail par un homme dans une génération livrée au loisir sans ressentir la culpabilité: la façon qu'ils menèrent leur vie c'est comme ça que la revolution commence: la pollution alors n'aviez pas d'origine dans leur têtes: ils se livraient à la peinture à la rame aux chansons réalisaient des films pour le bureau central de la Poste: une personne parmi eux entreprit une direction en s'observant le geste arrêté en mouvance arrêté en se tournant sur lui même lequel devient un talent des hommes et des femmes dans l'aire la mer et la terre devenus un gros danger pour la vie à cause des armes l'exactitude contre l'exactitude pour la survie voulue: l'insanité arrive avec la marée haute et basse les ruisseaux qui coulent loins à l'intérieur resistant l'exploitation de cette grotesque minérale conquise la lune comme un homme autrefois plongée dans des eaux pour le choral blanc dans des sables dorés nageait dans une trance le long d'un lit de la mer: puis les hommes du parage m'avait dit que cet endroit de la mer fut choisi par les requins pour reproduire venus d'autres lointaines mers aux eaux peu profondes où ils circulaient autour d'eux-même en amoureux: à quoi bon d'expérimenter ce frémissement Involontaire pendant qu'on fixe les yeux sur l'eau limpide: ne pas penser de soi-même sans un besoin exigeant (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 4 with a Clive Bush Comment by T Wignesan Transl. of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 4 with a Clive Bush comment on Mottram's poetry Excerpt from an article, " From space to caves in the heart recreating the collective world in Eric Mottram's poetry" by Clive Bush, Director of American Studies, King's College, University of London in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. I, Nos.2 & 3 (Paris) ,1990/1991, p.49. Founder-Editor: T. Wignesan. " The very few good English poets are buried endlessly under unbelievably overpublicized and minor poets like Larkin, Betjeman, Tom Gunn, Irish exiles, expatriates from previous colonies (and the darker the skin the better) who are endlessly flattered by the Arts Council, the British Council, and the Establishment Poetry Society and who have never understood the difference between writing " political" poetry and writing poetry politically.4* They ensure that anybody with a noisy social, sexual, racial, religious, or mental/physical problem, and almost everybody published by Faber and Faber since 1960 is instantly legitimated in a market dominated by the comforting guilts of liberals. (…) Mottram himself is absolutely unprovincial in form, content, and in the sheer range of available materials he puts together. In this sense he is closer to an English tradition which took for granted it was artistically part of Europe: a tradition which includes Chaucer, Milton, Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, and beyond Europe, an American tradition which would include Whitman, Pound, Williams, H. D., Rukeyser, Olson among many others. Jerome Rothenberg is among the exemplary poets whose sense of the world enables him to draw on traditions which range from ancient Indian and Chinese poetry to poetry of Native Americans, Eskimos, Pacific peoples: that still enormous range of different histories, often non-literate poetries, artistic practises, forms of life, and human experience which academics, aristocrats and commercial advertisers designate as " ethnic" . " 4. Le chanteur l'Interstate 40 au croisement de la State Route 27 abandonnée aux graffiti les fumeurs et copperheads — Visant la Gloire — la bibliothèque d'Okemah Oklahomah ne voulait pas ses écritures et signes ses cendres au-delà des falaises d'Atlantique la pluie tombe ne tombe pas sur les peacans cacahuètes sur une église pour chaque centaine pour le compte de la fierté civique dans des clubs de service militaire où un agent de service secret témoigne sur serment quotidiennement le chanteur en déplacement est détenu par les Soviets afin qu'il fasse adapter les chansons de guerre russes en ballades américaines jouables agent Matusow R. S. No.115 Woody Guthrie Memorial Inc. une corporation à but non-lucrative pour un musée en vigueur la date est 1972 le faux témoignage sans vitre sans portes la maison à l'intersection de qui la terre de qui les chansons * The distinction is Kurt Well's….(…) quoted in Eric Mottram's Interrogation Rooms (London: Spanner,1982) , p.10. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 3 Dolores Huerta by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 3 Dolores Huerta by T. Wignesan 3. Dolores Huerta aucun coq n'y annonce la reveille: les étudiants et les dirigeants des travailleurs font partie du piquet de grève contre les Wine Brothers: les bourrasques collent contre les pancartes de grève les jeans trempés les bleues de travail réfléchissant: à Los Altos ils chantent des chansons de grève à l'honneur de Chavez et de Dolores dans un camion emménagé en un lit plat: les enfants et les pères qui portent des enfants la famille la United Fruit Workers tout l'été sur les lignes de piquet de grève dans des prisons des maisons et les meubles vendus pour d'hivers vêtements voitures les essentiels pour le travail au delà de ce mois d'août au-delà d'épreuves: deux hommes tués à Arvin Nagi Daifullah tué par la lampe électrique d'un chérif Juan de la Cruz fusillé sur le piquet de grève Dolores Huerta la vice-présidente stratège négociatrice ses dix enfants prises en charge sécurisés sa grace son rire par concentration prends soins de sa santé pour sa fille afin d'être saine contre l'avarice contre la charité des libéraux: le machisme gagne maintenant les femmes le non-violence provenant des femmes et enfants leurs bras meurtris par les planches des Teamsters les yeux de la police cernés par le plaisir caressent leurs étuis de revolvers: à la maison pas de conflits l'homme est le chef: une famille soudée par le respect quant au machisme des hommes toujours la vieille religion: le mariage dissout détruit le Syndicat des badges d'officiers des cultivateurs brillent au lever du soleil les.22s en défense-propres: " nous étions si heureuses, en paix et jolies même les grand-mères jusqu'à ce qu'ils commence à tirer avec leurs fusils" : Reagan fut photographié en train de manger des raisins scab: les troupes de Vietnam mangent des laitues du gouvernement provenant des champs de l'entreprise les trottoirs lézardés stroes en délabrement: bousculent dans les campements de l'entreprise des terminus plein de poussière placés sous surveillance: les travailleurs de Brothers dispersent surveillés par des brigades en voiture " you find a way it gets easier all the time" (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 2 with Commentary by T Wignesan Transl. of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 2 with a Clive Bush comment on Mottram's poetry Excerpt from an article, " From space to caves in the heart recreating the collective world in Eric Mottram's poetry" by Clive Bush, Director of American Studies, King's College, University of London in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. I, Nos.2 & 3 (Paris) ,1990/1991, p.61. Founder-Editor: T. Wignesan. " As Mottram points out in his article on Michael McClure, " ecology" is a major problem for both capitalist and communist societies.47 Everywhere in Mottram's poetry is an appalling sense of anguish at the wastage and repressive cruelties of both major powers and their allies in our time. In Interrogation Rooms (1982) where the vision is very dark, Spinoza's dictum " there cannot be too much joy; it is always good: melancholy is always bad, " 48 is a hard-won and always unstable conviction. The existential anguish and sense of political betrayal felt by anyone of sensibility in the late twentieth century (and certainly acutely in post-Imperial, Thatcherite Britain) is never ignored: " the cultural scene can never be divided and it is always political and economic." 49 A Burroughsian vision of virus, sexual invasion, cancerous deterioration, hitec manipulations, malign control-fantasies, the deadening energies of mass media, and enactments lead Mottram to Artaud's cry quoted in The Legal Poems (1986) : do not make me do evil to myself since God has already committed every filthiness.50" Un fantassin loyal - 2 le sang de vieilles bobines d'actualités des films entachait dans des chambres d'induction de la tribu mais en soutenant la robe en tant que don appelée l'invitation alors puis-je passer à travers dites aux étoiles " en haut" sans (dire) " qui s'en sort" asseyez-vous à la table ronde sur la dernière étage vers les étoiles ouvertes et entourées des modèles dans leur imitation abandonnez-vous les morts calcifiées continuez afin de pouvoir passer à travers pour manger des nouvelles branches par le biais des chambres d'oreilles entendez une scène d'odeur en couleurs goûtez le matin du printemps les chansons d'oiseaux trouvez-vous que cet écriture soit placée sous l'emprise d'une charme ayant mangé la vieille femme elle s'est émergée de sa peau altérée ses pores de pigment et ses follicules ont une masque d'aliments vieille déesse homme nouveau fontaine (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 1 with Commentary by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's A Faithful Private - 1 by T. Wignesan For Barry MacSweeney (GENERA editions by Colin Simms, issue 13 - Kent Winter-Spring 1974 - Ohio/London 1976, n.p.) A poet should have on his coffin not a wreath but a gun to show that he was a faithful private in the liberation struggles of humanity. Heinrich Heine " Un poète devrait avoir sur son cercueil pas une couronne mais un fusil pour démontrer qu'il fut un fantassin loyal dans les luttes pour la libération de l'humanité." HH Un fantassin loyal - 1 du fait d'être effrayé ce n'est pas quelque chose dont nous n'avions pu être certains le passage du temps nous le dira qui tombèrent qui se trouvaient délaissés en arrière le front de l'orage étendant à deux cents milles vers l'est blanc derrière le gris les ciels du nord et du sud est-ce qu'un homme quiconque choisit ou quelqu'un parmi nous est choisi que le fait de l'écrire fasse une différence frère en liberté une espace de flamme entre nous se soulevant dans les Serpent Mounds des chansons sans paroles textes rites les mineurs montent comme des machines descendent pour rafraichir l'aire pour des mines d'humus où le soleil brille fort sans relâche et animé " who is this man from abroad to tell us we are part of disaster against the Freedom Trail he urges us not to be victim" à l'extérieur sur un arbre dénué des feuilles un cardinal ouvre au ciel balayé par le vent une pluie qui se jette à travers l'analyse à travers des tons engagés le détritus d'un siècle se réuni dans des chambres des côtes les rues affaissées se moquaient du Trail " we are not a moment of your insanity" Excerpts from an article, " From space to caves in the heart recreating the collective world in Eric Mottram's poetry" by Clive Bush, Director of American Studies, King's College, University of London in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. I, Nos.2 & 3 (Paris) ,1990/1991, pp.55-56. Edited by T. Wignesan. " One of Mottram's most distinguished essays which is at least as important as Mailer's essay " The White Negro" (1956) which to some extent it modifies and extends, is " Dionysus in America" (1976) . The essay looks at Rock Culture in the United States (and by implication the rest of the world) , drawing an exemplary contrast between Altamont and Woodstock. Distinguished musician as he is, Mottram questions the value of Rock in general, makes important exceptions, and relates his two examples to traditions, inside American culture in general. Following the resources of the myth, Dionysus is seen as a " major origin of the Devil in Christian mythology and is deeply associated with ecstatic rituals of change." 27 Its embodiment in Rock music was first seen, therefore, to be profoundly upsetting to those in authority: " White Citizen Council groups linked it with sin and communism, while the Soviet Union linked it with sin and capitalism." (xxx) (…) The Dionysian break-through needs social context of viable revolution if it is not to diminish into mere rebelliousness, licensed orgy or ritual which reenergizes the reactionary and lethal status quo. (xxx) …Mottram also cites Nietsche to the effect that, " Dionysus deteriorated gives us " a mixture of sensuality and cruelty, " the sexuality of sado-masochistic power." (xxx) …. Within this radically impoverished and controlled space, traditional American revivalist dramas are enacted (ecstasy, dissolving rationality, the promise of new community) . (…) At one level, therefore, Rock is a permutation on all rituals of hypnotic ecstacy which need a constellation of angels, stars, gods who deliver " energy" to a passively-manipulated populace intended to " orbit in half helpless gravitation." (xxx) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's The Nerves of Proust and Sitting Bull by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's The Nerves of Proust and Sitting Bull by T. Wignesan Excerpts from an article, " From space to caves in the heart recreating the collective world in Eric Mottram's poetry" by Clive Bush, Director of American Studies, King's College, University of London in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. I, Nos.2 & 3 (Paris) ,1990/1991, pp.48-49. Editor: T. Wignesan: " In Mottram's work there is no illusion that poetry will save us. Nonetheless a commitment to a poetry of intelligence with its necessarily radical and varied forms, to a clear-eyed and non-moralistic politics, to celebration of nondogmatic forms of life, and to creativity and its happiness, at least rehearses the possibility of choice rather than submission. It is as necessary a task for Mottram as it was for Shelley in the era of the Peterloo massacre, or Swinburne observing Disraeli's absurd antics in relation to the Ottoman Empire. Certainly the difficulty is all the greater for Mottram in the sense that there is no " good place" for committed creative intelligence. (…) Mottram expands his frame of reference far beyond officially-recognised English poetic practice in order paradoxically to recover the actual and multiple richnesses of English cultural traditions currently betrayed by the know-nothing, pseudo-lyrical confessions of poets who mistakenly think their personal lives interesting enough to record in immediately comprehensible invariably tear-stained and melancholy mediocrity. The " immediately comprehensible" flatters a populace whose intelligence has been undermined by an autocratic State paranoid about criticism…" Les nerfs de Proust et de Sitting Bull comme une guérison pour l'original tissu fin qu'il a mis des bouchons d'ivoire dans ses oreilles avalait presque n'importe quoi créa sa scène inoffensive et l'appela la mémoire pour honorer la divinité une centaines de pièces de peau lesquelles furent presque arrachées de ses bras qu'il gagne le triple farce de désobéissance qu'il donne quelque chose pour le reporter de Tribune de New York afin qu'il perde la mémoire pèse pour réaliser un massacre sur les nerfs qui se sentaient une guerre Franco-Prussienne et commençaient à périr dès le début ainsi le passé d'une détaille urbaine voyageait comme le culte d'une cargaison les Sioux donnèrent nos jeunes américains qui rêvent d'un dernier bastion (from Eric Mottram. the he expression. London: Aloes Books,1973, p.49) (c) T. Wignesan, Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's Twentythird Legal by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's Twentythird Legal by T. Wignesan Le vingt-troisième légal pendant la guerre le peuple devient obéissent de nouveau plein du respect (et) de la confiance les enfants naïfs dans la foi la gouvernance nécessaire la responsabilité perdue des serviteurs loyaux des castrés adults la gouvernance appropriée dans leurs esprits c'est l'urgence Ils se sentent bien obligés à la ration bien dans le manquement bien d'être restreint l'anxiété permanente reconnaissants pour le chocolat addictif nous n'avons pas besoin d'une guerre pour l'instant uniquement des structures favorisant la mort une gouvernance parfaite qu'ils posent des questions inattendues alors nous pouvons continuer à vivre (from The Legal Poems. Colne: Arrowspire Press,1986, p.19) Excerpt from a review of EM's Selected Poems.1989 by Simon Smith in " fragmente', Issue One, Spring 1990, Ed. Andrew Lawson and Anthony Mellors at Oxford, p.39: " …The police state enters these poems with great frequency, and its shadow becomes darker in later works like Interrogation Rooms and The Legal Poems. The oppression is seen as global not local. (…) The way we are pinned into responses and grindingly intolerable lives, Mottram reveals in chilling fashion with the " Twentythird Legal Poem" … (…) This is Mottram's bleak assessment of the situation facing us in Thatcherite Britain: his poetry is about the use and abuse of this kind of power. As he points out in " Elegy 4" : " politics came throgh (sic) poets/ poet-statesmen the rule" (24) . But the power networks have changed since Wyatt's time (a writer Mottram particularly admires) . The poet is no longer one of Shelley's legislators; our poets are simply the most articulate of the dispossessed. This Selected (Poems) faces up to this readjustment in a way few others have dared." Excerpts from Eric Mottram's letters from America during 1965-66 (continued) : August 10,1966: «Dear Wignesan, I'm so sorry I put you to writing to enquire about the safety of your Burroughs bundle: everything arrived safely forwarded from New York Univ. while I was up in Buffalo. I just could not find the time towards the end of my time there for anything except teaching my two graduate courses and grading the hefty papers. Up there I found three editors who want the article [actually the first part of William Burroughs: The Algebra of Need. London: Marion Boyars,1977,282pp.]: to appear in Audit, Salmagundi and as a separate thing. Your work in getting hold of it and the letters must have been irritating and I sincerely thank you for it all. One thing: I did send the Reich - did you get it? Since you don't say, I gather not: that's worrying because you know how They are about Reich. Incidentally, Brown has a second book out at last - Love's Body -not quite the brilliance of Life Against Death but pretty good and an original form. Otherwise I am hung up totally reading and thinking about Olson, as a result of hearing tapes of his discourses and seeing lecture notes of his seminars at Buffalo. Quite apart from my steady admiration for him as poet and Black Mountain organizer. (Incidentally I owe you one pound one and six for the postage - shall I pay you by check now or when I arrive?) Under the pressure of my courses up there, I felt energized and tackled a number of other projects in a way which astonished me - all sorts of things loose in my mind started to come through connected. Partly the decent conditions, the sunshine, the airconditioned office, and the excellent company recruited for the summer session - Fiedler, Barth, Richard Stern, Mudrick, Clive Hart, Arnold Stein, Basil Bunting, Tony Connor - etc - and Me. - it added up to work done and feelings used. Not one bad dream. [...11 lines suppressed] Olson is not a Negro - why did you think he was I wonder? : interesting. You are right about my position in London and the betrayals of everything you and I stand for: latest is M.L.Rosenthal's piece on Ginsberg - after years of talking to him about Allen and hearing my lecture on him at Kilve, he comes out with this classic shit in the NY Times Book Review. But I now have three of my best students teaching in universities in England - some hope and happiness here. And let me say, everywhere I have taught and seminared and lectured here, the response has been great, and the jobs offered very heartening. Especially at Buffalo. [... 10 lines suppressed] I shall not write again from here - I have three weeks to do everything in. So I am telling everyone no more letters from this end -unless imperative. I have unfinished business from Buffalo to get down to while the whole thing is fermenting, and a number of pieces to complete here. Whether I'll get to San Francisco as planned I doubt - not only the plane strike but sheer weight of things. I earned the money for the trip, so that's ok. On[e] thing I would like to do is to go and see Olson at Gloucester at the end of the month. Feel I need it. So that's it. Let me know if there is anything urgent at all, nevertheless. Otherwise we'll get things out in September - sailing the seventh. [1 para of 6 lines on my writing lobbed off] Yours sincerely, Eric.» [From c/o Wilentz,17 West 8th Street, New York 10003. Letter addressed to Room 3,7, Buckland Crescent, Swiss Cottage, N.W.3] (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's 1922 Section 1 in Earth Raids 1976 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's 1922 Section 1 by T. Wignesan for David Attoe Notre devise pourrait être: ‘que nous nous ne soyons pas envoûtés' Wittgenstein in Zettel laissez pendre la graisse sans cou où la tête flotte sur les épaules un joyau sacré liaison contre la chair nouvelle nom nom appelez le nom la marque du nom l'impression de l'ange emmène la loi emporte le soleil nom de la lune le mangé la cuillère le nom nom de merde baignoire lit pot (le pot du lit) le mal le bien le silence à plat sur votre dos le nom joyau s'appuie sur le muscle n'importe quel bébé doux il arrive en volant du plaisir übersichtlich* l'habilité d'un aigle haut à l'intérieur s'intègre l'oeil la touchée et la tête lignes un champ de passage facile l'un vers l'autre ange au pays cartographié ainsi le joyau règle les rêves décline tombe donnant de noms aux animaux donnant de noms aux poupées le sobriquet le vieux Nick * EM notes in " Resources" : Wittgenstein's ‘descriptive word for an arrangement of factual material for easy passage from one part to another'. * May 23,1966: «Dear Wignesan, All right, I know I am a poor letter man but really I have [been] so occupied with travelling around and lecturing lately. [...5 lines suppressed] By the way, speaking of the Enemy, you could do me a favour: could you collect that damn Burroughs article from Peace News for me? I still haven't heard a single bloody word from that ‘f-----g' McGrath: when I get back, that man is going to suffer if it's the last thing I do. He's not worth the full word. The interview I did from New York was with the editor of the Realist, Paul Krassner - a fine satirical man who puts the wind up every fool within earshot. I admire him completely. Do you know the magazine? You used to be able to get it at Better Books, but now I gather all is changed and no terrible beauty born with it. Except that Miles fellow who had the gall to say in the East Village Other that London had no regular poetry readings last year which paid the poets - the bastard never turned up to a single one of the things Bill Butler and I put on at ICA.... So much for his oh so touted interest in literature, the sod. My next Negro piece will be very different to the last: I want really to examine the business of anti-semitism among Negros, and to look into the blackness business - each number of the Liberator kills my reason. Incidentally, or rather not so, Leroi Jones was finally thrown out of the Black Arts and escaped to a hiding place in Newark - by his own people - and he still does TV shows and radio ones attacking the whiteys, the Jews (I happen to know that he regularly gets money from and cashes his checks with a Jewish friend) , and intelligence. A curious trio, don't you agree? (There is no paperback Shadow and Act yet: if there is one, you will have it, I promise) . (Anything you want otherwise?) As for me, I lecture in universities where I am listened to as I am not in England, let alone London: I could have any number of excellent and richly paid jobs for the asking; my reputation gets better, my work therefore improves because my inferiority feelings diminish with encouragement; I have friends such as I rarely have found in England - people really I can move with; and the thought of coming back to the humiliations of London fills me with apprehension. Recently, I was in Michigan, in Kent (Ohio) , and Bridgeport (Connecticut) - and spent a long weekend on Shelter Island, an idyllic place in the arms of Long Island at the Atlantic end. I saw Plisetskaya dancing with the Bolshoi and felt the radiance that comes of charismatic womanhood and total skill. Now I have to leave my flat because the owner is returning from his travels, so I shall be staying eith [with] Ted Wilentz and his wife until the destiny boat in September but I shall not be there much. I go to Buffalo to do a graduate course on June 25 - unti[l] August 5 - and somehow I have to make Harvard and San Francisco as well. It looks like that boat will be the haven it was last September. I can't rest up, and there it is. But I'm reading a lot and sort of blossoming. [... A whole para: 5 lines left out] Yours ever, Eric.» [From New York University.Letter addressed to 156, Gloucester Place, London N.W.1, but re-directed twice to: 47, Broadhurst Gardens, N.W.6 and 7, Buckland Crescent, N.W.3] (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's 28th Legal: Letter Jan 2,1966 by T Wignesan Eric Mottram on the American literary and cultural scene during 1965-66 while he was the recipient of the American Learned Societies' award for a year. (begun in the last post and to be continued) January 2,1966: Dear Wignesan, [...9 lines suppressed] One thing I can I'm afraid say for certain: it is highly unlikely that Laughlin will do Bunga Emas [An Anthology of Contemporary Malaysian Literature: 1930-1963]: he is blocked with reproducing his past books which turn out to be so excellently judged that reprints are needed. Can I see the Soyinka review? (Much as I hate Peace News's guts at the moment) : contrary to your thought, Tom McGrath did not send a copy, the b---d. He has not replied to my letters either and is hanging on to my Burroughs article when I want it back to try to find a home for it over here. [...4 lines omitted] As for your comment on my own pitiful lack of confidence and hubris, you are not the first to say that, and someone over here said exactly the same thing last week. With which I am tired. But I do see that I am in danger of being left far behind by activating loafers. Your choice of politics or university is so enviable I could weep. It's probably that my birthday, just ‘celebrated' makes life hateful. I must make decisions I can't make about my future career. If only it were as easy as just accepting the jobs offered here. What happens is I don't think about it and go on writing, thinkong[sic], reading, talking to people. The reception of my TLS piece was decent here - even among Negro writers who saw it. Which is a test. The response to the Stand piece on Williams has yet to come although Roy Fisher wrote me nicely about it. Now I have just finished another marathon on Arthur Miller for next year's Stratford Theatre Studies. No more commissions now so I must get on with my books. Only a jazz piece to do, but it's nearly done. You seem to think I lecture etc here - not at all: my fellowship strictly says no lectures except one-shot occasions. So I turn down offers, although I am doing a summer course at Buffalo in July, when my grant technically ends: it's a very lucrative affair and should be interesting working with postgraduates on American nineteenth century writers. I did one lecture recently on Auden as Ang[l]o-American poet for NYU. Mostly I listen to others, which is good for me. Already a third of my visit gone and I have to book my cabin home this week! Good old tempus. But at least the reading for the Negro article - masses of it which did not go into the final thing - will come in useful. I've just read Stepanchev's American Poetry Since 1945 and it is one of the worst books of criticism I have every[sic] read; fortunately it is short or I wouldn't have bothered to finish it. It claims to be a survey and treats the poets like bits of literary history - and even then has nothing on Koch, O'Hara etc and their crowd (a little and useless on John Ashbery) , nothing on McClure, Snyder, Ferlinghetti or Corso or Whalen, and inadequate on Duncan. And Ginsberg treated simply as a ‘popular poet' who sells well for inexplicable reasons. You'd never guess from this book that the poetry scene is rich and wildly varied: I have been to a number of good readings by a variety of poets and the younger men still come on, as Sandburg might say. The avant-garde theatre too: last night I saw a production of Gertrude Stein's Play I Play II Play III and Ruth Krauss's A Beautiful Day - at Judson ‘Poets' Theatre: both were brilliantly done, with a flair and a certain vigour which I liked very much. The Columbia Contemporary Music Group puts on programmes which would make the Third blush for shameful conservatism and the experimental cinema has two regular theatres for its stuff, much of which is admittedly pretty awful but some of which is really new and realized: mostly in the field of combining film with stage and happening ideas. The new Tulane Drama Review will give you an idea. In painting and sculpture, thepop, op and abstract expressionists and hard edgers are still pouring stuff out. Recently, at the Jewish Museum, they had a show of Tinguely's mobile sculptures, and Kenneth Koch put on a play which used them - actors in the production included the painters Jane Freilicher, Larry Rivers, Joe Brainard etc. and the writers John Ashbery and Arnold Weinstein. I was lucky enough to get a seat - the performance was oversold many times. So while establishment poetry, theatre, etc. is as businessman-bound as ever it was here, the new thrives as nowhere else. The trouble is that politically America is imperialistically nineteenth century and socially it lives in the past era of charity. As for the integration of Negros - what a joke! Nothing substantial really has happened at all. And yet jazz is greater than ever: the new names - Shepp, Ayler, Sun Ra, Pharoah Sanders - are unknown in England but soon will be. I heard Mingus the other night and it was just pitiful repetitions of old successes - he seems temporarily to have lost the gift. But at the New School they had the New York Art Quartet in a programme of advanced jazz (tiny audience) which was superb. Incidentally, you would be interested in the Free University over here, set up to counterattack the other universities as a Marxist and progressive evening affair, with lectures on subjects the universities don't make available. There seems to be a strong case for such a thing in London. For instance, who gives a course there on Marxism and Existentialism - and after all it is here that the crucial enabling beliefs and actions lie, it seems to me too. Well, enough. Best wishes for everything. Yours sincerely, Eric» [From Dept. of English, New York University.Letter addressed to 28, Cheniston Gardens, London W.8 and re-directed to 33, Mimosa Street, London S.W.6] (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,1990/2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's Poem 33 in Interrogation Rooms 1980-82 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's Poem 33 in Interrogation Rooms by T. Wignesan 33. on a vu un homme courir/ de la scène de crime un homme est maintenant en train d'aider/ la police avec leurs instruments/ devrais-je dire l'enquête criminelle/ intérrogations/ ceci fait partie d'une vieille bobine un homme en train de prendre la fuite/ de leur scène contribue/ à investir son sang/ après l'assassinat un homme/ courait depuis la vieille scène/ noir Irlandais poilu/ ne tentez pas/ de l'arrêter vous-même/ ceci n'est pas une vraie bobine c'est le déchet/ un morceau d'exposition/ vous payez pour voir la même scène/ de la même série/ ceux qui ne sont pas inclus sont des privilégiés/ l'homme qui coure est un remplaçant nu/ qu'on ramena/ êtes-vous celui qui rentre/ les déchets de n'importe quelle cité/ le Berlin de Grosz se chevauche/ ce que contrôle étroitement les réactions humaines/ mais quand Kokoschka demanda à tout le monde de s'entretuer sur la lande à l'extérieur de Dresde/ Grosz et ses malfrats lui menaçaient de faire pendre sur un lampadaire/ comme la Putain d'Art Kokoschka/ les manteaux-rouges pourchassent dans les comtés/ les nobles déversent/ le sang rouge des animaux/ ceux qui sont habillés en bleu détruisent les justes/ des prêtes prennent la fuite en compagnie des pandas/ à une proie faites collé n'importe quelle crime/ selon les règles des cannibales/ des cartes détaillent des fautes/ mais on réussit à effectuer l'assassinat * Eric Mottram from/on the States as the American Learned Societies Awardee: 1965-66. Excerpts from the correspondence - shorn of personal matter - to T. Wignesan in London. [Note: Eric Mottram was appointed in 1960 lecturer at King's College, University of London; in 1973 Reader, and in 1983 Professor of English and American Literature; Professor Emeritus in 1990.] March 4,1966: «Dear Wignesan, Your peace news piece seems a breakthrough in many ways - style and propositions and at least making it with a magazine again. (Personally, Tom McGrath has my undying hatred for not returning my Burroughs article after repeated letters begging him to: it's a dirty trick, if ever.) Re Ellison, his new essays in Shadow and Act are firstrate and recently he read part of a new novel on telly so he is thriving. It is difficult for him because he is attacked by his own people for not being militant - meaning he doesn't march or physically show his protesting spirit - and he doesn't make speeches or rants about this that and the other latest move on one side or the other. He simply generates intelligence. Liberator meanwhile deifies Malcolm - a long article in the anniversary number messianizing him, and references to He and Him and to ‘Audubon' as if it were Golgotha. They disrecommended the Autobiography because it dwelt too much on his early life, which doesn't actually yield to Christlike images.... The same magazine reflects black nationals' opinion by putting down Leroi Jones as a recently-joined Village intellectual who does not yet speak to Us, the militant Muslim galvanizers of Harlem and other ghetto militants. I had dinner in Harlem with Arna Bontemps, Langston Hughes and the Sth African novelist, Richard Rive (have you read his novel? I'm afraid I hadn't - rather embarrassing) , the other night and regained my nerve a little from my last disastrous visit. But sitting waiting for the party to arrive (I was early) in a black Harlem restaurant is no pleasure, I may say. Rive seems a decent fellow and pretty shrewd about his country - he may be in England shortly - perhaps you could meet him through me (I am not suggesting you actually condescend to use my name.) [...2 lines omitted] I was sorry to hear of the eviction and can only hope the new place is working out. But you as a Negro does not impress me! We are all black, don't forget. My silence, by the way, was that I closed down recently in order to get the damned Pelican out of the way. It had been hanging over my head damoclesianly for two years. But now, after a gruelling period of sweats, it is more or less done and Malcolm Bradbury and I only have the dribs and drabs to think about, borderlines and all that. What a relief. But now I feel freer, with that and the Arthur Miller article for Stratford Studies behind me. I am now working on a BBC thing on McLuhan: and this I want to expand into a critique of him, Kahn, Wiener and Fuller - these men fascinate me, and will make an obverse side for my power thinkings. These latter shape up nicely, thank you. I delivered some to kids at a liberal arts college in Vermont the other day: they really dug what I was saying, really came on with good questions and additions and understood how I must have a subplot (as McLuhan told me) about love and passivity, as power forms. As Allen embraced me through his black hairs last night, I remembered what he teaches and what I have used of his way of life to reconsider values of power. He had just arrived from Kansas and from a long tour lasting since last July, with Peter Orlovsky and the insane brother Julius. He had come to collect the mail from Ted Wilentz's and I was there having dinner. Allen chanted a new song and showed us his bus, with fridge, oven, watertank and all mod cons in which he travels about these days, recording his poems into a maginficant [magnificent? ] taperecorder - he'd just made one as he came into the city and now played it back to us: a magnificent improvisatory ode. The scene will now begin in earnest, I'm assured. Vermont I also enjoyed for the huge mountains and snows. The wilderness gave me antihuman feeling I had only once had before: in the jungles of central Malaya. Which reminds me: I see from the New Statesman that Evans is leaving his chair at Kuala Lumpur - did you know where he is going now? I'd be most intrigued to know if he's at last leaving that country. Well, the rest is that it is March and I have just committed myself to the Queen Mary for September and the homeward voyage. It's hardly credible that over five months of my time has rushed away. It seems yesterday I arrived in those ghastly tropical heats of September 1965, and today it is misty and springlike. Which means summer is nearing. I have worked all winter and now I want to get out into the country a little before I go up to Buffalo in July. All the best: I look forward to hearing from you. Eric» [From New York University. Letter addressed to 33, Mimosa Street, S.W.6 and re-directed to 156, Gloucester Place, N.W.1] (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's TWENTYEIGHTH LEGAL by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's TWENTYEIGHTH LEGAL (Part One) by T. Wignesan N.B. If any one is interested in reading the continuation of the extracts of letters that Eric Mottram wrote from America during 1965-66 to me, please read them at POEMHUNTER.COM. For some reason, I am no more able or " permitted" to post them on POETRYSOUP. September 27,2017. Extract of Eric Mottram's essay on poetics: " I listen to a great deal of music of all kinds, play the piano and look at a good deal of television and films - and now have a rather large video collection. (Jeff Nuttall, the extraordinary British genius - poet, painter, ceramicist, novelist, performance artist, jazz trumpet player - was kind enough after a poetry reading to say that the rhythms and cadences in my work could only come from someone who paid attention to jazz.) Poetics are how experiences and decisions play into your life such that you still need to find words and put them in a controlled space - place speech in other time - and order them into the curious difference of silent steadiness in poetry. How to keep risks so that they have to be read as risks. How to keep language inventive, risky, invented, urgent. How to re-read Marvell year in and year out without envy or imitation or grief. Between 1961 and 1989, I have published scores of writings on poets I admire, in order to try to understand something of their excellence - among them Walt Whitman, Basil Bunting, Pound, Charles Olson, Robert Duncan, Paul Blackburn, Allen Ginsberg, Agnes Nemes Nagy, William Carlos Williams, Roy Fisher, Bob Cobbing, George Open, Jackson MacLow, Jerome Rothenberg, Barry MacSweeney, John Ashberry. This body of writing is probably as near as I have reached a poetics. Such continuing appreciations keep you in transition about poetry and your own poems. And there have been one or two statements about my work from people whose judgment I accept completely - even if I disagree a little! And still being able to read to an audience now and then. But the happiness is mainly in the creative act and in other people's creations. But these days, Conrad's words are certainly primary: ‘The postulate was, that there is a group alive, clustered on his threshold to watch the last flicker of light on a black sky, to hear the last word uttered in the stilled workshop of the earth.' " Vingt-Huitième Legal la civilisation est surtout l'histoire des armes la poudre à canon l'alliée du bourgeois comme l'étrier et l'harnais renforcent le pouvoir des barons de l'Orient quelles armes donnent à nous sans pouvoir ce pouvoir furtif de viser fusil bombe de la cuisine une flèche empoisonnée baise l'anneau du Pape Borgia acte facile pour la faiblesse de notre démocratie ondes de radio courtes un chiffon de kérosène contre une époque horriblement stable comme les empires d'esclavage d'antiquité inventaient-ils le pêché pour implémenter la domination dans une large mesure quand avez vous compris ça (Notes-Resources: quotations from George Orwell: " civilisation is largely the history of weapons" ; Ezra Pound: " an epoch as horribly stable as the slave empires of antiquity" - from The Legal Poems,1986) Pub. in The Journal of Comparative Poletics, Vol. I, n°1 (Paris) , Ed. T. Wignesan, pp.55-56. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,1990/2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's Courbet: Elegy 8 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's Courbet: Elegy 8 by T. Wignesan Blanches oeuvres ouvertes résident dans les jours la surface du banc de travail est noire les géraniums-lierres les fougères et les adragans accumulent leurs oeuvres et jours: La toile noire de Courbet un endroit où la lumière puisse-être enfoncée avec un couteau pour créer une crête cassée figée la crête s'alourdie: la nature sans soleil est aussi sombre et noire: Je fais comme la lumière - Illumine les endroits qui projette en toute connaissance de la tradition découvrir une raisonnée et indépendante conscience de ma propre individualité Je place un vase blanc sur une toile blanche toutes les difficultés blanc sur blanc et à la cinquantième fois Je l'ai eu regardes l'ombre sur la neige comme elle est bleue Je vois trop clairement Je dois éteindre mes yeux en ce siècle socialiste les hommes voient sans apercevoir leurs esprits occupés de commerce vos mères ne vous cachaient pas sous la maison à l'abri des soldats des cochons essayèrent de dévorer l'art démocratique il les dévorera en dépit des renégats des troupeaux déments afin que les muscles forcent la colonne vertébrale courber l'esprit peinant glaner des écritures adroites devant des niveaux de l'horizon (from A Faithful Private,1976, includes " Statements by the artist on his work." This poem became Elegy 30 of ELEGIES,1981) Pub. in The Journal of Comparative Poletics, Vol. I, n° 1 (Paris) , p.55. Edited by T. Wignesan Note: In this and successive posts, I shall include extracts from Eric Mottram's letters to me during 1965-66 when he was the invitee of the American Council of Learned Societies, for his perceptions and comments on the American literary and cultural scene reveal nooks and corners of his own make-up and make for much intelligent perspectivising of the " outre-Atlantic'. The fact that some comments refer to our own relationship cannot be helped - I cannot defer to some detractors " outre-Channel'. Eric had urged me to publish all our correspondence during his last two visits to Paris, but literary publishing being what it is and has been in the hands of a favoured few, I have no choice but to… October 31,1965: «Dear Wignesan, [...12 lines suppressed] I look forward to your NLR rebuttal but I have to admit I didn't see the cause: must have missed it among all the other magazines piled up and left behind unread. I think of the empty base [15, Vicarage Gate, London W.8] basement and [sic] few regrets, except that I miss all my friends, students, even you, quite a lot, even though the combination of university people and local writers here is beginning to surge in on me. The main problem is to take it easy. I do not have lectures to give, so that is fine, but leisure is a curious burden at first: the routine has to be worked out again based on learning how to sit in the square in the sun, take in a movie without guilt in the afternoon, or go to an exhibition, or read something not remotely connected with any work in hand. And not to have the near future mapped out ready to move into. Choice is strange when you are not used to it so totally. So I too - and not because of your absence - am beginning to write poems again, weird things but decently done. Perhaps I'm no scholar after all - long suspected, and on good evidence. I am still working on the Negro piece; masses of materials only part of which will go into the TLS article - the rest will be ready for anything further, apart from sheer interest of the thing. My Tribune article attacking American assumed innocences appeared and they liked it. Future thing on Frost in Spectator, etc. etc. But once this is through I'm not going to bother about writing these bits for a while. There's only one book I feel like recommending you, and that is not yet out in England - Ralph Ellison's Shadow and Act, a highly literate and penetrating collection of essays by the author of Invisible Man (you've read this novel? Penguin if not - it's tremendous and no Negro novel has approached it yet, although Leroi Jones's new The System of Dante's Hell is interesting in another way. Most of the stuff I've been going through has been sociologically fascinating but artistically humdrum to downright bad. Kitschy stuff for the market only. Watch out for Selby's Last Exit to Brooklyn (and my broadcast with him) - it is mostly brilliant if entirely disturbing. Calder have asked me to defend it if necessary, since they apparently anticipate a court case. It does deal with violence and brutal sexuality but with a cool analytical sympathy which is new and necessary. What else.... Oh yes: a good film called To Die in Madrid, compiled from the newreels[sic] etc. of the Spanish Civil war: the feeling I had of the futility of ideological warfare but its necessity was painful. Members of the audience openly cheered the Franco-RC priests combinations and there were one or two counter cheers but no fight. The film is generally too subduing. And the present context - the NY elections and the anti-war demonstrations too clearly part of a similar process of authoritarian government, backed by an ignorant and brutalized populace. Incidentally, films here are a superb opportunity - this week, for instance, one nearby cinema is showing in one programme three major Renoir films. Double bills of important films are a commonplace. Slowly I'm catching up on what I have missed. Have I been living wrongly these past ten years, all bound up in work rut and imaginary self-importance? Certainly, shifting here is perspectivizing. Write more of you[r] good news. When you have a moment's pause for breath. Yours, Eric.» [ From Department of English, New York University, Washington Square, New York, New York 10003. Letter addressed to 28, Cheniston Gardens, London W.8 and redirected to c/o Howard Hotel, Friargate, Derby] The Elysian Baby Feels Lament The Elysian Baby Feels Lament… for Katy Perry……with manifold marigold " feels" she lifts her sepals to show me her carpels all this has got me into her megasporophylls this oeils de chat mantis in her deep yellow marigold mantilla preying on my mania praying has lasso-ed me with her svelte carnation venison chops " chop chop …hey…do you mind if I steal a ki….." " i know you ain't afraid to pop pills…" what she saying….. " ride drop top and chase thrills" Hey… do you mind Invitation to pop pills or chase thrills anyway how d'you ride and drop on a spinning top when with her left hand she lifts the bed of ripe yellow mantilla mattress to reveal her thighs in caress flaxen hair streaming down her battering eye-lashes head in the crook of her elbow pillow maybe Je n'ai pas les yeux en face des trous* her svelte venison chops make oeillades** at me won't somebody tell me if there's some way one can get at her feels sideways broadways overways " don't be afraid to catch feels" what's that she makes des yeux de velours° at me my eye i haven't got them fixed in front of holes God. It's eight already i've got to take my pills got them in the tills chop chop oh! thrills put her down in my bills gills and frills won't somebody tell me what she feels is she afraid of drills in her gills know you're not afraid of spills e'en if I put you on grills not on me wills feels with me reels me in mills i know i'm not afraid to chase pills fills with me in mills i know you're not afraid of drills in your feels e'en gllls spills with me i know you're not afraid of meals e'en if it chills frills mills with me pills in mills grills me thrills in her gills spills with me in her frills i know i'm not afraid of feels in her bills Oh! For an ounce of sleep I'd give up my meals What wouldn't I give To reel in her megasporophylls ….if she feels with me (TONGUE-IN-CHEEK, of course) *in French meaning: I'm half asleep or I'm not thinking straight (but literally means: " I haven't got my eyes right in front of holes! " ;) ** in French: " faire des oeillades à quelqu'un" = wink or make eyes at somebody °In French: " faire des yeux de velours à quelqu'un" means " to make sheep's eyes at somebody" (" velour" here meaning " velvet" ;) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's Fortieth Legal by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's " Fortieth Legal" by T. Wignesan (From: The Legal Poems. Colne: Pub. by Robert Bank at the Arrowspire Press, 1985,39p. Here's an extract from the blurb by Allen Fisher, dated December 1985: " They record a cultural malaise where unjust, intolerant and exploitative power confronts the confidence of each personal movement. In this effort to stave off entropy, Mottram energises his scholarship into poetry through a constructed presentation that risks the frailty from its own breaking. Building and breaking paradigms become essential qualities to this art, and it is here, in the processes of uncompetitive action without interest in games, that his creative play reveals the ordering he presents for the reader to produce." ;) Gatsby convertit à la poussière infecte laquelle lui tourmenta dans un rêve éveillé les yeux braquaient loins des tristesses accablantes la joie qui ne perdure que peu du temps sur la lumière verte du sexe au musoir des voiliers des voitures garées partout dans l'allée stocké dans la bibliothèque le barzoï néfaste* les coureurs plus rapides les amants plus accomplis un ciel de satellites une vie un processus au délabrement la rue-légale ne vous efforcez pas de vous comporter bien juste normalement adorez quelques martyrs massacrez les autres autant que vous pouviez regardez en haut toujours vers le haut de l'espace dense une espace où les géants peuvent balader au-dessus de l'institution totale ils font du théâtre en eux-mêmes (* this line could also be interpreted as: dans la bibliothèque la saleté de barzoï) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's HOMAGE TO PAUL ELUARD by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's HOMAGE TO PAUL ELUARD by T. Wignesan (Note: Here, I retain EM's translations into English from Paul Eluard's poems and his source language quotations from " this vital spirits…" onwards, for, according to EM, ‘they are taken from an early draft of Wordsworth's The EXCURSION and from The PRELUDE BOOK 2'.) " the last bud of the future" " both faces of the wall come meeting " " plunderer of thinkers ghosts master builders" " laugh and dream among the flames among sun clusters" " we who are helmeted booted gloved" entrainés à l'agence sombre battant massacre réduits au silence qu'est-ce qu'il y a qui peut monter ouvrir les voûtes du soleil laisse partir la danse de leur création fraîche pas ce qui est de la mode contre les meurtres religieux insoutenables dans l'illégitimité historique pour les mullahs les pères les mitres contre le désir pour les mains balafrés les rotules écrasés les tympans éclatés par les méthodes techniques qui donnent des coups de pieds sur la tête et la cheville une personne allongée pour être enroulée dans des journaux cellophane édredon pour être balancés dans n'importe quelle rue pouvons nous nous voir un et l'autre qu'à travers la détresse en parlant par le truchement des principes la colère la clarté dissoute la force du futur contre les mangeurs des journaux l'alimentation pour la pervision (sic) rouillée érigée comme la justice les rats se multiplient dans des bateaux coulés les nouvelles des missiles de moyenne-portée dans leurs crânes au goût sucré les trous de bouches remplies de poussière fraîche alors " this vital spirit in its essence free As the light of heaven, this mind that streams With emanations like the blessed sun" au-delà " the close prison-house of human laws" ici " the sands of Westmoreland" " a stranger" " my eye moved o'er the long leagues Of shining water, as it seemed Through the wide surface of that field of light New pleasure, like a bee among the flowers" du besoin d'être reconnu enfin ce poète entre dans la résistance " Society made sweet as solitude By silent unobtrusive sympathies And gentle agitations of the mind From manifold distinctions…" " the spontaneous soul must extricate itself from the meshes of almost automatic white octopus of humanity… not waste itself in revenge the revenge is inevitable enough, for each denial of the spontaneous dark soul creates the reflex of its own revenge" (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limericks crocheted: Once a bitter literary critic Limericks crochetés: Once a bitter literary critic Once a bitter literary critic Tore to bits his own manuscript thick When asked politely why He cursed and swore most high His fans believed it to be some trick For many a year he reigned tyrant And column in weekly turned virulent Books by millions sold His pages manifold One talked of him at every event At parties talk-shows subways cocktails All broke silences with pent-up wails What could be the matter What brought on the chatter What caused the paper to soar in sales? * *I would like to know. Thanks. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: Autobiography to September 1989- III by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO SEPTEMBER 1989 - III by T. Wignesan (This poem is from the collection, ESTUARIES: Poems 1989-91. Twickenham: Solaris,1992,62p. Pub. by Yasmin and Peterjon Skelt. Back cover photo by David McIntosh, " my sister's son" - Eric makes this a point of emphasis in his own hand on the fly page, for in his own words he was very close to his nephew in his later days. As the poem extends over four pages, I have divided it - for convenience sake - into three arbitrary parts. Just for the anecdote, Eric underwent severe memory erasures during a traumatic event in the seventies, and he had no clue as to who I was after a lapse of 22 years when we met up again in 1989. See extracts of his letters to me during the period 1957-61 in the festschrift: Eric Mottram at 70, pub. by Y. & P. Skelt.) * mes semblables et peut être également les vôtres aussi font semblant ce que les autres personnes moins passionnées se sentent mais n'expriment pas instinctivement rebellant contre un fait de notre société et de notre temps le manquement de l'alignement entre un monde immense de l'intérieur et d'un autre qui ne soit pas encore été légalisé ou officiellement reconnu les formes qui peuvent tolérer la crue des communications provenant de l'esprit à la scène d'action de telles actes d'expression sont sévi par le sang avant qu'elles puissent être tolérées et être comprissent par les psychiatres sociologues l'appareil judiciaire la police (et) tout autres formes de la force sociale * l'émergence d'une démocratie émotionnellement meurtrière dérangeaient les vieilles catégories * risquer tout en s'alignant à un point de vue qui le conduira dans un conflit avec les plus normales (partagée par la majorité) émotions humaines au milieu d'une société de masse? * nous pouvons changer les définitions sur la réalité lesquelles sont déjà peu soutenables perdant leurs prises sur l'imagination conceptuelle * la peur et même la pensée en vigueur de ce qu'on majoritairement appela l'insanité c'est presque une nécessité émotionnelle pour chaque sensible être réagissant comme un humain entier de l'être humain en l'Amérique et qu'elle sortes du feu à un point où d'autres mots que les conceptions différentes soient crées là où se trouvent les plaies (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: Autobiography to September 1989- II by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO SEPTEMBER 1989 - II by T. Wignesan (This poem is from the collection, ESTUARIES: Poems 1989-91. Twickenham: Solaris,1992,62p. Pub. by Yasmin and Peterjon Skelt. Back cover photo by David McIntosh, " my sister's son" - Eric makes this a point of emphasis in his own hand on the fly page, for in his own words he was very close to his nephew in his later days. As the poem extends over four pages, I have divided it - for convenience sake - into three arbitrary parts. Just for the anecdote, Eric underwent severe memory erasures during a traumatic event in the seventies, and he had no clue as to who I was after a lapse of 22 years when we met up again in 1989. See extracts of his letters to me during the period 1957-61 in the festschrift: Eric Mottram at 70, pub. by Y. & P. Skelt.) * je suis devenu un intellectuel du temps contemporaine senti que j'ai été l'incarnation vivante du dieu-écrivain moderne l'homme omniscient héritier de tous les âges d'histoire le véritable roi du présent je devais défricher mon chemin en criant jusqu'au sommet inévitable de tous les doutes qui me torturaient la confusion régressive l'incarceration fantastique j'ai vomi chaque morceau non digéré de ma psyché violemment bataillé pour atteindre ma chair crue à travers la trajectoire hurlante de la fusée qu'on appelle l'insanité * nous devenons ce que nous admirons une bazaar intellectuelle hautaine et contente de soi-même ne vous dérangez pas de se lever je peux trouver la sortie moi-même j'y vais * quand j'avais trente-trois ans des tensions dans mon être s'éclatées j'ai couru pieds nus dans les rues je me suis adressé à Dieu pour atteindre mes propres visées humaines compréhensibles je fus finalement cerné au quatorzième étage de l'hôtel St. Regis par deux de mes amis effrayés et un autre frère et par le biais des menottes que deux bobbies* avec sérieux et avec humour ont attaché sur mes poignées on m'emmena à une académie privée de rire en Westchester traitement de choc par l'insuline après une période de neuf ou dix semaines moi aussi fut libéré humilié humble prêt de vouloir rester debout devant la classe pour répéter le code de classe moyenne de ne pas dire trop le sens du dollar afin d'obtenir ma libération * complètement secoué tout seul puis trop paralysé par des drogues pour bouger je fus une fois de plus emmené à faire le longue voyage un homme-garçon tourmenté le choc électrique matraquait mon cerveau jusqu'au hébétement inutile je marchais bon gré mal gré pour être exécuté à plusieurs reprises j'avais été " détruit par la folie" Monsieur Ginsberg l'acte d'incarcération m'a fait comprendre à quel point la liberté individuelle est importante * (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: Autobiography to September 1989- I by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's KRIM: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO SEPTEMBER 1989 - I by T. Wignesan (This poem is from the collection, ESTUARIES: Poems 1989-91. Twickenham: Solaris,1992,62p. Pub. by Yasmin and Peterjon Skelt. Back cover photo by David McIntosh, " my sister's son" - Eric makes this a point of emphasis in his own hand on the fly page, for in his own words he was very close to his nephew in his later days. As the poem extends over four pages, I have divided it - for convenience sake - into three arbitrary parts. Just for the anecdote, Eric underwent severe memory erasures during a traumatic event in the seventies, and he had no clue as to who I was after a lapse of 22 years when we met up again in 1989. See extracts of his letters to me during the period 1957-61 in the festschrift: Eric Mottram at 70, pub. by Y. & P. Skelt.) I Je voyageais à travers les ruelles et des pièges intellectuels de la vie littéraire contemporaine pour arriver où j'aurais dû commencer et ceci en faisant un effort avec chaque gramme de tout ce qu'on possède * cette histoire perverse et d'une grimace de douleur * faisant partie d'une groupe d'esprits hautement intellectuelle mais pas nécessairement artistique qui traverse avec une à peine concevable liberté presque illégale sur le domaine entier de ce qu'on pourrait penser et exprimer * la fantaisie de la grande visée inspirée d'Europe nous motivaient tous grandement dans notre groupe jusqu'aux sommets misérables et au désespoir vide * l'illusion du pouvoir immense et l'omniscience * ayant goûté du sang de la publication je n'y pouvais plus m'arrêter * la très snob et intellectuelle corporation à Nouvelle York qui affectionne d'être sentimentalement éloquent sur des héros d'avant garde après qu'ils soient morts et aide à les paralyser pendant qu'ils étaient en vie à cause de leur charme noire laquelle s'accordaient avec la plus récente et abstraite recette pour évincer leur sens de la profondeur * les écrivains s'efforcent de concurrencer un avec l'autre dans une vision englobante Spendlerienne * mon frère fut interné quand je commençais mes années vingtaines j'ai signé aussi le certificat pour qu'on réalise une lobotomie pré-frontale laquelle s'aboutit en son décès à cause de l'hémorragie sur la table d'opération à l'hôpital de l'Etat de Rockland * (to be continued) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's PEACE PROJECT 9 - le Projet de la paix 9 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's PEACE PROJECT 9 - le Projet de la paix 9 by T. Wignesan …………………..Comme gel sous l'eau noire, sommeil fatale, crapaud. ………..'Sade' - Le Marteau sans Maître - (René) Char la laideur éveillée du sommeil le besoin de brûler le chaume au bûcher funéraire sans utilité et râpé les existences des bannières se livrent à la bataille des fanions d'idées aux côtés des rivières la Danube à Buda l'Hudson sous les Cloisters Canyon de Chelly pictographs brûlent plongent vous apprenez comment nager voilà nagez maintenant dépecez le garçon nu toujours pas pu rencontrer l'esprit couler le contrôle dans le flux prenant ces mouvements des bras deux rives pour aller loins sortant des eaux à quatre pattes des tels gens sur la rive des prairies des prés de pins au sud de Wolf Pass le chasseur d'arôme passez à travers un sol aiguillé tacheté un cerf se levant momentanément après avoir bu l'eau bleu les andouillers d'un chevreuil se levant au ciel azuré le thym la sauge la pente couverte d'herbes dans des courants thermiques ma tête une espace dans l'espace un endroit vide vous ne saurez jamais et ni des chutes d'eau nostalgique une série de gratitudes simplement les vagabonds et des peuples de la mer après leurs écroulement les fous occupant des positions élevées font investir des capitaux où qu'ils veulent avec une élégance discrète faisons ce que nous pouvions de cette horreur faisant partie de tout cela cannibales suicides adorateurs réduit à vide ce rêve du pays sans l'appui mythique face au défi provoqué pas de femme consolant la bavure des hommes l'excrément de l'histoire des mythes nous devrions réveiller créer d'autres voix ou nous devrions nous soumettre " les seules créatures capables de s'améliorer sont mal adaptées à leurs environments" (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's DEER HUNT - la Chasse aux cerfs by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's DEER HUNT - la Chasse aux cerfs by T. Wignesan " La civilisation est une maladie, le barbarisme rejuvenation." Gauguin en pleurant sombre dans leurs sièges une nation se sent se sent purgée la culpabilité avalée avec du popcorn pour la W.-C. leurs guerriers caucasiens camouflées de la droite tuent encore les sous-humains pour l'argent et le peuple aux lèvres des bébés en bavant l'onction des lits de bambou descendent l'histoire cousue dans des livres dans de solide salle humide le nouveau patriotisme pousse des ouïes rougissant de plaisir l'odeur de la suie de cave à leurs hanches tournant les M-16s dévastent les barbares les triomphateurs de la forêt un film pour sauver des forêts contre des forêts détruites pas de cerfs pas d'oiseaux où la surdité des bambous coupes les chansons déformés 2,4,5 - T bébés multiplient en douzaines des orphelins engendrés par des pères soldats chantent ‘ne pleures pas pour des nouveaux nés l'être humain est pour toujours fraiche' le chasseur de cerfs trouve son chemin dans des forêts métalliques le sang sur l'aile de la voiture à New Jersey pour pouvoir s'éloigner des femmes dans des bois afin de se livrer à la conversation vulgaire des gants lourds en caoutchouc écartant avec force la mâchoire en mesurant l'écart des six-points du chevreuil la fumée des fusils et de l'alcool sur l'aire de la forêt des vêtements d'une couleur orange clair dans des lanternes de gasoline ‘mon seconde tir avait presque bousillé son jambe postérieur mais il néanmoins s'est mis débout' des gars ‘assis dans la voiture en mangeant mon déjeuner ce cerf sans peur venait pas à pas jusqu'à nous mais moi sans ambages j'ai sorti et lui ôtais de la vie' l'histoire de la liberté des sangliers sauvages c'est la nôtre si l'on essaie de la trouver dans des forêts des cris qu'on lance dans la forêt la forêt les renvoie dégorges son cri du terreur contre l'écroulant fondements de la loi 1979 (Eric Mottram. A Book of Herne (1975-1981) . Colne: Arrowspire Press,1981, pp. 34-35.) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part 4 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN - Part Four by T. Wignesan 'Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles" . Eric Mottram. December 29,1924 - January 17,1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies) , eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as secondin- command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as ' Lords of the Manor ' on his father's side. His father was a civil servant who worked to put in place Britain's social security system. Once in 1964, Eric showed me - somewhat diffidently - the family's Coat of Arms, saying: ' Do you know what this is? ', and I never (for a while) stopped kidding him about it all. The real reason why he didn't take up the posts offered to him in the States - such as a professorship at Rutgers - was that he was very proud of being ' British '; yet he owed his post at London University to an American: Professor Robert Earnest SPILLER who authored The Literary History of the United States (1948) . The following translation is the fourth part of " Time Sight Unseen" , published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p. 4 les lois tendues vous réalisiez furent enseignées le droit civil à présent reste intense cette machine menti à présent son temps présent entre dans une absence vidée du temps où même vos poux disparaissaient en tombant sans être alimentés Umheimlicher les muscles se lassent réapparaissent maniaque sur des roches la marée mise à nu les colonies renfermées bleu noirci et noir coups de froid coloniaux les mêmes groupes des bernaches moules anémones de mer aspirés aux roches attendent les lois de la lune pour couvrir leurs voies aériennes minces avec l'océan faites sortir la chair en forme de H laissant en dehors sa volonté du physique au mental le vieux ce habitué à c'était habitué à la pensée mais jamais utilisa le mot à l'exception pour j'ai pensé que vous saviez ou je ne jamais pensé que vous voudriez arriva du reste un dealer intéressé maintenant le transformateur s'arrête son affaire devenu loi reste immobile où il oeuvra sans relâche aux intérêts mérités tant qu'ils augmentaient uniquement au plan partiel un portail sans affiches les gardiens dépourvus de la parole tout pareil le langage silencieux lèches bottes dissimulés derrière eux passent par le portail en présentant des documents sans un mot à travers à une main de verre dans du cuir faisant la lecture à travers des verres du soleil l'invisibilité du passeport eux ils ne l'en rendront pas la résidence serait-elle un état si dénudé une fois franchi les frontières sans ces lampes blanches perchées en haut la hutte dans l'ombre regardez fixement en penchant au dessus de la barrière du fil métallique qu'est-ce qu'il y a dans le cartable (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part 3 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part Three by T. Wignesan 'Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles" . Eric Mottram. December 29,1924 - January 17,1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies) , eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as secondin- command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as ' Lords of the Manor ' on his father's side. His father was a civil servant who worked to put in place Britain's social security system. Once in 1964, Eric showed me - somewhat diffidently - the family's Coat of Arms, saying: ' Do you know what this is? ', and I never (for a while) stopped kidding him about it all. The real reason why he didn't take up the posts offered to him in the States - such as a professorship at Rutgers - was that he was very proud of being ' British '; yet he owed his post at London University to an American: Professor Robert Earnest SPILLER who authored The Literary History of the United States (1948) . The following translation is the third part of " Time Sight Unseen" , published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p. 3 un monstre à plat ventre là-bas sous le feu du projecteur-ici il comme c'est aveugle envers mis k.-o. tombe en panne une plaine bosselée pas de rêves visionnaires pour ce mécanisme se roulant plus ou moins est simplement en train de poursuivre ses affaires vous ne vous souviendrai pas de rien pendant trois heures et du quart une conscience alternative ce n'est pas l'équilibre cet état maintenant regardez l'équilibre et déclarez perte du contrôle mais dans quelle mesure étranger à cet endroit appelé théâtre où un autre à peine moi même pas récupérable par la folie puisque j'ai été dérobé vécu ailleurs en marchant maintenant non-sens ce présent non-voulu se pénétrant et devient parmi l'étranger silencieux parmi nos mutuel nos mangeant la grande recette (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part Two by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part Two by T. Wignesan 'Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles" . Eric Mottram. December 29,1924 - January 17,1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies) , eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as secondin- command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as ' Lords of the Manor ' on his father's side. His father was a civil servant who worked to put in place Britain's social security system. Once in 1964, Eric showed me - somewhat diffidently - the family's Coat of Arms, saying: ' Do you know what this is? ', and I never (for a while) stopped kidding him about it all. The real reason why he didn't take up the posts offered to him in the States - such as a professorship at Rutgers - was that he was very proud of being ' British '; yet he owed his post at London University to an American: Professor Robert Earnest SPILLER who authored The Literary History of the United States (1948) . The following translation is the second part of " Time Sight Unseen" , published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p. 2 mais ce nous disons ce rappelez qu'il revient le trouvez réel comme vous dites ce ne soit pas tout à fait ce sans ra. pas d'instants instantané mais il y aura quelques changements autour d'ici se trouvant immobile se couchant dans des endroits à l'intérieur des processus la recette dont nous partageons pour le maintenant renouvelé par le non-visible même s'il n'est pas agréable à voir si l'on a du courage qu'il faut la vue inaperçue c'est un syntagme à apprécier que l'on se prononce complètement dites qu'il soit alors il est là un jaillissement qui provoque l'émerveillement toujours les moyens qu'il utilise pour faire surgir des bonnes pressions inaperçues plus ardemment que de la propulsion de l'eau des causes non-éclaircies les distances connaissables mais toujours merveilleuses le sens complet soumis à l'examen ainsi les temps n'étant pas susceptibles de tomber dans la saleté revient à l'esprit voilà l'engagement l'art éternelle intronisée sur notre rétine voyez à l'extérieur et de la perception le dessin est partagé comme la lumière dérange perturb la donne appelée l'acte de vision pas ce qu'on voit une vision mais l'art l'art d'apercevoir l'oeil est un phénomène le moi est notre l'autre oeil pour regarder nous sommes tous les deux en train de regarder une couleur trembloter dans un tableau rectangulaire de laquelle elle surgisse en dehors envers tâchez de la retenir maintenant au fur et à mesure de l'intérieur " pour combien de temps un oiseau peut chanter aussi longtemps qu'il connaisse sa chanson je veux te le dire qu'un imbécile peut se tromper" (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part 1 by T Wignesan Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part One by T. Wignesan 'Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles" . Eric Mottram. December 29,1924 - January 17,1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies) , eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as secondin- command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as ' Lords of the Manor ' on his father's side. His father was a civil servant who worked to put in place Britain's social security system. Once in 1964, Eric showed me - somewhat diffidently - the family's Coat of Arms, saying: ' Do you know what this is? ', and I never (for a while) stopped kidding him about it all. The real reason why he didn't take up the posts offered to him in the States - such as a professorship at Rutgers - was that he was very proud of being ' British '; yet he owed his post at London University to an American: Professor Robert Earnest SPILLER who authored The Literary History of the United States (1948) . The following translation is the first part of " Time Sight Unseen" , published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p. I là dedans regardez là dedans ils ont les leurs ce que ne pouvait pas être vu la pensée dégoutante une fois enfin et dans l'événement regardez son temps ils confèrent l'objet sur mon le mien a été exploité en rappelant ceux qu'on ne peut pas voir ceux rattachés au temps et à la cage thoracique ainsi ses mains soulevées leurs vies toujours vibrantes saisissaient du temps de l'intérieur la seule chronologie du temps de sang sujet chronique la fondation saisie le temps de l'intérieur étant à vous et à moi sans cadran qui voyait la cage courbé écarté pour atteindre le passage sans faire un numéro les mains là dans le non-vu comme un entraineur propriétaire calme vidé assommé pour nous de notre pour garder l'unique temps à l'intérieur chassé pour quand les organs à l'extérieur voient l'extérieur une fois de plus le vrai temps dévidait puis s'enroulait pendant un certain temps n'étant pas réel encore l'extérieur n'est pas visible de nouveau après l'intrusion dans le seul sacré les rouges sacs du temps là-bas ramenés et remis dans l'esprit rappelés à l'esprit pour se soucier de votre temps pourrait être filmé et vu de façon non-réel le temps réel les images chaque seconde sous la rétine trembloté déjà vu auparavant comme la fin du réel un passé dans la bobine avec des agents de conservations dès ce moment où ce que s'éclata l'amour les poèmes d'amour les éclatements de peur les découverts depuis des sacs du temps des pulsations et ce que s'était passé se déroule le grand secret répété devant nous la machine déclencha ces moments à nouveau les vraies scènes les moments intimes mutuels. tout ce que vous pouvez (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 The Sixty-Four Rulers of the Yi Jing The Sixty-Four Rulers of the Yi Jing When chieftains uncrowned yearn to be enthroned They either give their daughters to princes Or invite other chieftains and have them poisoned Some choose the war-path without hindrances And lose their lives wives their land masses In days of yore we call smirk as dark ages Today's chieftains also own land masses Stars with stripes pedigree business managers Lawmen who make millions helped by judges Generals in command of battalions Through coup d'Etat fulfil ill-nursed grudges All scions sired by pur sang stallions Who won elections with money from banks Or the pennies dropped by party members All paths leaders take to the top while thanks They give not to those who toiled to hoist masters What may the difference be with then and now One man still decides the fate of one's country No man can encompass all the know-how Any man can lose cool and berserk thrash free When the going gets tough under pressure When vested interests pull tout azimuth Is divine right a blessing rained down treasure Or the servile mind's habit of staying put If sixty-four wise men ran a country According to the dictates of the Yi Jing The world will neither know war nor treaty The future will be assured for every being (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 DIARY NOTES: Lamentable laissez-faire Diary Notes: Lamentable laissez-faire …the lêche cul is back every cell of her a seething surging cesspool of putrid suck the darling of the Prusso-Lepeniste muck: all degenerate foul-mouthed mean-minded sick: " I'll grab his private parts thus ———> " her scabrous claw relishing the plucking thrust the latter-day Jeanne d'Arc of the revived Napoleonic Kingdom she's back the neurotic blot on the wailing phoney socialist rocambolesque reverie not even the sparrows hug the hedges now and no birds would sing in this worsted plain Harvey spoils the eclipsed arc the path of Yin is now well marked all celebrating victories before they are won the people the poor the duped left to their wits in sewage pools eddying hopes slipping through dams and dykes the people the poor people always pay for the folly of hoisting fanfaron Pharoahs up above pyramid pinnacles on palanquins Yes, according to the very reverend Swift raiser of the race of Master Horses the world west of the Silk Road now is divided into Yahoos and the Netan-Yahoos the jackboot now at last fits the untrodden masters like a second moulted skin Brexit isles moored and annexed to the new-found Land She's back the lêche cul with her witches' brooms and mops and pails littered under the portico le portable stuck to her ear proclaiming her arrival yet none gave her a long-awaited send-off spying from a distance " Let's study the way he slips in and slips out of his cubicle door! " this time from behind the kinder garten glass doors all for the free masonic fortress under foreign fiefdom sun-burnt flesh reeks through the Mall smacks of steak: raw or well-singed the reek of rutting limbs is everywhere loud in queues at milling supermarkets at bus-stops at postal bank self-service guichets come September the unheeding dance and rejoice October and their hinds begin to ache November when the bruises bulges pulled muscles broken promises make no bones of their State the poor always pay for the mistakes and crimes of their masters the moment of truth when thunder is stentorian not a rumble on rails nor a lone drone drawn out streak high in the sky heading for wind-swept isles the hour of reckoning must be at hand " I'll grab his balls all in one hand: See, what can he do? See! " says she the lêche cul This's as far as the State can grasp reduced to pilfering reduced to a kind of stunted growth the psyche stuck in a gluey paste holding hands pressing pumping palms waltzing on the Champs Elysée lisping careless whispers: " I'm never gonna dance again… Guilty feet got no rhythm… The way I danced with you oh oh… So wrong that you had to leave me alone! " Let's plunder the proof he has Then we can all kick his ass (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE If you pull a long face Just because you had a bad day That's alright you won't lose face Everyone's beset some hapless day If you pull a long face Day by day come what may Better know it's really out-of-place To pull a long face in every way Yet if you pull a long face All your livelong dark day You had better make an about-face Or you'd end up in a fray If you pull a long face ‘Cause none with you will play Then you have lost your birth-place You'll not save face even if you pray So if you pull a long face No matter what or who comes your way Give a damn who looks you in the face Then you're made of sterner stuff, not clay (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Communication - Fornication - Comm-U-For-Nication Communication + Fornication = comm-u-for-nication kettle cattle little cat call cat call kitten casse role roll kit ten role call lit till kit ten call cat till cat -tle call kettle call casse role roll call kit ten cat till kettle call kitten back cat till casse roll kit ten cattle kettle call BLACK et ainsi de suite… (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limericks de-crochetes: Is not shame self-humiliation Limericks dé-crochetés: Is not shame self-humiliation Is not shame self-humiliation To be thought of with condescension All men know some disgrace Except those without grace Dignity's the art of pretension The man who fears not leaving this world E'en without heir his name can fame mould Knows no shame brought by birth All's forgiven in mirth Though what lies ahead mayn't rightly be told Memory's a wild accusing thing It best serves those who here nothing bring Nothing take on way out Nothing leave to shout ‘bout What one forgets might well be no-thing Think of all the pain one puts up with Just for the sake of the ego myth To be thought of well - swell Hail fellow well met - hell! Who e'er lived to de-mystify death Shame's the pain we face in hour of need Stand alone you'll likely go to seed Join the crowd to feel proud The name well-clothed in shroud All the shame humiliation must feed End of day finds us shoring up shame Orchestrated scenes of death-bed fame Funerals in black staid Write-ups by friends well-paid All to keep shame hidden in the name (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limerick crochetes: Once cheerful Alzheimer motorist Limerick crochetés: Once cheerful Alzheimer motorist Once cheerful Alzheimer motorist Drove stolen car on a real tight fist Drank oil at petrol pump Bought used golf balls from Trump Got called to White House as Chief Theorist First advice he forgot to give Chief " Show House anagram on handkerchief! " Got kicked upstairs to roof To count suns water-proof Saw shooting stars making much mischief Forgot to keep his mouth right tight shut Five gallons of oil came rushing out All West Wing caught fire Also Code Nuclear Kim Jong Un lit cigars in a fit! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 DIARY NOTES: Lament at Dawn Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn …at the heart of the township ten-ton buses throb empty their drivers slumped in the heat behind their steering wheels listening to their favourite stations hot full of drowsy hissed talk on the pregnancy of stars at junctions overhead drives bridges roundabouts crossroads you see mothers with shopping bags dragging woeful tearful toddlers waiting at traffic lights where no traffic waits the air disgorges itself of fumes and no birds would sing to a deserted plain at the academy building where garden warblers vied with larks aspiring choruses at street operas only the abandoned rickety scaffolding drip with stale paint the Great tit so insistent in her quest driven with late June cracker blasts at midnight has joined some vagrant migrant lot to the Mediterranean mists only stray magpies quarrel in undertones swearing cursing scrapping the mind pigeons and turtle doves forage along pathways mocking foot-falling steps the route round the back of the Prefecture for a year now is shut to the public a reminder to the Charlie Hebdo ISIS fiasco and the joggers take to the thoroughfare in their tell-tale whallop-y shorts at the kinder gardens lone working mothers hang out with texting iPhones for the evening bell the beggars all gone to sun themselves (yes…this's cruel) on the Riviera leaving four wizened figures long un-paying residents by the law faculty mounds seated next to next in their unwashed best exchanging memories like the kids they may have been at tenement blocks on an abandoned culvert without toys the skies cloud over and dissipate without complaint now and then Atlantic winds bring news of thunder and have us short-changed the last we heard was the early morning 5.20 metro pull out of its shed at the drug-and-grocery stores supermarkets only the migrant lot meet to chat the Mall stays chockfull of lush-green girls dressed in their mothers' best looking for a fix the queues thin at the chemist's security guards tire of looking into bags they smile thinking of something that must have amused them perhaps at some chance encounter or at some pungent lascivious repartee the Maghreb-ian neighbours still won't give up their heedless tapage you can even hear their gasping breath on creaking boards and floors those who come and go at the entrance still spy on the locks and keyholes yours to pick and click waiting to tell the gardienne or some official still on vacation the usual figures flit through the early light to dig into the rubbish bins lepers of our remains where do they bunk in what mountain hold or time silently busy not-caring what the world might think (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain Villanelle: Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain No Lawrence outsider sups with wooden spoon Don't bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein One thing's to espouse the cause of mighty swain Another to champion masses without boon Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain Shut not windows when floors are not wet with rain Let not those who suffocate force you to swoon Don't bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein Who writes in huis clos invisible inane Turn Left to stand up for the ‘pariah' goon Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain How much less harm this world could have borne sans pain If only from mouth you spat out silver spoon Don't bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein Go tell the coolie his life is his to brain Break existential chain with will not too soon Break not chains Sartre hooked on ankles in disdain Don't bitter gruel course through low coolie-lines vein (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Not Mind nor Soul but the Body's Prowess Villanelle: Not the Mind nor Soul but the Body's prowess Not the mind nor soul but the body's prowess What stands out must crown man's vanity made bold So what counts must make nations blazing success Usury stocks and shares that banks re-possess Wars in foreign lands paid for with oil and gold Not the mind nor soul but the body's prowess Win the match by whatever means or duress Let match light like match in meadows manifold So what counts must make nations blazing success Must earth at receiving end turn to a mess Yin acted upon by Yang brings forth fresh world Not the mind nor soul but the body's prowess Batsmen face fast balls or those spun nonetheless Ton-up signals the century bought and sold So what counts must make nations blazing success Batter the mother who will the goddess bless Dark suns look down upon a world long gone cold Not the mind nor soul but the body's prowess So what counts must make nations blazing success (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Often I think of writer-poets of yore Villanelle: Often I think of writer-poets of yore Often I think of writer-poets of yore Who wrote in fear of lords kings patrons of church Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore Often I conjure up their solemn lives raw And wonder how their pages weren't left in lurch Often I think of writer-poets of yore Pages to patrons puppets to popes galore Hidden chaste natures all resisting research Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore Often addressing some damsel they adore No more ambition than to lead her to church Often I think of writer-poets of yore Pauper some who pilfer to pen metaphor Through some trope in their guts some scheme beyond search Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore Lean those dead young despised by the loves they swore Never knowing if their verses will us broach Often I think of writer-poets of yore Their voices hushed humbled by the stoop they bore (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci Villanelle: Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci Will she now dare budge from her perch in the clouds No Knight-at-Arms her wiles entice sans souci No belle dis-haunches curves just for a merci Nor no beau fealty vows when she unfolds Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci La Belle Dame knows best why knights to grot go see Best to keep armour on lest hell-met visor scalds No Knight-at-Arms her wiles entice sans souci Do knights her eyes gaze when they rout her easy Nor think of fellow knights in arms she enfolds Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci Quaff not her cheap cheer unless from Holy See Lulled not be by tales of woe laid by knights' holds No Knight-at-Arms her wiles entice sans souci Serves whom right to fall in love with Heresy No true love sits on throne when knights be cuckolds Who will dare not love La Belle Dame sans Merci No Knight-at-Arms her wiles entice sans souci (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem Villanelle: Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem Two hundred leagues long ten times as much deep All night I tossed in its wayward waters foam Three lines I wrought short of just one neurone Kept me waking drowsing falling back to sleep Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem Just three words nagging I could not call back home Or was it the feminine rhyme I could not keep All night I tossed in its wayward waters foam I thought on waking up first lines had round come I could see naked words before my eyes weep Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem Some naughty mermaid lure my lines to embalm Or did some Rhyme Master frown down from crest steep All night I tossed in its wayward waters foam Redress not tresses nor shoals of letters blame Let them swish and swarm comb hidden beaches sweep Has anyone seen my stray confounded poem All night I tossed in its wayward waters foam (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: No man can on his own escape written fate, for THIRUVALLUVAR Villanelle: No man can on his own escape written fate For Thiru-Valluvar, the " nameless" author of the THIRUK-KURAL Note: In my previous posts, especially on Canto 38, I had expounded on the man and his work in relation to Hindu philosophical aims in life which I shall not belabour here in order to make space for other thoughts on his oeuvre. Without going into too much detail here (which is the province of the academic essay) , let me lay out in brief what I think the poet attempted to do or succeeded in doing in order to make his work survive the times in which he lived. The fact that the author remains a nebulous figure till this day owes much to the conditions in which he lived cannot be gainsaid: if his work of perennial value did not motivate his contemporaries to record and celebrate the author's life and circumstances for successive generations - despite the Indian penchant for neglecting details of authorship - it must have been due quite possibly to other reasons less congratulatory to be recounted here again, so here goes. According to Hindu aims, the life of man should traverse four stages: love (kama) , wealth (artha) , virtue (dharma) and renunciation (moksha) . The Thiruk-Kural, by contrast, has only three divisions: dharma (araththuppaal: Cantos 1 to 38) , artha (porudpaal: Cantos 39 to 108) and kama (kamaththuppaal: Cantos 109 to 133) . In my earlier posts, I had argued that there was. no need for a fourth book on the theme of " moksha" or " vidu" since the author had in several cantos and other diverse couplets dealt, in particular, with this subject. Yet I need not have pursued this line of reasoning for the sake of my present argument. As I had stated in previous posts, Cantos 35,36,37 all lead up to and reinforce Canto 38 on " Fate" (uul) and that the latter canto nullifies all that has been propounded in the rest of the oeuvre. This is self-evident since the author attributes everything that happens to one's life to pre-destination in this canto, and therefore the three previous cantos have to be associated with it as being part of a disconnect with the whole. Likewise, the first canto on " Submission to God's Grace" (kadavul vaalththu) , being the only specific address to the Supreme Being, must also be grouped with the four other foregoing cantos. In other words, FIVE cantos have not their rightful place in a work of ethics centred on rightful conduct in human behaviour and interaction with the sexes, the family, the community and the State. This leaves us with 128 cantos, I.e.133 minus 5. If we divide 128 by 2, we get 64, the crucial number which gives us the 64 hexagrams of the classical Canon of Change, the Yi Jing or the 64 squares of the chessboard and, THIS IS OUR POINT, the 64 PADAS (squares of meditation for the pilgrim) provided in the architectural plan and construction of the basic HINDU TEMPLE. What about the extra 64 not apparently taken into consideration. Well, the PALACE TYPE OF TEMPLE, the MANDUKA MANDALA duplicates the 64 geometric pattern. This is exactly what THIRU-VALLUVAR had planned and executed in his work. The THIRUK-KURAL's cantos fit mathematically and thematically into the architectural plan of temples which were propagated in the GUPTA PERIOD, from the 4th Century C.E. The Hindu Temple (64-grid x 2 = 128) The Thiruk-Kural I - Grabh-Griya (Empty pada at PURUSHA Centre) : Canto 1 (Purusha) (Kadavul Vaalththu) II - Brahma (4 x 2 = 8 padas) : MOKSHA Cantos 35,36,37 & 38 (Renunciation to Fate) III - Devika (12 x 2 = 24 padas) : DHARMA Cantos 2 to 34 (Araththuppaal) IV - Manusha (20 x 2 = 40 padas) : ARTHA Cantos 39 to 108 (Porudpaal) V - Paisachika (28 x 2 = 56 padas) : KAMA Cantos 109 to 133 (Kaamaththuppaal) Total n° of padas: 64 x 2=128 Total for Thiruk-Kural=128 + 5=133 Vastu-Sastra and Vastu-Vidya Sanskrit manuals for the building of palatial type temples were in circulation by the 6th Century C.E., so one possible conjecture is that Thiru-Valluvar's lifetime might date from the Gupta Period, but this is of secondary importance, for the moment. Enough to say that, if, as I think, he was a marked man, subject to some sort of " repression" , then the planning and execution of his work on the structure of temple architecture in accordance with its geometric and philosophic principles, attests to the " conjecture" that Thiru-Valluvar had successfully managed to subvert oppressive authoritarian rule - as far as he was concerned - in his time. The proof lies in my discovering the hidden fundamental structure of his poem. T. Wignesan Villanelle: No man can on his own escape written fate No man can on his own escape written fate Most times in our lives we need help to survive Unlike most creatures we adapt far too late All men fall into a slot which we call fate A place a time heritage parents revive No man can on his own escape written fate Ev'ry step we take leads to some open gate What lies beyond unseen will sting us alive Unlike most creatures we adapt far too late Nothing trips us up as the next man's dark hate Fate finds always those who will ill us contrive No man can on his own escape written fate No stratagem can forestall oncoming fate Unless man foregoes all urges quicken drive Unlike most creatures we adapt far too late Dead men who move through life spectators innate Each his life overhaul to let others thrive No man can on his own escape written fate Unlike most creatures we adapt far too late (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Florilege of Distiches from the THIRUK-KURAL: K129, K752 Florilège of distichs from the THIRUK-KURAL: K129, K102 K129: thiiyinaal shutta*pun ullaarum aaraathE naavinaal shutta vadu* (*vadu (n.) = scar, ulcer; *shudu (v.) = burn) In flesh by fire inflamed, nature may thoroughly heal the sore; In soul by tongue inflamed, the ulcer healeth never more. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The wound which has been burnt in. by fire may heal, but a wound burnt in by the tongue will never heal. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) (Even) a fire-scorched wound can fully heal by itself; but never will a wound inflicted by the tongue. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K752: illaarai ellaarum elluvar* selvarai ellaarum seyvar sirappu* (* ellu (v.) = despise; *sirappu (n.) = excellence, renown, esteem, etc.) Those who have nought all will despise; All raise the wealthy to the skies. (Transl. G.U. Pope) All despise the poor; (but) all praise the rich. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The have-nots by all are mocked; The haves all will highly esteem. (Transl. T. Wignesan) (to be continued) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal - Concluding Stanza RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - La Ballade " Le Chant Royal" -Concluding Stanza (Note: As you can see, I have taken certain liberties with the fixed form, but have always kept close to the spirit of the ballade's form: rhyme, metre, stanza, envoi, and, now, concluding stanza addressed to an important royal personality. Exceptions are the introductory RECIPE - I and the extension of the FIVE eleven-line stanza to TEN.) CONCLUDING STANZA Now you have all seen how the French roast chicken Not quite different, say, from British cuisine: Lion-Heart Richard* lies with Jeanne d'Arc in Rouen Not so different from other Royal spleen. It matters little if powers visible Go through motions where kings move invisible Call it DEMOCRACY, call it what you like Old shibboleths raise Gorgon heads still to strike As Greek pauper Prince raised on German Jew brew: " Seventy years as Pope you reigned recondite, Never you'll know the pain you caused all for a few! " Sol de France franchi Terre d'asile A-Dieu! The " heart" of King Richard the Lion Heart is buried in the Rouen Cathedral - a stone's throw from where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake - bombarded by the Allied Forces pilot who later let drop the first atomic bomb over Hiroshima on August 6,1945. (Ref. Cf article by Flint Whitlock on-line.) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 11 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade " Le Chant Royal" 11 STANZA X Even as this Royal Lay comes to an end Yet one more crime hatched on one more ruse and lie Gets committed to drive this one round the bend: " Bite the bait, harrowed be, before you die! " Same message for more than half a century The Kafkayesque trial that wastes energy: Witnesses who'd gladly turn King's evidence Lawyers who'd hoodwink you and make no pretence The migrant crowd trained to oust you out of bounds To please authority Left or Right of fence Independent de Gaulle men gone from home grounds. ENVOI " Freemasons Grand Orient kind take offence, Want you kept down whatever your innocence: At the highest level this decision stands! " Said de Gaulle Police Chief in-charge of defence. Independent de Gaulle men gone from home grounds. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 10 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade " Le Chant Royal" - 10 STANZA IX Snubbed by Churchill, de Gaulle's June 18th appeal Saves not crushed Rouen, Paris to liberate Triumphant Le Clerc hurries after ordeal Did not Liberation make Resistants great Nazi Chief's deaf ear lets not Hitler burn Paris Do the sacred cow Resistants scorn hubris " Now e'en Presidents fear veteran Police! " Ditto whole appareil judiciaire en lice! Not till the last of veteran Combatants Take Bastille Day's Arc de Triomphe honoured place Nor till Allied Forces be hailed true Conquérants? ENVOI Overnight the mother serves as plaything nice For lawyers judges politicos police All Free-Masons none resist as Resistants No place for father and son in such premise Nor till Allied Forces be hailed true Conquérants? (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 9 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade " Le Chant Royal" 9 STANZA VIII The French way is to damn you as litigant Constant professional victim of the Law Make you read law books be your own defendant Rush about hang in queues write letters in awe To lawyers judges ministers presidents Cull evidence witnesses sealed documents Which lawyers misplace refuse to cite in case Desert you in court judges' contempt to face Appeal after appeal the single-parent Must kneel to abuse looks threats to save one's face Ev'ry legal ruse used to make one relent ENVOI The mother well-entrenched in high police place Tightens the screws turns the spit with cruel grace Lets son stew in acrid juice with lone parent While her wild secret antics rue her race Ev'ry legal ruse used to make one relent (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 8 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade " Le Chant Royal" 8 STANZA VII The warning first comes from the job's admin head: " The Secret Service will persecute you to death! " Then they drum the son hammer and tongs on head After mounting terror to cut short his breath: " We'll slaughter your dad just as your mom we spurn Do as we say or you too will on spit turn! Breathe not a word of this or hell you will pay! " Of course the son his brain maimed mums what they say, Just as his mother drugged raped blackmailed by State Does what she always covert did without pay. Seek not asylum where Rights scarce pullulate! ENVOI Now the stakes hinge on what the father might say E'en childhood friends turn up to act in French play Each act in this drama unfolds roles through fate Aesthetic distance wrote original play. Seek not asylum where Rights scarce pullulate! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 7 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade " Le Chant Royal" 7 STANZA VI " Come, join us! Stand alone and we'll make you sweat! See how your spouse sucks with us, so will your son! Those who prop you up depart, yes, with regret. Men can't pull their weight alone under any sun! " " I have a book I consult from time to time Which makes me believe how in another clime My high-born friends still wish me well on this earth Wish me to stick to my guns, stick to my birth." " Bring your book with you, we pay well for clues views Glimpses into the future to boost our girth. Our Nation über Alles! Make that news! " ENVOI " Look up into the Heavens, then down on Earth! Think on trillion worlds where our lives provoke mirth The Légion d'honneur lapel pin, on Death's dues! Is Life merely about success stories, not Truth? " Our Nation über Alles! Make that news! (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal - 6 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Ballade Le Chant Royal 6 (NOTE: This French " ballade" is being composed on permutations of the number ONE repeated twice, I.e.,11. Eleven syllables to the line in iamb or anapeste, interposed with dactyls, I guess, and of course with the ENVOI added. Eleven lines to the STANZA in eleven in res media " instalments" involving the minutely PERSONAL in interaction with the larger hoi polloi in relation to the STATE and its tentacular authoritarian apparatuses designed to keep the independent INDIVIDUAL always nailed in limbo.) T Wignesan STANZA VI " So why don'tya get out of this Third World hell! " Near-East stronghold now in Maghreb stranglehold Where Asians and Africans mingle pell-mell Where the French affix sign-boards on their soil: " SOLD! " The moonlight flit now turned to Indian rope trick Where East Europeans come thick and homesick To join the ranks of those from South-Euro lands Who make much of the Far Right extremist brigands Les français de souche* still commute to keep jobs Like they once nostalgic did in foreign lands The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs ENVOI French lasses push prams with babes sunburnt inlands No Tariq Ali* need turn back for want of bans May the World colourless be sans hapless gods Or will it taken over be by hooligans The migrant refugee does odd jobs and robs *Les français de souche: the French of stolid French ancestry. *Tariq Ali, the Berber Moor alighted on the rock of Gibraltar, in 709 C. E., with 30,000 horsemen, and by 711 had over-run the Iberian Peninsula, but Abdul Rahman al-Gafiqi, the Governor General of al-Andalus, who tried to extend the conquests further into Europe was halted in his tracks by the Frank Charles Martel at the Battle of Poitiers/Tours in 732. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style - Le Chant Royal - Instalment 5 RECIPE: 'Poulet Roti' French Style - Le Chant Royal (Instalment 5) (Note: Rhyme scheme of " Le Chant Royal" where capital " E" stands for refrain, thus - Stanza: ababccddedE, Envoi: ddedE) STANZA IV One thing's to find fourteen-storey toilet waste Stealthily creep up your ground-floor shower drain Another's to watch the migrant surgeon paste Some part of your body he cuts up - in vain Yet another: watch nurses scowl in pleasure As they stuff some part of you with germs for sure Unaware that some medicine or remedy Can do you more harm than climate tragedy Know not which doctor keeps Hippocrate sermon Nor which in patriot secret society The State always fears for its reputation ENVOI No place in such a State for chicken curry The secret service thrives on Poulet roti If wisdom tooth hurts guess who drills canine down If glasses need changing better change body The State always fears for its reputation © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti French Style -Le Chant Royal - Instalment 4 RECIPE: 'Poulet Roti' French Style - Le Chant Royal (Instalment 4) (Note: Rhyme scheme of " Le Chant Royal" where capital " E" stands for refrain, thus - Stanza: ababccddedE, Envoi: ddedE) STANZA III The idea's to pluck the chicken naked dead But to keep it alive so long as there's fun Stick pins and needles all the time on its head So that when the COQ crows you know the bird's done Was Marquis de Sade Torquemada's agent The Socialist Mayor now out on tangent Wishing spindle glass tower turns ivory To keep him in power sans democracy Get henchmen to preach comeuppance damnation Tighten screws on chicken spit sans clemency Now that lame bird can't fly away sans nation ENVOI Vain Socialist pique harks back to idiocy Lax morals sport with intellect's papacy Skinned and spiked chicken calls for condemnation Do Napoléons fear Waterloo or Holy See Now that lame bird can't fly away sans nation (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti - French Style Le Chant Royal Instalment 3 RECIPE: " Poulet Roti" French Style - Le Chant Royal (Instalment 3) (Note: Rhyme scheme of " Le Chant Royal" where capital " E" stands for refrain, thus - Stanza: ababccddedE, Envoi: ddedE) STANZA II Cut the hot-water supply, make chicken freeze Tear up the electric connections, the telephone Ensure chicken swallows upstairs dust, e'en sneeze Fix the plumbing, flood coop with merde from heaven Funnel exhaust fumes into coop car cabin After fixing the engine - closed doors - unseen And when chicken leaves coop to forage for food Invade the coop, sabotage shower for good So as to keep chicken skin in constant stink See that chicken pays for all damage in blood Give the Alien Crowd free rope's nodding wink! ENVOI Use the migrant lêches culs, the all-willing brood Rejects from anarchic lands up to no good Kitchen-help strut as Mason Chefs in a blink Make their Masters' ev'ry wish come true for good Give the Alien Crowd free rope's nodding wink! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti French Style - Le Chant Royal - Instalment 2 RECIPE: 'Poulet Roti' French Style - Le Chant Royal (Instalment 2) Stanza I COQ knows best how to pluck the wayward chicken Quill by feather each pock-mark telltales French skill Twisted beck wan crooked claws warts on bruised skin Thus MARIANNE marinates asylum swill Let filter no known friends through the Internet Dog ev'ry step the chicken takes e'en secret Day and night confine the bird to its cramped coop And there make the migrant crowd damn nincompoop Morning day or mid of night drill his ears through Lace marinade with acid sauce Injun soup Let the World know how well chicken basks in stew ENVOI Sol de France franchi! Terre d'Asile! O! What scoop! Trumpet the news! Co-co-ri-co! Got'im in coop! Un-wifed maimed sucker son root for Great Chef crew Asylum-marinade French cuisine's top soup Let the World know how well chicken basks in stew! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K1087 and K1089 of Canto 109 in the THIRUK-KURAL: Thagainangkuraiththal K1087 and K1089 of Canto 109 of the THIRUK-KURAL: Thagaianangkuraiththal (In the transliterations, the capital vowels stand for the repetition of the same vowel: eg., " A" for " aa" ;) K1087: kadAak kalittrinmEl kadpadAm* mAthar padAa mulaimEl thuthil As veil o'er angry eyes, Of raging elephant that lies, The silken cincture's folds invest this maiden's panting breast. (Transl. G. U. Pope) The cloth that covers the firm bosom of this maiden is (like) that which covers the eyes of a rutting elephant. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The ornamental frontlet covering the elephant in rut; The maiden's veil of fine cloth covering her breast. (Transl. T. Wignesan) (*kadpadAm = ornamental fillet or frontlet for blindfolding an elephant. *kadAkkaliru = an elephant in rut.) K1089: pinai*Er mada*nOkkum nAn*um udaiyAdku anievanO Ethil thanthu* Like tender fawn's her eye; Clothed on is she with modesty; What added beauty can be lent; By alien ornament? (Transl. G.U. Pope) Of what use are other jewels to her who is adorned with modesty, and the meek looks of a hind? * (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) (*I find this Drew-Lazarus translation most elegant, indeed. T.W.) In tandem with the hind's artlessness/simplicity of mien and innate modesty, what stratagem of extraneous adornment can add to her beauty? (Transl. T. Wignesan) (*pinai = hind; nAn/nAnu = modesty, shame; madam = female simplicity; thanthu = scheme, stratagem, artifice.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Book Three of the THIRUK-KURAL on Un-Authorised and Authorised LOVE: Canto 109, K109 to 133 Book Three of the THIRUK-KURAL on Un-Authorised (concealed) and Authorised (religion-ordained) LOVE: Cantos 109 THAGAIANANGKURAITHTHAL to 133 (Note: Love between mainly the wedded pair from the standpoint of the fair liana-like " lady" of the pliant bamboo-shoulders, light of tread, fresh as the lotus-shoot of a light-green hue, bedecked in jewels, matched by pearls for teeth, her breath a gentle breeze of jasmine, her doe arched-eyes shooting darts through demure glances - happens to be a kyrielle of complaints - feigned or genuinely felt - in the Romantic vein of the pain of " unrequited love" . There is much - even far too much - of the harping of the wife's adoration of her lover-husband whose absence, even minimal, is experienced as a cataclysmic disaster, much as the " damsel in distress" in dire throes. No where the inadequacy of the male is in evidence: he is the paragon of virility to be adored whole-heartedly for his looks, even if his fidelity is thrown into doubt. The poet doesn't - given the puritanical nature of his society's moeurs - shy away from hinting directly at the joyous fulfilment of the sexual act or union through the repetitious use of the word " embrace" (muyakkam/muyangku) . The damsel or fair lady freely pines away when her Lord and Master distances himself from her doting presence - even in his thoughts - and she's up to all sorts of " tricks" to enhance the renewal of ecstatic " embraces" . She pouts, her sorrow becoming the talk of the town. Likewise the hero also affixes his disappointment by riding the " madal" (meaning a " horse" made of palmyra leafstems on which the forsaken male lover mounts to proclaim his grief) . From time to time, the couplets are specifically addressed to a companion in order to unburden herself of her unbearable longing for the lover, much in the fashion of the Cangam Age (2nd to the 5th C.E.) aham (inner as opposed to external life) poetic conventions where the personae of the poems speak to companions or friends, and the reader merely overhears the expressions of joy or suffering in their conversations. One would do well to remember that these AHAM-PURAM conventions were a highly complex system of codification of symbols relating to the fauna and flora confined to regions in five landscapes, such as, mountains, forests, plains, deserts and coastal beaches, with a whole range of feelings and sentiments associated with each " object" found in a seasonal moment of time as well. These couplets do not reveal any picture of the family or communal life, apart from the fact that she is still slave in her total attachment to her husbandlover. Now and then, she has recourse to ruses and wiles to ensnare the " disinterested" husband, only to enhance the " heat" of the re-union, though. Yet, the resulting picture does not elevate her out of the miasma of servitude to her lover-husband. She appears content in her role, though. One gets the feeling that this third section of the Kural could not have been composed by our poet of high vision, methodically dissecting and analysing larger chunks of life in true philosophic fashion. In it therefore lies further proof of his genius. Let us pause and examine the first couplet of Bk 3 to note, once again, how Thiru-Valluvar goes about constructing his maxims from a linguistic point of view.) T. Wignesan CANTO 109, K1081: anangkukol aaymayil kollO kanangkulai maatharkol maalumen nenchu Goddess? or peafowl rare? She whose ears rich jewels wear, Is she a maid of human kind? All wildered is my mind! (Trans. G.. Pope) Is this jewelled female a celestial, a choice peahen, or a human being? My mind is perplexed. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) SEMANTIC ANALYSIS Canto title: thagaianangkuraiththal thagai = beauty, excellence, appropriate quality; anangku = (see here below) ; uraiththal = (from 'urai' = to speak out/declare) declarations. anangku = goddess/fascination; aaymayil = exquisite peahen (aay = exquisite) ; kanangkulai = woman wearing heavy ear-rings; maathar = a woman; maalum = be bewildered; en = my; nenché/nenchu = mind, heart, conscience; kol…kollO…kol = in an ennumeration of items, these phrasial post-particles mean: whether….or….; Whether a goddess or an exquisite peahen or a woman wearing heavy-studded ear rings, my mind distracted is plunged in confusion. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 THIRUK-KURAL on Women who know no bounds: Canto 92 Varaivin Makalir K913, K919 and K920 The THIRUK-KURAL on Women who know no bounds: Canto 92 - K913, K919 and K920 (Thiru-Valluvar comes down heavily on women of the « oldest profession in the world » in this Canto 92 consigned within Book Two since the stress laid on the wishes and practices of such women are based on WEALTH, the theme of the section, i.e., PORUDPAAL or ARTHASASTRA. Whilst in other couplets, including those mainly in Book Three: KAMATHTHUPPAAL, he is quite won over by the charms of the fairer sex in their innate innocent behaviour, and responsiveness to male attention, here he demonstrates no compassion for women of easy virtue. What is at stake here is not so much the rigours and dictates of the puritanical society in which he so quite obviously lived (and commented upon) , but the material motivations of profit associated with personal and emotional sentiments underlying interpersonal relations between the sexes. To him, a woman bartering her flesh for money was a despicable creature.) K913: porudpendir poymmai muyakkam irudduaraiyil Ethil pinamthalii iyartru As one in darkened room, some stranger corpse in arms, Is he who seeks delight in mercenary women's charms. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The false embraces of wealth-loving women are like (hired men) embracing a strange corpse in a dark room. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Pecuniary-minded women's embraces resemble those (men experience) while making love to corpses in a dark room. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K919: varaivuilaa aanilaiyaar menthOl puraiilaap pUriyarkal aalum alaru The wanton's tender arm, with gleaming jewels decked, Is hell, where sink degraded souls of men abject. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The delicate shoulders of prostitutes with excellent jewels are a hell into which are plunged the ignorant base. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Limitlessly devoid of excellence, those who fawn over enticing shoulders of women decked in jewels remain mired in vile depths. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K920: irumanap pendirum kallum kavarum Thiru*niikkap paddaar thodarpu Women of double minds, strong drink and dice; to these giv'n o'er, Are those on whom the light of Fortune shines no more. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Treacherous women, liquor, and gambling are the associates of such as have (been) forsaken by Fortune. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Indulging in women given to duplicity, drink and dice will cause men to be devoid of any grace (deserted by the Goddess Lakshmi*) . (*Thiru = prosperity, wealth, fortune, represented by the Goddess of Lakshmi) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 On Praising Ladies on their Qualities in the THIRUK-KURAL: Canto 112, K1114 and K1120 On Praising Ladies on their Qualities in the THIRUK-KURAL: Canto 112, Nalam Punainthu Uraiththal, K1114 and K1120 [Please see 'introduction on the plight of young girls' in the previous post on this Canto 112: K1111 and K1113, and please note that they were (and are still from all accounts though less frequently) given in marriage by parents who pay DOWRY in the form of cash and property to the bridegroom, despite the fact that the law frowns on such practices since Independence.] K1114: kaanin kuvalai kavilnthu nilan nOkkum maanilai kanovvEm enru The lotus*, seeing her, with head demiss, the ground would eye, And say: ' With eyes of her, rich gems who wears, we cannot vie.' (Transl. G.U. Pope) If the blue lotus* could see, it would stoop and look at the ground saying, 'I can never resemble the eyes of this excellent jewelled one.' (Transl Drew & Lazarus) Should the water-lily* be confronted by the resplendent gem-decked maiden, it would droop down, eyes downcast, thinking the comparison futile. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K1120: anichcham* annaththin thuuviyam* maathar adikku neruñchip* palam The flower of the sensitive plant, and the down of the swan's white breast, As the thorn are harsh, by the delicate feet of this maiden pressed. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The anichcham and the feathers of the swan are to the feet of females, like the fruit of the (thorny) Nerunji*. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) (Such the beauteous form of the maiden) that even the anichcham* and the swan's downy fur* are but caltrope thistle* thorns pressed on her feet. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* Here the use of imagery drawn from nature (flower, bird, plant, fruit) , supposed to be ethereally delicate evoke poetic effusion (to the Tamils of yore) , offset by their relegation to thorns by comparison to the maiden's feet.] T. Wignesan © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Thiru-Valluvar on Praising Ladies of their qualities: Canto 112 - Nalam Punainthu Uraiththal Thiru-Valluvar on Praising the Good Qualiities of Ladies: Canto 112 - Nalam Pinainththu Uraiththal [The poet devotes the third part of his treatise, the Thiruk-Kural to INBATHTHUPPAAL, the amorous relationship between the sexes, i.e., cantos 109 to 133. of which the first seven concerns itself with 'concealed love' (the Gandharva marriage) while the last seventeen has to do with 'wedded life'. Even if the place of the Hindu woman was at home, at the service of the man of the house, the mother's position in the family constellation was the holiest of all. The Tamil poetess, AVVAIYAAR (often linked to Thiru-Valluvar for her catechistic aphorisms) has this well-known dictum on the spiritual inviolability of the 'Mother' in her didactic work, KONRAI VEENTHAN: 'Thaayit siranthu oru koyilum illai' (There is no greater temple than the mother.) When it comes to the fairer sex, Thiru-Valluvar waxes romantically poetic in exquisite verses on love and beauty and pleasurable feelings; yet, on the other hand, he was quite obviously writing at a time when his society entertained no notion of 'women's rights'. The woman was wife and child-bearer, required to be absolutely sub-servient and devoted to her husband - even worshiping him as her only God - while maintaining her position often under dire circumstances as the mainstay of domestic life. In most homes, she was cook, house-cleaner, washerwoman, servant, principal draper, slave to her husband, child-raiser and even the first teacher to her children, and she accomplished all this without setting foot out of the house, un-accompanied. She was the last in the family to bed herself down, and the first to be up before dawn. By the time she reached thirty, she was hard-put to retain her innate charms. Note also that she was forced to wed her husband, chosen by parents, while still in her early teens. Loose women, prostitutes and the unchaste wife were held to be the lowliest and vilest of beings; hence the bearing of sons conferred merit on her. Until the British administration abolished the practice of SUTTEE, widows were still - as late as in the nineteenth century - required to jump into the flaming fires of their husbands' pyres. What's worse, not until 1957, divorce in Hindu marriage was recognized by law: husbands could visit brothels or maintain mistresses, but the wife délaissée simply had to take it all - or nothing - lying down. In a certain incremental number of cases, very young girls, including orphans, were offered/sacrificed to the local temple to serve as 'temple dancers', an euphemism for pedophily on the part of priests and the propertied classes/castes. Polygamy was not unknown to the rich, while the princely WARRIOR-caste (kshastriya) maintained 'harems' at will. Often the latter caste of rajas/princes would wage against one another large sums to see who could 'de-flower' the greatest number of virgins in any given year. No wonder the Muslim invaders found it easy to over-run (and split-up) the sub-continent with their superior fleet-footed cavalry as opposed to the clumsy slow-moving armada of elephants and peasant foot-soldiers with scant military training. It is therefore not surprising that the THIRUK-KURAL re-inforces the inferior social status of the fairer sex, though the dalliances of chaste love-play receive in our poet's eyes all the respect and jouissance the liana-like damsel deserves.] T. Wignesan K1111: nalniirai vaali anichcham* ninninum melniiral yaamviil paval [*anichcham = according to Pope, 'an imaginary (?) flower, the poet's commonplace for anything peculiarly delicate and sensitive'] O flower of the sensitive plant! than thee More tender's the maiden beloved by me. (Transl. G.U. Pope) May you flourish, O Anicham! you have a delicate nature. But my beloved is more delicate than you. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) All Hail! to your exquisite nature, Anichcham! * By comparison infinitely more tender is the one I love! (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* the mythic anichcham flower is supposed to fade once it's smelt. Note the sexual connotations.] K1113: murimeeni muththam muruval verinaatram veelunkan veeyththO lavaddu As tender shoot her frame; teeth pearls; around her odours blend; Darts are the eyes of her whose shoulders like the bambu bend. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The complexion of this bamboo-shouldered one is that of a shoot; her teeth are pearls; her breath, fragrance; and her dyed eyes, lances. (Transl Drew & Lazarus) Slender with pearls for teeth, enveloped in sweet-scented aura, Her eyes lances darting over pliant bamboo shoulders - [‘that's my gal', says the poet! ] (Transl. T. Wignesan) (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 RECIPE: Poulet Roti French Style - Instalment One RECIPE: 'Poulet Roti' French Style - Instalment One I If as for so many LIFE solutions Come bottled in prescriptions Like the burning SOUL's hunger for PEACE Through LOVE and FORGIVENESS with ease Then just take mescalin or cocaine Eat grass and flipout on heroin Make pavement music for a dime And sleep fifteen hours per diem The rest on analytical meditation Linked to some fad reincarnation Go sit at feet in fairy Dharamsala Peace Prize awaits at Himalaya Sol de France franchi Terre d'Asile II LIFE's a bit more complicated than that Caretakers and providers less delicate Know much about managing the State To hide their lack of proper mandate FORGIVE the slut who scorns her son Pusher who pounds veins with poison Sly socialist nurse who steals your sleep To compensate cohorts the slut to keep The son's will, broken by Masonic whip Turned patricidal spy in their secret grip Sol de France franchi Terre d'Asile III The sub-plot of Portuguese landlords With Maghrebin tenants rude as toads All out to drive the octogenarian Into the cesspool of bloody oblivion Like playing Black Sabbath Iron Man backwards Imitating Arabo-Hebraic Peace talks inwards While the lêche culs lusitano-ibériques Thrust their crude porc chops histrioniques Sol de France franchi Terre d'Asile (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Impartial insights or Intellectual Snobbery in Thiru-Valluvar's THIRUK-KURAL: Canto 84 PEETHAIMAI Impartial insight into Human Nature or intellectual Snobbery in Thiru- Valluvar's THIRU-KURAL: Canto 84 - PEETHAIMAI* [Note: Throughout his oeuvre, there can be found aphorisms which broadly hint at Thiru-Valluvar's intolerance of the less-endowed individual, and none characterises this trait as PEETHAIMAI or 'Folly'. Likewise his somewhat oblique comments ensconced in the descriptions on the status and role of women in Tamil society, not that women enjoyed better rights elsewhere until about the beginning of the twentieth century. (Will elaborate on this subject in Thiru-Valluvar's words in coming posts.) Sample these couplets.] T. Wignesan K833: naanaamai naadaamai naarinmai yaathentrum peethaamai peethai tholil Ashamed of nothing, searching nothing out, of loveless heart, Nought cherishing, 'tis thus the fool will play his part. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Shameless indifference (to what must be sought after) , harshness, and aversion for everything (that ought to be desired) are the qualities of the fool. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Unashamedness, lack of curiosity, callousness, attaching value to nothing - such attitudes characterise the fool. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K839: perithuinithu peethaiyaar keenmai pirivinkan piilai tharuvathuonru il* [Please don't apply this couplet to political events in an international setting. Thanks.] Friendship of fools is [a] very pleasant thing, Parting with them will leave behind no sting. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The friendship between fools is exceedingly delightful (to each other) : for at parting there will be nothing to cause them pain. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The overwhelming warmth of intimacy among fools hardly afflicts them when from their midst they depart. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K840: kalaaakkaal palliyul vaiththatraal saantrOr kulaaaththup peethai pukal Like him who seeks his couch with unwashed feet, Is fool whose foot intrudes where wise men meet. (Transl. G..U. Pope) The appearance of a fool in an assembly of the learned is like placing (one's) unwashed feet on a bed. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The act of lying in bed with unwashed feet is tantamount to the presence of fools in the assembly of the learned.* (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*Thiruvalluvar certainly has not seen - it can be said - hot Hollywood bedroom scenes with socks... and shoes to boot.] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limerick: No Cossacks charge down Arc de Triomphe Limerick: No Cossacks charge down Arc de Triomphe No Cossacks charge down Arc de Triomphe Champs Elysée hourra! in triumph For World Ruler no less Come to check French prowess World rivets eyes according to Gumph Here the Seine rises not to greet Trump Nor the Eiffel Tower lean in slump Loose tract of Arctic ice Bound for US in vice Great Leader returns to rule vast swamp At last the World will groan all alone At Djibouti PRC horns blown Will Marines take over From Great Landless Leader Thus ends Climate Change Treaty in clone! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 The THIRUK-KURAL on not offending the Great: Canto 90, K899 and K900 THIRUK-KURAL on not offending the Great*: Periyaaraip Pilaiyaamai - Canto 90, K899 and K900 [* The 'Great' here are indifferently the King or other learned and wise people whom the King ought to respect and fear. In this canto, Thiru-Valluvar repeats himself (though elegantly, cf. K899 & K900) - unless it were for the purpose of reinforcing the idea of the weak who dare pit themselves against the strong and powerful - and contrariwise the strong and cruel meet the same fate of ruin if they incurred the wrath of the noble and virtuous-minded. It is evident nothing anti-authoritarian was permitted or conceivable in his time. Yet, reflect on how Lenin outlived the Tsars; Solzhenytsin and Pasternak - Stalin and his successors, just as George Washington - the British Imperial Crown; Vietnam veterans - Nixon; Li Xiaobo - thanks to the Nobel Committee and other campaigners like Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International who would shut an eye to wanton persecution within Western democracies - Xi of the Peoples Republic; the German Jews - Hitler; but NOT the one-man (Sri Lankan) opposition leader Jeyaretnam in Lee Kuan Yew's Singapore.] K899: eenthiya kolkaiyaar siirin idaimurinththu veenthanum veenthu kedum When blazes forth the wrath of men of lofty fame, Kings even fall from high estate and perish in the flame. (Transl. G.U. Pope) If those of exalted vows burst in a rage, even (Indra) the king will suffer a sudden loss and be entirely ruined. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Should the virtuous in lofty positions become angry, even the king (of kings) will fall from high heaven. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K900: iranthuamaintha saarpudaiyar aayinum uyyaar siranththuamaintha siiraar cherin Though all-surpassing wealth of aid the boast, If men in glorious virtue great are wrath, they're lost. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Though in possession of numerous auxiliaries, they will perish who are exposed to the wrath of the noble whose penance is boundless. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) No way the powerful can avoid downfall should they offend and incur the wrath of the noble-minded greats. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 THIRUK-KURAL on not offending the Great: Canto 90, K895 and K897 THIRUK-KURAL on not offending the Great*: Periyaaraip Pilaiyaamai - Canto 90 K895 and K897 [* The 'Great' here are indifferently the King or other learned and wise people whom the King ought to respect and fear. In this canto, Thiru-Valluvar repeats himself (though elegantly, cf. K897 & K890) - unless it were for the purpose of reinforcing the idea of the weak who dare pit themselves against the strong and powerful - and contrariwise the strong and cruel meet the same fate of ruin if they incurred the wrath of the noble and virtuous-minded. It is evident nothing anti-authoritarian was permitted or conceivable in his time. Yet, reflect on how Lenin outlived the Tsars; Solzhenytsin and Pasternak - Stalin and his successors, just as George Washington - the British Imperial Crown; Vietnam veterans - Nixon; Li Xiaobo - thanks to the Nobel Committee and other campaigners like Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International who would shut an eye to wanton persecution within Western democracies - Xi of the Peoples Republic; the German Jews - Hitler; but NOT the one-man (Sri Lankan) opposition leader Jeyaretnam in Lee Kuan Yew's Singapore.] K895: yaanduchchentru yaandum ularaakaar venthuppin veenthu cherappad davar Who dare the fiery wrath of monarchs dread, Where'ver they flee, are numbered with the dead. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Those who have incurred the wrath of a cruel and mighty potentate will not prosper wherever they may go. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Wherever one may flee, one risks losing one's life if the same person had had offended a mighty king. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K897: vagaimaanda vaalkkaiyum vaanporulum* ennaam thagaimaanda thakkaar cherin [*Tamil has portmanteau constructions such as these to mean: 'great wealth heaped up to heaven'] Though every royal gift, and stores of wealth your life should crown, What are they, if the worthy men of mighty virtue frown? (Transl. G.U. Pope) If a king incurs the wrath of the righteous great, what will become of his government with its splendid auxiliaries and (all) its utold wealth? (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) All manner of life-sustaining powers, including great possessions piled up to heaven, stand to be dissipated if the noble and the virtuous-minded disapprove (of the actions of the king) . (Transl. T. Wignesan) (to be continued with K900] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limerick crochetes: Once Tamil Promotion Director Limerick crochetés: Once Tamil Promotion Director Once Tamil Promotion Director Excised wise Japanese co-founder Called him names like rogue thief Set himself up as Chief All Dravidian Tamil Editor He posed as the Royal Ancestor Even of the Chola* Emperor Slave-drove workers in fief Used savants make belief Such the Tamil Highness Publisher He caged talents the Money-Maker Poised as Conference Organiser Preyed on Buddhist belief On Chan and Zen mischief To lard his own family bunker Ideas he plucked from the Other Made as if he put up with bother Tamils to lead as Chief No matter what the grief None see his pen as plagiariser All helpers rough-rode he the Miser Shed them shorn one after the other Damn not this common thief Just his penchant for Chief For Tamil knowledge made he Server [* The Chola dynasty (among other South-Indian reigns) of the 10th to 12th centuries C.E. extended Tamil culture and civilization over the better part of Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia without having recourse primarily to conquests and/or of maintaining colonies.] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 The THIRUK-KURAL highlights the role of the AMBASSADOR as the King's Messenger-SPY: Canto 69 The THIRUK-KURAL highlights the role of the AMBASSADOR* as the King's Messenger-SPY: THUUTHU, Canto 69 [*THUUTHU in Tamil translates as ENVOY and principally connotes variously as: 'messenger', 'message', 'ambassador', 'embassy' and 'SPY' (little wonder, today, we find parallels in the action taken by President OBAMA to expel 70 Russian diplomats back to Moscow) . In any case, these office-holders in the royal courts of ancient Tamil kingdoms were, according to Thiru-Valluvar, to be selected from the highest class of individuals in the realm - judging by the distiques in CANTO 69. These representatives had to be of the noblest stock, highly educated, of presentable bearing, courteous, totally loyal to the sovereign, gifted in the art of expressing themselves in foreign courts, never given to wrathfu speech, learned and cultured. In other words, these individuals were compelled to make their Lords, the Kings, look like paragons in the eyes of the world since they represented the royal person by divine riight.]T. Wignesan K684: arivuuru* aaraaintha kalviyim moontrum cherivudaiyaan chelka vinaikku *'uru' = form; 'uruvu' = form, shape, beauty, mien; 'cheri' = be close, near; 'cherivu' = modest, nearness, reserve] Sense, goodly grace, and knowledge exquisite, Who hath these three for envoy's task is fit. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He may go on a mission (to foreign rulers) who has combined in him all these three, viz., (natural) sense, an attractive bearing and well-tried learning. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Learning, refinement, a disposition for deep reflection - these three acquisitions equip the man of reserve for mission in other lands. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K688: thuuymai* thunaimai thunivudaimai immoontran vaaymai* valiyuraippaan panpu* [* 'thuuymai' = purity; 'vaaymai' = truth; 'panpu' = good quality, excellence, courtesy] Integrity, resources, soul determined, truthfulness. Who rightly speaks his message must these marks possess. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The qualification of him who faithfully delivers his (sovereign's) message are purity, the support (of foreign ministers) , and boldness, with truthfulness in addition to the (aforesaid) three. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Integrity, reliability (even with foreign assistance) , fearlessness - these three qualities, together with honesty, make up the personality of the ambassador. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 THIRU-VALLUVAR discourses on the duties of the King's Ministers: AMAICHCHU - K637 and K639 THIRU-VALLUVAR discourses on the duties of the King's Ministers* in the THIRUKKURAL: AMAICCHU - K637 and K639 [* In presentday context, read as Minister(s) of State, Secretary of State, Special Counselors in the government, etc.] K637: seyatkai arinththak kadaiththum ulakaththu iyatkai arinthu seyal Though knowing all that books can teach, 'tis truest fact To follow common sense of men in act. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Though you are acquainted with the (theoretical) methods (of performing an act) , understand the ways of the world and act accordingly. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Even if the minister knows how best to execute any official act or duty, he should first take into account the habitual ways of dealing with the issues at stake [and act accordingly.] (Transl. T. Wignesan) K639: paluthuennum manthiriyin pakkaththul thevvOr* elupathu kOdi* urum [* 'thevvOr' = enemies (from thevvu = hatred) ; kOdi = 10 million] A minister who by king's side plots evil things Worse woes than countless foemen brings. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Far better are seventy crores* of enemies (for a king) than a minister at his side who intends (him) ruin. (Transl. Dreaw & Lazarus) To have at his side a minister who plots his downfall, he (the king) may as well suffer the siege of seventy crores* of enemies. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* crore = 100,000 (iladcham/ilakkam) x 100 = 10 million; 70 crores = 700 million] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 THIRUVALLUVAR discourses on the duties of the King's Ministers: AMAICHCHU - K633 and K635 THIRU-VALLUVAR discourses on the duties of the King's Ministers* in the THIRUKKURAL: AMAICCHU - K633 and K635 [* In presentday context, read as Minister(s) of State, Secretary of State, Special Counselors in the government, etc.] K633: piriththalum peenik* kolallum pirinththaarp poruththalum vallathu amaichchu [* peeni = to cherish; *amaichchu (manthiri) = minister of state] A minister is he whose power can foes divide, Attack more firmly friends, of severed ones can heal the breaches wide. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The minister is one who can effect discord (among foes) , maintain the good-will of his friends and restore to friendship those who have seceded (from him) . (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) To set asunder foes and (yet) to cherish (them) , to bring together (again) those gone astray are (among the) duties of the minister. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K635: aranarinththu aantruamainththa* chollaanenj ñaantrum thiranarinththaan theerththich* thunai [*aantruamainththa = full, perfect, complete; theerththich = accurate knowledge] The man who virtue knows, has use of wise and pleasant words, With plans for every season apt, in counsel aid affords. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He is the best helper (of the king) who understanding the duties, of the latter, is by his special learning, able to tender the fullest advice, and at all times conversant with the best method (of performing actions) . (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) He who deviates not from virtuous conduct and is always eloquently able at imparting apt advice, employing means informed by accurate knowledge, serves as a staunch pillar holding up the realm. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: I woke up in the middle of the morning dream Villanelle: I woke up in the middle of the morning dream 'Happy Birthday' Amerika! I woke up in the middle of the morning dream Found my family sucked under plastic carpet slime Too late to draw the shutters or let out a scream My father in his rocking chair choked in pipe-dream My children all out on the lawn playing at crime I woke up in the middle of the morning dream My mother in the kitchen plastered full of cream The baby in the cradle cage covered in slime Too late to draw the shutters or let out a scream I plucked the iPhone floating past broken pipes steam To call my Senator through unplugged bathtub grime I woke up in the middle of the morning dream Two eels came slithering out of the wall's cracked beam And the basement coughed up miles and miles of rude rhyme Too late to draw the shutters or let out a scream I saw my country sinking under stale ice-cream And the President on breaking news making mime I woke up in the middle of the morning dream Too late to draw the shutters or let out a scream © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Further qualities of the King the THIRUK-KURAL lauds: IRAMAADCHI - Canto 39, K381 and K382 Further qualities of the King* the THIRUK-KURAL lauds: IRAMAADTCHI - Canto 39, K381 and K382 [*modern-day 'kings': presidents, prime and chief ministers, governors, dictators and the like; K381 & K382 have already been posted.] K383: thuungkaamai kalvi thunivudaimai immuuntrum niingkaa nilanaal pavarkku A sleepless promptitude, knowledge, decision strong: These three for aye [sic] to rulers of the land belong. (Transl. G.U. Pope) These three things, viz., vigilance, learning, and bravery, should never be wanting in the ruler of the country. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Not being lulled to sleep, always acquiring knowledge and fearlessly assuming the lead - these three qualities crown the king of a country. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K384: aranilukkaathu allavai* niikki maran*ilukkaa maanam* udaiyathu arasu [* 'allavai' = sins, evils, unreal things; 'maran' = bravery; 'maanam' = honour] Kingship, in virtue failing not, all vice restrains, In courage failing not, it honour's grace maintains. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He is a king who, with manly modesty, swerves not from virtue, and refrains from vice. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Always virtuous, eschewing evil, heroic in deed and honour-bound - of such mettle the sovereign should be.* (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* Which leader in our world embodies the dictates (and constraints) in this maxim? One often goes to war for seemingly righteous causes, sacrificing footsoldier lives in order to fill some 'cartel's' private coffers; or one might endeavour to boost the growth rate by half a dozen % points only to draw the polar ice-caps down on our children's heads and throats; one might build the finest sky-scrapers of the future megalopolises on the slave-wages of indentured immigrant labour only to deprive them of human rights in the name of the Supreme Creator; one might nonchalantly let city-centres choke in the fumes of carbon monoxide and let human excreta pile up on the roadsides in the name of cultural and spiritual enhancement through the pomp of rallies and manifestations on a grand scale and for what? - to keep the soul purified? - while the 'kings' of spiritual development rely still on the divine right to rule the poor bugger down below, conditioned by words from the cradle! ] T. Wignesan, June 29,2017 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Further observations in the THIRUK-KURAL on those who would be King: K389 and K390 WITHOUT COMMENT Further observations in the THIRUK-KURAL on those* who would be King: K389 and K390 WITHOUT COMMENT [* such as short-term presidents, chief and prime ministers, governors, dictators and the like] K389: chevikaippach chotporukkum panpudai veenthan kavikaikkiilth thangkum ulakam [chevi = ear; kaippu = bitterness; kavikai = umbrella] The king of worth, who can words bitter to his ear endure, Beneath the shadow of his power the world abides secure. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The whole world will dwell under the umbrella of the king, who can bear words that embitter the ear. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) When scathing words assail to no avail the ear of a nobly forbearing sovereign, the world will find refuge under his panoply. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [Note: NO COMMENT] K390: kodaiali chengkOl kudiOmbal naankum udaiyaanaam veentharkku oli Gifts, grace, right sceptre, care of people's weal; These four a light of dreaded kings reveal. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He is the light of kings who has these four things, beneficence, benevolence, rectitude, and care for his people. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Liberal giving, kindness, just rule, protection of subjects -- the king who enshrines these attributes, yes, shines forth a (celestial) luminary. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [Note: NO COMMENT] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Acute advice to those who would be King from the THIRUKKURAL: Valiarithal K475 Acute advice for those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL: Valiarithal - K475 [*like presidents, prime and chief ministers, dictators or even modern-day 'emperors' under the guise of revolutionary leaders of oppressed peoples] Note: In this the 48th Canto, Valluvar is back - from the purely literary point of view, given his ultimate reasons for maintaining the decadal format for each topic - to composing epigrams some of which merely serve to 'fill in' and complete (as I have repeatedly reminded the reader) the decade. Here, the first two distiques are of a general introductory nature; the next two, the key statements contain his pronouncements on the theme of 'how to wield power' in politics; the following two re-capture in imagic form the teaching in the previous couple, and the last four - no less literary gems in prosodic exercises - mere repetitious variations of the main premise enunciated in 473 and 474.] T. Wignesan K475: piilipey saakaadum acchuirum appandam saala mikuthup peyin With peacock feather light, you load the wain; Yet, heaped too high, the axle snaps in twain. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The axle tree of a bandy, loaded only with peacocks' feathers will break, if it be greatly overloaded. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Load to an inordinate degree even peacock feathers onto a wagon and the axle will snap. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [ANALYSIS: 'piili' = peacock's feathers; 'pey' = drop (as rain) , pour in, place, assemble; 'achchu' = axle; 'saakaadu' = a wagon; 'iru' = break/'irum' = will break; 'pandam' = material, goods; 'saala' = to be full, abundantly; 'mikuththup peyin' = should it be overloaded. The likelihood of a metallic axle (unless the author specifically wishes to denote a wagon of some non-metallic material) giving way under the weight of peacock feathers conjures up such a far-fetched image that, it is evident, Thiru-Valluvar was trying to draw attention to the over-weaning sense of selfconceit in a certain type of individual leader (the subject of treatment in this chapter) who would like the peacock strut around, feathers splayed out in full array, proud of the the spectacle he was promoting, rather than hint at the vehicle coming to a standstill. Here, the dazzling beauty of dark-blue and green 'eyes' (like king cobras swaying for the kill, their hoods spreadout) of the fanned-out feathers, all in an effort to win the favours of the peahen, accompanied by the nuptial dance's uppity movements, contrasts with the lifelessness and cold hardness of the carriage - the latter serving to eke out the metaphor as a warning to the king who does not perceive the ruin at the door of his reign should he devote himself to the 'frivolities' of egoinflation rather than hark to the duties of the monarch which are to protect, preserve and pander to the needs of the peoples under his charge, at large. Participating in sword dances with Saudi dervishes might or can involuntarily slay the nonchalant dancer or his co-revelers! Studded gold-chains notwithstanding nor charms and amulets of scented Arabian Nights! ] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Appropriate advice to those who would be King from the THIRUKKURAL: VALIARITHAL, K473 and K474 appropriate advice from the THIRUK-KURAL to those* who would be King: VALIARITHAL - Understanding the Wielding of Power, K473 and K474 [*like presidents, prime and chief ministers, dictators or even modern-day 'emperors' under the guise of revolutionary leaders of oppressed peoples] Note: In this the 48th Canto, Valluvar is back - from the purely literary point of view, given his ultimate reasons for maintaining the decadal format for each topic - to composing epigrams some of which merely serve to 'fill in', as I have repeatedly reminded the reader, the decade. Here, the first two distiques are of a general introductory nature; the next two, the key statements contain his pronouncements on the theme of 'how to wield power' in politics; the following two re-capture in imagic form the teaching in the previous couple, and the last four - no less literary gems in prosodic exercises - mere repetitious variations of the main premise enunciated in 473 and 474.] T. Wignesan K473: *udaiththam valiariyaar uukkaththin uukki *idaikkan murinththaar palar Ill-deeming of their proper powers, have many monarchs striven, And mid-most of unequal conflict fallen asunder riven. (Transl. G.U. Pope) There are many who, ignorant of their (want of) power (to meet it) , have haughtily set out to war, and broken down in the midst of it. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Those who ill-assessing their own might push on heedless in strife will topple - as many have - from the pinnacle. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*udaiththamvali = 1. 'udai' strengthens 'tham' (own) ; 2. having prevailing power; 3. power which will be broken (weak, fragile) . *'idaikkanmuri' = fall from high estate] K474: amainththaangku olukaan alavuariyaan thannai viyanththaan virainthu kedum Who not agrees with those around, no moderation knows, In self-applause indulging, swift to ruin goes. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He will quickly perish who, ignorant of his own resources flatters himself of his greatness, and does not live in peace with his neighbours. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) He* whose conduct is in discord with that of his fellows checks not himself, but indulges in self-praise, invites swift doom. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*The only misplaced 'self-praise' one can level against President OBAMA is when he maintained after the last presidential count that, had he had a third term to run for, he would have won the Oval Office again, and this to single out Hilary Clinton's dismal defeat in spite of all that he had done to back her, y compris et malgré the debacle of the Russian electoral interference. Otherwise nothing justifies the short-sighted 'wielding of power' to undo all the good that he had introduced and put in place with modesty, consideration, generosity and dignity.] (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 More appropriate advice from the THIRUK-KURAL for those who would be King More appropriate advice from the THIRUK-KURAL to those* who would be King: VALIARITHAL - Understanding the Wielding of Power [*like presidents, prime and chief ministers, dictators or even modern-day 'emperors' under the guise of revolutionary leaders of oppressed peoples] Note: In this the 48th Canto, Valluvar is back - from the purely literary point of view, given his ultimate reasons for maintaining the decadal format for each topic - to composing his epigrams some of which merely serve to 'fill in', as I have repeatedly reminded the reader, the decade. Here, the first two distiques are of a general introductory nature; the next two, the key statements contain his pronouncements on the theme of 'how to wield power' in politics; the following two re-capture in imagic form the teaching in the previous couple, and the last four - no less literary gems in prosodic exercises - mere repetitious variations of the main premise enunciated in 473 and 474.] T. Wignesan K471: vinaivaliyum thanvaliyum maatraan valiyum thunaivaliyum thuukkich cheyal The force the strife demands, the force he owns, the force of foes, The force of friends: these should he weigh ere to the war he goes. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Let (one) weigh well the strength of the deed (he purposes to do) , his own strength, the strength of his enemy, and the strength of the allies (of both) , and then let him act. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) In all belligerent activity* consider well one's own strength, the might of the enemy, and those of helpers on either side before setting forth. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*vinai has four senses: 1. action in general; 2. retributive action; 3. warlike operations: and 4. hostility.] K472: olvathu arivathu arinthathan kanthanggich chelvaarkkuch chellaathathu il Who know what can be wrought, with knowledge of the means, on this, Their mind firm set, go forth, nought goes with them amiss. (Transl. G.U. Pope) There is nothing which may not be accomplished by those who, before they attack (an enemy) , make themselves acquainted with their own ability, and with whatever else is (needful) to be known, and apply themselves wholly to their object. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) If one knows what is possible*, without letting any unknown aspect or facet to cloud his mind, then no failure will await him in his undertaking. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* olvathu = what is possible] (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 On men of high birth or station, the THIRUK-KURAL admonishes On men* of high birth or station, the THIRUK-KURAL admonishes [*on modern-day Kings, Emperors, Dictators and the like leading nations declining as powers through faults of their own ] K963: perukkaththu veendum panithal siriya surukkaththu veendum uyaavu Bow down thy soul, with increase blest, in happy hour; Lift up thy heart, when stript of all by fortune's power. (Transl. G.U.Pope) In great prosperity humility is becoming; dignity, in great adversity. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) - When life bestows upon you fortune, be humble; when life by-passes you, maintain still your dignity.* (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* boast not of your fertile 'imagination' nor of your vaunted 'original idea' for ideas are - as you know - dime a dozen, Mr. President, for most even at that rate can get to be richer than you if they were not blocked by the likes of you]- K964: thalaiyin ilinththa mayir anaiyaa maanthar nilaiyin ilinththak kadai Like hairs from off the head that fall to earth, When fall'n from high estate are men of noble birth. (Transl. G.U. Pope) They who have fallen from their (high) position are like the hair which has fallen from the head. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Just as strands from the scalp wilt, so do those from exalted positions fall to the lowliest depths. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K969: mayirniippin vaalaak kavarimaa annaar uyirniippar maanam varin Like the wild ox that, of its tuft bereft, will pine away, Are those who, of their honour shorn, will quit the light of day. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Those who give up (their) life when (their) honour is at stake are like the yark [sic] which kills itself at the loss of (even one of) its hairs. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Much as the kavarimaan* would lay its life down for good should one strand of its hair be shed, so should the high-minded whose honour is called into question. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* kavarimaan: a mythic animal in literature] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Further relevant observations on Kingship from the THIRUKKURAL Further relevant observations on Kingship* picked at random from the THIRUKKURAL [* generic term for heads of state, dictators and the like] K738: piniyinmai chelvam vilaivuinbam eemam anienba naadditkuiv ainthum A country's jewels are these five: unfailing health, Fertility, and joy, a sure defence, and wealth. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Freedom from epidemics, wealth, produce, happiness and protection (to subjects) ; these five, the learned, say, are the ornaments of a kingdom. (Transl. Drew& Lazarus) Free of pandemics, (reserves of) wealth (ensured) , crops (galore) , (the populace) enjoying life and (the topographical layout of the land conducive to) defence of the territory - these constitute the five ornaments of the land. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K740: aangguamaivu eithiyak kannum payaminree veenthuamai villaatha naadu Though blest with all these varied gifts' increase, A land gains nought that is not with its king at peace. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Although in possession of all the above mentioned excellences, these are indeed of no use to a country, in the absence of harmony between the sovereign and the subjects. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) All the above endowments [and much more in eight other couplets in the chapter] are of scant advantage if the king enjoys not the trust and loyalty of his subjects.* (Transl. T. Wignesan) *Despite what fluctuating polls may say. © T.Wignesan - Paris,2017 Additional advice to those would be King from the THIRUKKURAL with Commentary Additional free advice to those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with Commentary [*like presidents, prime ministers, dictators of declining (falling or fallen) nations or even empires] K442: urranOy niikki uraa amai munkaakkum petriyaarp peenik kolal Cherish the all-accomplished men as friends, Whose skill the present ill removes, from coming ills defends. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Let (a king) procure and kindly care for men who can overcome difficulties when they occur, and guard against them before they happen. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Pope here makes a comment on Beschi's latin rendering of the maxim which we cannot attribute to him, for he adds the words: 'See Pancatantra': 'Evils come from gods [read this word here as'Nature' - my interpolation] (malaiinmai/droughts, mikumalai/excessive rains, kaartru/winds, thii/fire, pini/disease) ; or from men (pakaivar/enemies, kalvar/thieves, chuttraththaar/kindred, tholilseyvoor/servants) . To remove the former, atonements (saanthigal) must be used. For the latter, the four methods (saamapeethathaanathandangkal) of pacification, disruption, gift, and punishment must be used.' Commentary: Atonements? Can a whole nation, where collective responsibility is the case, atone for its misdeeds? For instance, for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Hardly likely. Most unlikely, so let Nature wreak its ravages: let loose typhoons, hurricanes, tsunamis and the like, taking into consideration President Trump's refusal to commit the USA to climate change rescue in Paris. As for the latter where individuals or groups of individuals are the perpetrators, THIRU-VALLUVAR's advice can make much sense even in our hotchpotch day and splintered age. Let's take just one aspect of the issues at stake: IMMIGRATION and resort to just one form of remedy: PUNISHMENT. First, massive immigration destabilizes society at large, engenders wherever sizeable minorities gather and take root, differences of opinion, ways and aims of life which produce conflictual situations that do not contribute to harmonious relations, on the one hand, among the diverse immigrant populations, and on the other, with the host communities whether or not their inter-personal perceptions, faiths, attitudes, customs, sense of respect for one anothers' practice of conventions, and ingrained methods of abiding or not by the laws of the country of reception differ or are even partially similar. The illegal immigrant is by necessity and definition a 'criminal' who has little to lose but his soul. He is an interloper in a society where - according to all previous aspirations - his hoped-for higher economic condition must be made to prevail over all others who pose by necessity a threat to his safety. In such a conflictual situation the battle is waged first and foremost against his rival - the other immigrant serving another 'god'. And here, the battle is a freefor- all where the villain is whoever who can take, pluck, steal, dupe, con, batter and even kill. The host merely shuts a conniving eye. When the immigrant populations achieve their aims, and rise above their initial menial circumstances, then they turn on their hosts, passports and citizenship papers in hand, that is, when they feel comfortable enough to sleep with the host's spouses and sire future presidents with the host's daughters; so what's the solution? SIMPLE. CLOSE ALL BORDERS. SEAL ALL ENTRANCES! 1. Instead of the WALL, construct a high-powered ELECTRIC CORRIDOR; if need be, even in the north. Patrol the shores: this is done normally anyway. (Demonstrate what would happen on tv to those who would want to 'scale' the corridor: 'Poulet roti' à la française* could serve as a good convincing example.) 2. Impose heavy fines on those who fly, railroad or ship illegal immigrants as a first offence. Especially on foreign airlines and travel agencies. 3. Second offenders must be crippled with payments they cannot afford. 4. Thereafter, prison sentences must be handed out without fail. 5. Next, deportation must be resorted to wherever and whenver possible, if it does not inhumanely split up families - children from parents. 6. All guilty of illegal entry must be made to pay off their 'crime' by working on farms and 'outsourcing' installations in a COLONY to be created within the States, under supervision by the authorities. This is not a PRISON, and if anyone chooses to leave* the 'premises', he or she should be invited to work for his or her passage to wherever the person came from, in the first place. 7. Jordon and Turkey have absorbed masses of Syrian refugees. Why can't oilrich nations: Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States be persuaded to lay out the red carpet to their brethren? Likewise with other rich Afro- Asian nations with others who flee their own tortuous shores? * Just to give you an idea of how the Socialist French (who will be ousted in tomorrow's confirmation general elections) grill their chicken, sample this: In 1983 and 1984, I appealed to the Socialist President François MITTERAND for a 'sauf conduit' (safe conduct pass) for me and my handicapped son out of the country. On the second appeal, I received an invitation from the president's Human Rights Counsellor, Mme Cécile SPORTIS to the Elysée Palace (read as the 'White House') . After listening to me for over an hour, she asked for the proof which I provided in a dossier surpassing some 500 pages of documents and letters, etc. Appalled, she promised to shake heaven and earth to set things right. She asked me to call back 'in a month'. I did. Her secretary said that there was no trace of my file, except for a letter to a lawyer Me Jean-Jacques de Félice. I wanted to know the decision of the President. She said there was none. André Fontaine, then the Chief Editor of the Le Monde paper called to check with the president. His reply was that, as I was not a 'diplomat', he could not issue me a 'sauf conduit' out of the country. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 More advice for those who would be King from the THIRUKKURAL with Notes More free advice to those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with notes [*like presidents, prime ministers, dictators of declining (falling or fallen) nations] K386: kaadchikku eliyan kaduñchollan allanaal miikkuurum mannan nilam Where king is easy of access, where no harsh word repels, That land's high praises every subject swells. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The whole world will exalt the country of the king who is easy of access, and whose words are without harshness. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Where at royal audience all may attend a king gentle of voice and mien*, That kingdom's praises all will sing. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* recourse to threats and reprisals can only undermine the good name of the land] K429: viyavatka eññaantrum thannai nayavatka nantri payavaa vinai Never indulge in self-complaisant mood, Nor deed desire that yields no gain of good. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Let not a king praise himself, at any time; let him not desire to do useless things. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) (The king) should neither blow his own horn Nor occupy himself with acts* that bring in no corn. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [* like building a porous wall on borrowed cash while tens of millions of the poor sick die in pain, EVEN IF AMERICA will wake up some day to realize that he was after all right about the measures he's wanting to take over IMMIGRATION, unless everybody wants the kind of irreversible situation FRANCE and GERMANY are going through.] K454: manaththu ulathupOlak kaadti oruvat inaththula thaakum arivu Man's wisdom seems the offspring of his mind; 'Tis outcome of companionship we find. (Tranls. G.U. Pope) The knowledge of a man, while it appears to be from his mind is (really) from his associates. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) [(The king) who makes as if his words (and ideas) * emanate from within himself, (the contrary being the case) will find it difficult to conceal their true source(s) . (Transl T. Wignesan) ] [* A king who has difficulty expressing himself in the 'King's English' and whose repertoire of epithets is mostly limited to: 'terrific', 'terrible', 'horrible', 'horrific', 'wonderful', 'tremendous' along with threatening phrases like 'watch my words' would do well to ask the ghost-writers to step forward and take a bow.] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Limerick crochetes: Once a blaring braying bold trumpet Limerick crochetés: Once a blaring braying bold trumpet for Nicanor PARRA Once a blaring braying bold trumpet Used to serenading mere strumpet Could not hold back loud fart While entertaining tart Now the tart on his fart took a bet That she'd hold back twittering trumpet If his strumpet balls bowl in cricket So great fanfare to start Nations came to hear fart Trumpet let down strumpet: tart lost bet (can be continued…) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Free advice to those who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with Notes Free advice to those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with notes [*like presidents and prime ministers of declining (falling or fallen) nations] K381: padaikudi kuulamaiccu nadpuaran aarum yudaiyaan arasarul eeru An army, people, wealth, a minister, friends, fort: Who owns them all, a lion lives amid the kings. (Transl. G.U.Pope) [army= the most formidable air, sea and land forces; wealth= minus the eighteen (?) trillion debt and not counting his own well-earned piddling billions; a minister=read as Prime Minister (V.P. or Sec. of State?) ; people=less by three million-odd democratic votes; friends=dwindling, save for staunch Israel by marriage; fort=impenetrable nuclear shield. ] K448: idippaarai illaatha eemaraa mannan keduppaar ilaanum kedum The king, who is without the guard of men who can rebuke him, will perish, even though there be no one to destroy him. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) K444: thammit periyaar thamaraa olukuthal vanmaiyul ellaam thalai So to act as to make those men, his own, who are greater than himself, is of all power the highest. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) K447: idikkum thunaiyarai aalvaarai yaaree kedukkum thakaimai yavar Which king who (encourages and) heeds the criticisms* of his henchmen fears conspirators? (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*not-heeding the advice of Ivanka and son-in-law on climate change commitment in Paris, even if the polls show a majority in favour of polluting the planet.] K448: iduppaarai illaatha eemaraa mannan keduppaar ilaanum kedum The king who insulates himself from his helpers'* critiques will perish even if his enemies left him alone. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [*the role of the media in keeping the WH incumbents in check, for without the journalists working over-time to whet and wet-blanket the language and blunders, the King would have perished by now.] K450: pallaar pakaikollin paththaduttha thiimaiththee nallaar thodarkai vidal Having to put up with the enmity of legions* is ten times less harmful than forsaking the support of good (impartial) people*. [*legions= Hillary Clinton and the NDP; *good (impartial) people= like FBI Dir. Comey for one, even if he has an eye (twenty-twenty vision) on the presidency in 2020] © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K169 and K170 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary K169 and K170 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary [If one could put together all that has been said, written and published on the Thiruk-Kural and on its progenitor Thiru-Valluvar, it could easily, I'd wager, exceed the volumes of the heftiest encyclopaedias, and yet one gets the feeling nothing really new, enlightening or elucidating appears to be added to our knowledge of the subject every time a new book of translation or criticism or academic research surfaces. Recently, I was asked to edit the papers in English contributed to yet another major conference on the book in India, and I must admit some few showed remarkable ability in their scholarship, but the callousness and avidity - and even downright trickery - of the organiser I was in touch with make me wonder if there can be any virtue in getting together savants in the language for yet another effort to propagate the greatness of the author when the wisdom couched in the maxims is quite evidently overlooked. Each contributor - as well as the organizing body - appears to be imbued with the idea of being elevated high above their humdrum or lofty status merely by pronouncing on some aspect of pet notions on either the book or its author or both. The real worth of the book's aims seems to be ignored. Or else it is nonchalantly taken for granted. I couldn't help detecting the role of vanity and self-arrogation to a rather high degree in a certain number of those concerned. But then, even 'great minds' over the ages kept making statements on the book which seem to shed 'greater light' on their own egos and on their own level of sagacity than on the specificity of Thiru-Valluvar's expositions on the motivations, say, of human behaviour at large, such as, the observations by the author on the topic of this chapter. Everybody seems to take for granted the unchanging nature of the polity as delineated by Thiru-Valluvar in Book Two on 'Wealth' (Artha/Porudpaal) , and the dalliances of flirtatious feelings and emotions in the questionable invariability of mores in Book Three on 'Love' (Kama or Inbam) par rapport of succeeding ages. Even the inviolable tenets and principles of Book One on 'Virtue' have over the ages undergone much wear and tear to make them less than wholly viable these days, so much so that the book cries out for re-evaluation, though the only constant factor in Thiruk-Kural studies is the personality of the author, himself. No one can, even if they wanted to, dispute his literary genius. As an admiring student of the book, myself (I certainly am no expert in the language of the Kural nor of Tamil literature at large) , I have put myself to some pains through study of the works of experts in the field to demonstrate the complexity and archi-difficulty in composing the Thiruk-Kural and this in several sites devoted to poetry on the Internet. As such, I do hope the leaders of the Tamil intelligentsia and their political backers would not parade their emotions in conference after conference for the sake of the so-called greater glory of Tamil populations all over the world, but would rather deploy their efforts in the strict exegesis of the text itself. Much work needs to be undertaken in this regard in times to come, and it will serve to fence in and circumvent organisers of conferences who are determined petty peddlars of their own image and glory. And it might also turn out that the book's true value may lie elsewhere than in the predictable consequences of posturing academic practices.] T. Wignesan, June 6,2017 K169: avviya neñcatthaan aakkamum cevviyaan keedum ninaikkap padum To men of envious heart, when comes increase of joy, Or loss to blameless men, the 'why' will thoughtful hearts employ. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The wealth of a man of envious mind and the poverty of an upright man will be pondered. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The envious-minded person's wealth and the sorry plight of those who know no envy - just think on this! (Transl. T. Wignesan) K170: alukkartru akanraalum illai ahthillaar perukkatthil thiirtthaarum il No envious men to large and full felicity attain; No men from envy free have failed a sure increase to gain. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Never have the envious become great, never have those who are free from envy been without greatness. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) No envious person has attained to greatness, nor have those who envy not fallen from grace. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K167 and K168 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary K167 and K168 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary [Here, again, in these two couplets Thiru-Valluvar is having the time of his life making his followers dread the consequences of what he certainly considers the worst of all sins: ENVY. He has therefore recourse to Hindu mythological allusions: in K167, the Goddess Lakshmi (by the way, Hindu imagination has - according to all reports - concocted some 300 million gods: I wonder who convened them all to take a head count, for he certainly must have passed away before the job was completed!) who is the Goddess of Good Fortune, and her elder sister Jyeshtha who destroys the good fortune of enemies taking the form of a She-Devil, both paps and belly hanging low. In K168, we are threatened with hell, itself, in the next life.] T. Wignesan, June 5,2017 avvitthu alukkaaru udaiyaanaic ceyyaval thavvaiyyaik kaadti vidum From envious men good fortune's goddess turns away, Grudging him good, and points him out misfortune's prey. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Lakshmi envying the prosperity of the envious man wil depart and introduce her sister to him. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Unable to tolerate those possessed of/by envy, the Goddess Lakshmi will keep her distance from them by letting Jyeshtha get closer to them. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [Note the use of adequate symbolism here: Lakshmi = Heaven; Jyeshtha = Hell.] K168: alukkaaru ena oru paavi thiruccertruth thiiuli uytthu vidum Envy, embodied ill, incomparable bane, Good fortune slays, and soul consigns to fiery pain. (Transl. G.U. Pope) The sinner's envy will destroy (a man's) wealth (in this world) and drive him into the pit of fire (in the next world) . (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The envious person being an incomparable sinner will see his wealth dispersed and his life thereafter wither in Hell's furnaces. (Transl. T. Wignesan) [ The contrary also could very well be the case. I do not think Thiru-Valluvar actually believed this to be true, but, knowing how his fellowmen suffer most of all from this malady, he was probably trying his best to dissuade them from wasting their time playing their most favourite of all their games. In any case, if he were here today, he would be hard put to prove the truth of this maxim of his. I'm convinced in his heart of hearts, he gave himself no end of fun composing a good many of his couplets.] T. Wignesan, June 5,2017. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K165 and K166 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary 165 and K166 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations and Commentary (continued) (Commentary: The more I delve into Thiru-Valluvar's work, the more I'm convinced that it's not in each and every couplet that the poet's inestimable worth is ingrained; rather the self-imposed 'decade' for each topic appears to be an exercise in flexing his mental poetic muscles. For instance, take K166 - see here below - the author wants us to believe that the envious person will lose his kith and kin, his clothing and food supply. The question is, do those who conserve all the above: relatives, clothing and food, are they - all things being equal - NOT envious. I would not be wrong in thinking that most people enjoy the favours of their relatives, are pretty well clothed {at the risk of being arrested on the charge of indecency}, and survive through imbibing some sort of victuals. Are all these people then NOT enviousminded? I have a feeling Thiruvalluvar is just trying to drive terror into the hearts of those who may be inclined towards being envious. If, on the contrary, he is right, then it would follow that the vast majority of the humankind is not plagued with envy, and so we may all skip this chapter in the book, for it would become redundant. And then again, he may merely be indulging in 'filling in' the decade for some other purpose, and I think I can explain why. Not now though. I leave you to contemplate on the following distique of his: uduppathuum unnpathuum kaanin pirarmeel vadukkaana varraakum kiil The base will bring an evil (accusation) against others, as soon as he sees them (enjoying) good food and clothing (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) ] T. Wignesan, June 4,2017. K165: alukkaaru udaiyaarkku athusaalum onnaar valukkiyum keediin pathu Envy they have within! Enough to seal their fate? Though foemen fail, envy can ruin consummate. (Transl. G.U. Pope) To those who cherish envy that is enough. Though enemies fail (in their attempts) , that will bring destruction. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Those riven by envy even if enemies falter in their efforts to wreak harm on them, they will perish of their own accord. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K166: koduppathu alukkarupaan curram uduppathuu um unpathu um inrik kedum Who scans good gifts to others given with envious eyes, His kin, with none to clothe or feed them, surely die. (Transl. G.U. Pope) He who is envious at a gift (made to another) , his relations and even his clothing and his food will utterly perish. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Should one espy with envy what is given to others, he will lose the favours of his kith and kin, and even his clothing and his food supply. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K163 and K164 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translations K163 and K164 of CANTO XVII of the THIRUK-KURAL with Translation (continued) K163: aran aakkam veendaathaan enbaan piranaakkam peenaathu alukkarup paan Nor wealth nor virtue does that man desire, 'tis plain, Whom others' wealth delights not, feeling envious pain. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Of him who instead of rejoicing in the wealth of others, envies it, it will be said, 'He neither desires virtue nor wealth.' (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) He who prefers to live in envy of other people's wealth, rejecting the benefits accrueing in a virtuous envy-free life is one who will be blessed with neither. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K164: alukkaartrin allavai seyyaar ilukkaatrin eetham padupaakku arinthu The wise through envy break not virtue's laws, Knowing ill-deeds of foul disgrace the cause. (Transl. G.U. Pope) (The wise) knowing the misery that comes from transgression will not through envy commit unrighteous deeds. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Sensible people realising the harm envy abets them to commit are likewise conscious of the harm that will engulf them (if they give in to their impulsions) . (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 On the need to avoid being envious: CANTO XVII, K161, K162 of the THIRUK-KURAL On the need to avoid being envious: Canto XVII, K161, K162 of the THIRUK-KURAL, Translation with Commentary [ ENVY, of course, knows no racial nor ethnic boundaries, but I wouldn't be wrong, I dare say, in thinking or assuming that being envious in an inveterate manner could be considered one of the principal Tamil character traits. How else may one explain the total lack of verifiable information on Thiru- VALLUVAR's life and times? What we know and have of him is a dismal kyrielle of hearsay and myth, together with some linguistic evidence culled from his work linking him to the Kanyakumari district of Tamil Nadu, but this isn't evidence which sheds light on his personality or educational background or, for that matter, his professional or personal circumstances without which - since he has not given us any clue or aperture to his self in his work - we cannot with certainty pronounce on the influences he was subject to, nor whether he was amenable to such influences either. It is quite obvious he was the object of much 'envy' on the part of his peers. My hunch is that his enormous capabilities, knowledge and energy might have invited 'oppression' from all quarters. Envy, as we all know, plays no great part once the period of his/one's generation or two comes to an end. And somehow the Thiru-Kural was preserved and handed down by successive generations who were not plagued by the presence of the author. One possibility of suppression owing to envy may have been his social caste status. Upper caste Tamils of his time - if he belonged to a lower or the lowest caste such as it was presumed in his case - might not want a priest of the Valluvar caste to outshine them. Normal reaction among Tamils! I have said elsewhere he 'deliberately' - knowing the situation he was in - left us some clues in his work which would ensure its perennity. Sooner or later, I'll deal with this topic: Stay tuned in! Just a word on THIRUKKURAL publications and conferences: To say the least, these are so numerous and breast-beating (now that the poet is absent) , and like all money-raking shenanigans, the book is sure-fire attraction the moment some publisher or institution of learning decides to do one or the other, often with the backing of the Tamil Nadu Government or some Tamil diaspora authority. The Thirukkural has long attained the status of a 'bible' among the Tamil populations, so much so that nothing rakes in the cash as the celebration of a bard of incontestable honour and reign which translates as something as close to the deification of the author through his work. As everybody knows, ask in the name of the giver's god and none will withhold even their last penny! In every decade, the number of publications or conferences tend to become ever so redundant that there is grave danger the contents of the treatise on ethics by our 'unknowable' poet might become so debased and mammon-ised (to coin a word) that Tamilian ethics may need to be recast by a second-coming of the poet, himself. Two recent readily-available paperback publications require singling out: 1. Thirukkural Tamil-English Version. Translations by Rev. G.U.Pope, Rev. W.H. Drew and Rev. John Lazarus. Chennai: Kumaran Pathippagam,2015,288p. Price Rs 140. (This version appears in clear print, and the translators hardly need to be introduced, for they number among the few who have rendered Tamils and foreigners interested in Tamil studies great service.) 2. Thirukkural. English Transliteration & Translation with CD. Chennai: The Wisdom World Publication,2016,276p. Price Rs 475. (Selections from eleven translators' efforts are proffered, among them Pope, Drew & Lazarus, with a totally muddled-up 'appreciation' by the Tamil Nadu government cultural affairs official in five short paragraphs and an obfuscating preface about the origins of the selections by V. Ramamurthy, both of whom quite frankly judging by their texts cannot possibly be knowledgeable in English. One would do well to discard the book pullulating in grammatical and printer's errors. The CD, only in Tamil, is worth keeping, though.) According to G.U. Pope, the Thirukkural, written in the venba metre lends itself to 'ceppalOsai', that is, the recitative or didactic tone, and this is further extended, according to the quantity of the feet in each couplet, into the 'balanced recitative', the 'grave recitative' (K397 is the only case) and the ' mixed recitative'. The great majority of the couplets are in the last category, giving rise to a variety of rhythms. K161: olukku aaraak kolka oruvanthan nencatthu alukkaaru ilaatha iyalpu As 'strict decorum's' laws, that all men bind, Let each regard unenvying grace of mind. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Let a man esteem that disposition which is free from envy in the same manner as propriety of conduct. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) One should in one's heart cherish the state of being devoid of envy and make that a cardinal principle of virtue. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K162: viluppeetrin ahthuoppathu illayaar maadtum alukkaatrin anmai perin If man can learn to envy none on earth, 'Tis richest gift, -- beyond compare its worth. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Amongst all attainable excellences there is none equal to that of being free from envy towards others. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Of all the most cherishable qualities one may strive to possess, nothing compares to that state of being where envy has no place. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K379 and K380 of Canto XXXVIII of the THIRUKKURAL Translated with Commentary K379 and K380 of Canto XXXVIII of the THIRUKKURAL, Translated with Commentary (Just a note on the translations to say that, even if G.U. Pope did more to research and elucidate the THIRUKKURAL, his translations - with some exceptions - bent on rhyme and stilted structure, require further interpretation and are sometimes needlessly obscure. W. H. Drew and John Lazarus's translations are generally quite clear, but tend sometimes towards needless expatiation. In my own rendering, I have tried to keep to the semantic ordering and grammatical structure wherever possible. Lest non-Tamils unfamiliar with the Kurals think that the author Thiruvalluvar also used punctuation marks found in the translations, would do well to note that Tamil writers of yore never had this bother to cope with. Besides, as Pope points out, the short and long vowels like 'o' and 'O' were undifferentiated in the original; now and then however the dot over the 'l' (there are three in the Tamil alphabet) was used to indicate the use of 'l' as 'ela' or 'la'.) T. Wignesan K379: nanraangkaal nallavaak kaanpavar anraangkaal allal paduvathu evan When good things come, men view them all as gain, When evils come, why then should they complain? (Transl. G.U. Pope) How is it that those, who are pleased with good fortune, trouble themselves when evil comes (since both are equally the decree of fate) ? (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) When everything goes well, we tend to enjoy life (for what it is worth) ; When things take a turn for the worse, why should we whine? (Transl. T. Wignesan) K380: uulin peruvali yaavula matruonru cuulinum thaanmunth thurum What powers so great as those of Destiny? Man's skill Some other thing contrives; but fate's beforehand still. (Transl. G.U. Pope) What is stronger than fate? If we think of an expedient (to avert it) , it will itself be with us before (the thought) . (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Is there force mightier than fate? It will forestall the very thought of one who tries to dodge it. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Who's afraid of Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth Villanelle: Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth (As unlikely as it may sound, this happens to be the TRUTH: the foremost French journalist, André FONTAINE of Le Monde; an illustrious Academician poet, Pierre EMMANUEL*; President de Gaulle's Prime Minister-President George POMPIDOU; de Gaulle's Minister of Foreign Affairs, Maurice SCHUMANN; a State Counsellor, brother of de Gaulle's Minister of Justice, Paul TEITGEN - all in one day on December 16th,1972, out-manoeuvred a dastardly plot by the French Left (Jean- Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, André Gorz, Me Jean-Jacques de Félice, Michel Foucault and an ex-Tunisian lawyer, etc.) to deprive me of any rights - while I was on my way from Madrid to London - at obtaining residence papers in France, so the constant persecution and attempts on my life - the first attempt in January 1977 having reduced/maimed my then infant son with a serious lifelong handicap - continue without respite. Others from the Left joined in, however, to ward off total destitution.) * I met Maurice Schumann and Paul Teitgen at Pierre Emmanuel's house on the evening of the day André Fontaine published my 'Témoignage: Sans Patrie Ni Asile' in the Le Monde, p.2 (16/12/1972. A few days later, while I was being grilled at the Paris Police HQ, President Georges Pompidou intervened directly by special courier from the Elysée Palace, and I was granted my papers on the spot, hardly twenty minutes later while (for the anecdote) a Black Panther who had hijacked a plane to Algiers was kept waiting at the door.- T. Wignesan, May 29,2017 Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth Its sage bite makes even more wise the scum bag Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth Wisdom teeth sink not well in scum bag for sooth No, the Great State first hoists its colours not flag Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth Scum bag the State drags on nails to give It worth Ride with medical care the wheezing old hag Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth Champion of noise nuissance the State drills tooth Keeps all scum bags sleepless till they sag and lag Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth The State drugs spouse rams her makes her rotten sleuth Takes into custody sons too weak to brag Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth Silly the State that lifts its glass of Vermuth One foot on scum bags the scourge of its Reichs tag Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 K375 and K376 of Canto XXXVIII of the THIRUKKURAL with Commentary K375 and K376 of Canto XXXVIII of the THIRUKKURAL Translated with Commentary (Biographical details of an author, especially of someone having thrived in a land given to scant regard for documenting history in a systematic manner and in a milieu where the oeuvre took precedence over its creator, may only be useful in elucidating some extraneously relevant literary data. In such a case, one need not lament the fact that we know practically nothing about the author of the Thirukkural. As I have already demonstrated, even his name « Valluvar » is a caste-oriented term, meaning a priest who officiated in a Hindu temple meant only for the purpose of serving the Untouchable caste. Besides, such a priest could not have had access to a vade mecum of knowledge of the entire spectrum of linguistic literary and philosophical aspects of Indian civilization. To attribute his literary skills and wisdom to the apostle St. Thomas or his worldly wiseness to his friendship with the captain of a sloop Eleela Cinkam begs simple common sense. On the other hand, to claim that he was a native of the Kanyakumari District in Tamil Nadu on the basis of some linguistic evidence in his work may appear sound at first glance, but in the absence of hard facts about his birth, family circumstances, education and role in society, we can do better than to hoist enormous statues in his memory. The Tamil Nadu government has erected a 133- foot statue off-shore at Kanyakumari in memory of the poet; so have they of contemporary politicians elsewhere who have like the late Chief Minister Jayalalitha fleeced the land and let the State stew in a kind of open sewer for decades now. My contention that he was an « unjustifiably oppressed » individual stems from the fact that whilst he lived his fellow countrymen did not enshrine his worth in more concrete terms of appreciation, and I would not be wrong in assuming he was the victim of sheer envy on the part of his fellowmen. He had even consecrated a chapter on the subject of ENVY, a form of pestilence that has plagued Tamils, if I'm not mistaken, throughout the ages. He found a way of getting his own back on his detractors, but that is another story for the moment.) T. Wignesan K375: nallavai ellaa am thiiyavaam thiiyavum nallavaam selvam seyatku All things that good appear will oft have ill success, All evil things prove good for gain of happiness. (Transl. G.U. Pope) In the acquisition of property, everything favourable becomes unfavourable, and (on the other hand) , everything unfavourable becomes favourable (through the power of fate) . (Transl. Drew and Lazarus) When in the act of acquiring wealth, all good omens can take a turn for the worse and vice versa. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K376 pariyinum aakaavaam paalalla uytthuc coriyinum pohkaa thama Things not your own will yield no good, however you guard with pain; Your own, howe'er you scatter them abroad, will yours remain. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Whatever is not conferred by fate cannot be preserved, although it be guarded with most painful care; and that, which fate has made his, cannot be lost, although one should undertake to throw it away. (Transl. Drew and Lazarus) What is meant to be yours is yours to keep, even if you went out of your way to throw it all away. Contrariwise the same principle applies. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan Paris,2017 K373 and K374 of the THIRUKKURAL Translated with Commentary K373 and K374 of the THIRUKKURAL: Translated with Commentary The poet's name, THIRUVALLUVAR [Thiru = Sacred and Valluvar = the name of the priesthood caste of the « Pariah » (whom Mahatma Gandhi prefered to call 'Harijans', 'the children of God') , is very probably a misnomer. His name is sometimes followed by the collective title of « Nayanar », a term signifying religious Siva Bhakti poets and whose work had been anthologised first in the collection: TEVARAM by Nambi Andar Nambi of the Xth to XIth century CE. No one knows his real name nor his origins, whereabouts and birth circumstances. G.U.Pope, one of the few great foreign scholars of Tamil, began his missionary work in the enclave of Mayilapur (meaning 'the township/bourgade of peacocks' in the city of Madras/Chennai, during the nineteenth century) . The term « pariah » denotes something most derogatory, for in the Hindu caste hierarchical system these members of the lowest non-caste were treated as 'defiled', not worthy of being seen or being found in their company, due to their having to handle corpses, serving as 'night soil men', employed in the tanning of animal skins and in other extreme menial duties and functions -- all considered 'unholy' by the upper castes]. Pope follows the claims of the popular tradition in thinking the poet lived and grew up there for there is to be found a temple consecrated to the poet in Mayilapur. Others like S. Padmanabhan and the Tamil Nadu authorities associate his name with Kanyakumari, the southernmost district of the Tamil peninsula on the strength of certain words in the Thirukkural which were in usage in the area during the first millenium of our era. Yet, others - Tamil Christians in the majority - wish him to have imbibed Christian doctrines and teachngs at the feet of the martyred apostle St. Thomas who was assassinated in Mayilapur, obviously in the first century of the Christ's existence. Pope and the great missionary translators and interpretors of the kurals, such as, D. H. Drew, John Lazarus, F. W. Ellis, the ilustrious Italian Beschi, the German Graul and the Frenchman Ariel -- all pay him their profoundest respect and admiration while drawing attention to the tradition of ethical maxims in other literary cultures to which Thiruvalluvar may or may not have had cognisance. As usual, as in all such cases, a good deal of myth also willingly gets spun, absorbed and perpetuated like the story of how he was the illegitimate issue of caste-miscegenation, that is, between a Brahmin father and a 'Pariah' mother. I have already in my previous posts shown how complicatedly arduous it is to compose a 'kural'in the venba metre, the most difficult of the Tamil prosodic structures. Add to this the plan and structure of the whole composition, and it will become evident that no one who had not enjoyed the highest literary and mental capacities could have authored this oeuvre. Even the language the poet used was free of 'sankriticisms', the principal linguistic influence over other languages in the sub-continent. According to Pope, himself, the language of the kural is a product of pure high Tamil. For instance, Tamils everywhere today would use innumerable words of Sanskrit or of other origins in their spoken or written forms like 'kobam' for 'anger' or 'sadtchi' for 'witness', but in the kural the poet employs 'vekuli' and 'kari' respectively, words of Tamil concoction. I, for myself, am convinced he was, as I said earlier on, 'unjustifiably oppressed'. In that case, how has his work survived the ages. That is because he outsmarted them all. I have my own « theory » or conjecture or deduction about it all. (T. Wignesan) K373: nunniya noolpala katpinum marrunthen unmai arivee mikum In subtle learning manifold though versed men be, The wisdom, truly his, will gain supremacy. (Transl. G.U.Pope) Although a man may study the most polished treatises, the knowledge which fate has decreed to him will still prevail. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) Even if one imbibes works from the most learned sources, knowledge that is inherent* in him owing to fate will triumph (over the rest) . [*in the sense of the inherited genetic code.] (Transl. T. Wignesan) K374: iruveeru ulakatthu iyatkai thiruveeru thelliyar aathalum veeru Two-fold the fashion of the world: some live in fortune's light; While other some have souls in wisdom's radiance light. (Transl. G.U. Pope) There are (through fate) two different natures in the world; hence the difference (observable in men) in (their acquisition of) wealth, and in their attainment of knowledge. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) The nature of the world is such that fate provides some with the ability to acquire wealth and others knowledge. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 THIRUKKURAL: Translation of Canto XXXVIII with commentary THIRUKKURAL: Translation of Canto XXXVIII with notes and commentary Canto XXXVIII of the Thirukkural on the topic of FATE which I give here in translation (by stages) forms, in itself, a separate 'book' in its own right, for it nullifies so-to-speak almost all the rest of what the poet Thiruvalluvar had to say in the rest of his oeuvre in one fell swoop. One cannot escape the fact that the author subscribes to the Oriental preoccupation with DESTINY as something pre-determined (as a result of one's balance of virtuous deeds or KARMA in the previous life) , something which conditions and controls all one's actions in the present life. There would therefore be something inviolable and invariable about the course one's life would take and which can be mitigated (if the karma produced a life wrought with insuperable obstacles and difficulties) only through penance by way of renouncing all desires and acquisitions; in short, to sacrifice one's life in order to avoid either being born again (vIdu/liberation or mOdcham/moksha) or of obtaining relief during one's présent life. Chapter XXXV on « Renunciation », Ch. XXXVI on the « Perception of Truth » and Ch. XXXVII on the « Extirpation of Desires » - all lead up to this fatidic climax, that is, that whatever one does one cannot 'hoodwink' fate. As the Yi Jing, too, prescribes, to put it succinctly in my own words: 'When fate comes knocking, there's no place on earth you can hide! ' Whether what happens is due to one's karma or not cannot however be proven, nor whether by resorting to asceticism as a shield from its ravages, one may elude fate must remain an inflexible conundrum. From the maxims in this decade, one can divine the author was convinced of the role of fate in our lives. K371: aakuulaal thoonrum adaivinmai kaipporul pookuulal thoonrum madi Wealth-giving fate power of unflinching effort brings; From fate that takes away idle remissness springs. (Transl. G.U. Pope) Perseverance comes from a prosperous fate, and idleness from an adverse fate. (Tranls. Drew & Lazarus) Activity that increases one's possessions fate will promote while the lack of activity that lethargy engenders is (also) the oeuvre of fate. (Transl. T. Wignesan) K372: peethaip padukkum ilavuul arivakarrum aakaluul urrak kadai The fate that loss ordains makes wise men's wisdom foolishness; The fate that gain bestows with ampler powers will wisdom bless. (Transl. G.U.Pope) An adverse fate produces folly, and a prosperous fate produces enlarged knowledge. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus) When adverse fate comes around, it will limit one's knowledge; favourable fate produces the contrary effect of making knowledge blossom. (Transl. T. Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Whenever Life stamps me down under heels Villanelle: Whenever Life stamps me down under heels Whenever Life stamps me down under heels I think of those who died living deaths young So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals Ages gone by how many mute appeals Fell on deaf bigot ears great lives un-sung Whenever Life stamps me down under heels Who dared shift Earth from centre to out-fields How Galileo ate humble pie dung So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals Nuanced scales stringed by chords neuronic peals Had Mozart in debt into common grave flung Whenever Life stamps me down under heels Van Gogh Cervantes Dostoyevski shields Me from vainly emptying my spent lung So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals If my words can't Gorki's lives serve dire meals Then would not mine and your pen seem low-strung Whenever Life stamps me down under heels So say i who am i to bleat meek squeals © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Better anarchy than hypocrisy Villanelle: Better anarchy than hypocrisy Better anarchy than hypocrisy Bluff prosperity breeds doomsday blast out Probity keeps on toes reality Executive responsibility Ends before the term of office runs out Better anarchy than hypocrisy Quinquennat* four-year executive spree Lead to wielding effete politics clout Probity keeps on toes reality Who makes speeches ring like Presidency Mimes inane ghost-written texts like robot Better anarchy than hypocrisy If all that matters is 'democracy' Should not voters cast nulled votes in ballot Probity keeps on toes reality Who keeps arming the world breeds enmity Wars cars hot-air mouths stoke intense black out Better anarchy than hypocrisy Probity keeps on toes reality *quinquennat: French for five-year mandate of the presidency. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: What we know is what we can prove on earth Villanelle: What we know is what we can prove on earth What we know is what we can prove on earth Whether it be by rule of thumb or by sum Far-flung worlds who see us here must bake mirth Two and two's not what 2 x 2 bring forth Add man to woman on hands knees four-some What we know is what we can prove on earth Way out on the outback of Big Bang birth Adding man on woman might be boredom Far-flung worlds who see us here must bake mirth Here we talk as if the Truth we un-earth The moment Milky Way began to hum What we know is what we can prove on earth The gods we raise all had some kind of birth Then the Lord Almighty rules He Kingdom Far-flung worlds who see us here must bake mirth Yet Man on Earth can split hairs not in dearth Conceive Devil to make equal the sum What we know is what we can prove on earth Far-flung worlds who see us here must bake mirth © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Two Wraiths in a gust in between frames with a Third Two wraiths in a gust in-between frames with a Third ...was it when i bumped into you last a little put out by the awkwardness something not willed not even by chance who knows an air of Oh please spare me the excuse eyes darting from cheek to contorting lips the turning breeze curling into your bitten bud of an ear expiring burnt breath just the intimate release of breathless control shifting feet somewhere in some other film frame a door closing creaking in the soft amber sheen of the flickering street lamp was it in another slot of time held in some half-remembered patched-up reel footsteps slap quick-shuffled the soundtrack dragging the heels The Third Man down wet cobbled stones claroscuro classic withholding comment no time to grasp even the outstretched hand a finger or two trailing no the index thumb and Mount of Venus ever so lightly alerting the eyes yet for a fractured second averting eye-contact slicing presences or was it just that i wished to overlook the rebuff thwart the unkindest cut into my roiling belly juices the day you took careful aim for some slight some mite of a pain complaint a moment so gossamer thin so ephemeral no trace lingers in the wind-swept thrusts of the pulse in the brain does one hesitate in the accusing hour an old sagging man cap in hand wordless and wan hardly daring to lift lame will and sorry self for once the back is turned no thoughts of humped puffing breath bathing the cheeks the lips the bacteria baked unbrushed stench and the less than hoped-for wish trailing aghast when next we stumble and slip from one another's grasp... © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses Villanelle: What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses Time Space Suffering the meanness of everything The only exception: never deathlessnesses Take KARMA example of prowess excesses Such as the Mean Violent doing their own thing What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses You're not supposed to know past lives' excesses Though you do good continue to take a beating The only exception: never deathlessnesses Thinkers on the subject of lobsidednesses Simply say: ponder! as if waiting for lightning What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses What if Life comes to an end locked in fastnesses Your karmic interests lost in false accounting The only exception: never deathlessnesses Who d'you damn for this in other universes's What if you took chances doing your own thing-fling What's flabbergasting is the limitlessnesses The only exception: never deathlessnesses © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Kill not Mad Poets the Soul-Blood of Mankind for Emmanuel MACRON Villanelle: Kill not Mad Poets the Soul-Blood of Mankind for Emmanuel MACRON Kill not mad poets the soul-blood of mankind Better kill gods teacher-preachers saviours Their words stretch galactic aeons of the mind Who kills trills of the fine feathered chirping kind Never clapping thunder smother lonely warblers Kill not mad poets the soul-blood of mankind The Merle Noir maddens the Warbler Subalpine Will not the Woodchat Strike tease Yellow Hammers Their words stretch galactic aeons of the mind aiOoo loie loieC screEch screEch tWine tWine dingk dingk twingK clUt clUt aiOoo sRoothers Kill not mad poets the soul-blood of mankind Who but raving politicos seek to bind Mad poets lyrical fill hungry beggars Their words stretch galactic aeons of the mind Who recalls greed-fed conquests all anodyne Blissful mad morning trills drill Orphean Warblers Kill not mad poets the soul-blood of mankind Their words stretch galactic aeons of the mind © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: After-Life's the Centrillion-Dollar Question Villanelle: After-life's the centrillion*-dollar question After-life's the centrillion-dollar question Where do we go to make amends pay for sins KARMA* panacea for stupefaction Who else escalates karmic evolution Animals insects do they dog-eat-dog sins After-life's the centrillion-dollar question Heaven Hell be they but religious fiction Lame constraints games to make us fight shy of sins KARMA panacea for stupefaction What if we on earth live lives of extinction Who knows who comes back for what reasons or ends After-life's the centrillion-dollar question Whose existence calls for justification Can Eve be damned for causes or origins KARMA panacea for stupefaction Who plays with our lives for delectation Watch how EVIL triumphs over GOOD and grins After-life's the centrillion-dollar question KARMA panacea for stupefaction *centrillion: a hundred times a trillion (million times million) : 100,000,000,000,000 *KARMA: the philosophy of ethical action and thought as defined by the Bhagavad-Gita. The hindus and buddhists believe in REINCARNATION which, on one level, means that the sins we commit in our lives have to be atoned for in the next and the next, until we rid ourselves of the need to be re-born (samsara) , through MOKSHA (obviously also signifying a state of being free of all sin) by re-joining the SUPREME ATMAN, the GOD-HEAD BRAHMAN, the Primal Creator. Individual karma which serves to project a global sum of spirituality is meant to influence the entire world © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices Villanelle: Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices Wonder not why enemies pick on entrails No foe will salute nor sing your praises You cannot make curry without spices Worst not enemies with cat o' nine tails Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices Enemies crop up as you throw dices They hide in pockets and wear long tails No foe will salute nor sing your praises They even sport horns to cuckold spouses Call you names while you look for holy grails Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices Enemies revel not in open spaces Splice them only in their hidden entrails No foe will salute nor sing your praises Best enemies wallow in pungent sauces Flapping from naked flag-poles stuck in jails Hoist not the flag of your hidden vices No foe will salute nor sing your praises © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: What space occupies the tiniest space Villanelle: What space occupies the tiniest place What space occupies the tiniest place Today the Higgs Boson's all the rage All discoveries via the inward gaze Yesterday the neutrino led the race Even as the atom ancestors did engage What space occupies the tiniest place Hydrogen the atom bomb did replace Much as MOAB the grenade savage All discoveries via the inward gaze The secret of the Golden Flower's grace In the heart of hearts make particles rage What space occupies the tiniest place He that seeketh not becomes common place All particles whirl and churn the mirage All discoveries via the inward gaze Today's seeming truth: nothing stays in place Yet tomorrow all change may mismanage What space occupies the tiniest place All discoveries via the inward gaze © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Generalize and prejudice will congeal Villanelle: Generalize and prejudice will congeal Generalize and prejudice will congeal No prejudice justifies the call to arms Exceptions crop up only for common weal Know the next man's the best chance for a fair deal The exception always battens down your qualms Generalize and prejudice will congeal Not to generalize makes neither big deal The other man's prejudice will quash your balms Exceptions crop up only for common weal Many or all nurse their hatreds and conceal Their dreams of pure race culture under sweet psalms Generalize and prejudice will congeal Genes that mutate miscegenate still reveal Our Father who art in Africa's realms Exceptions crop up for the common weal The only prejudice worth a mighty peal Who the damn stuffed genius brains in human forms Generalize and prejudice will congeal Exceptions crop up only for common weal © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul Villanelle: For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul 'i' say 'I' and you say why not wait till 'i' die Who seeks the Landlord in the head to console How many the bodies laid low in camisole* Release the soul in saints and rishis gone by For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul Which self thinks first in the heart and for what goal Who best opens an account where the heart must lie Who seeks the Landlord in the head to console Who owns the name of the self when things go foul Must the heart stop to make the head go stark dry For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul Solder the broken body Mend the ripped soul Must the self take the blame for hazard or lie Who seeks the Landlord in the head to console The body is not your own to house the soul The rent the Landlord charges is far too high For whom does the self pay rent: body or soul Who seeks the Landlord in the head to console *camisole: French for strait jacket © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Do spun balls eddy in Black Hole corsets Villanelle: Do spun balls eddy through Black Hole corsets Do spun balls eddy through Black Hole corsets Or cosmic spins pierce through armoured shells Who threads sheltered yards in safe space rockets Make the side win hoards of precious nuggets Rousing Super Bowl far-flung galaxy yells Do spun balls eddy through Black Hole corsets Elsewhere rugger lads break through pelting belts Asteroid storms of bare bones and muscles Who threads sheltered yards in safe space rockets Watch how rugby touch-downs pile-up sweats Barely kissing ground hugged balls crushed in smells Do spun balls eddy through Black Hole corsets Rugbymen fall for foes during somersaults Some even take home loads of their scented cells Who threads sheltered yards in safe space rockets O! Lord of the Nations! Let fear nor threats Keep you from flexing wills with alien spells Do spun balls eddy through Black Hole corsets Who threads sheltered yards in safe space rockets © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Plenty of room in Le Fut for Soccer Plenty of room in « Le Foot »* for Soccer For Doug Vinson at PoetrySoup.com I Not long ago King Pelé Set " le foot" in America Today his peoples' muted " Olé" ! Rue the day at Maracana Now from coast to conniving coast Your Can-Can gals kick " le balon" * No Wall in between the goal-posts To win at summit many a " galon" * Alright! Keep your cherished football Iced-hoc-key bounced balls in basket But let echo corked-leather on " saule" * Crikey! 'le cri-cri'* of " le cricket" II Tremble at the hakka-cry of the All Blacks Cringe before Aussie toughs at Springbok élan And let them romp with the Six-Nation packs Over your greens with fifteen Argentinian Call out to the run-machine Little Master* And let his blade flash home-runs tout azimut Over heads of fielders spectators and trainer And let your millions throb and catapult Your new knights sans armour in world arena And gasp at fresh records topple centuries* On pitch and turf in Tests across suburbia And join the world in friendly rivalries. *'Le Foot'or 'Le Fut': French for football/soccer. *'le balon': French for ball. *'le(s) galon(s) ': French for 'stripes' as in 'to win one's stripes in battle' (gagné ses galons au combat) . *'le saule': French for the willow tree. 'Willow' is metonymy for the cricket bat as the latter is made from the tree. *'le cri-cri': familiar French for 'le grillon', the insect cricket. *'Little Master', sobriquet of Sachin Tendulkar, the retired legendary Indian test-cricketer, the counterpart of the Brazilian Pelé in soccer. See my poem: 'The Little Master: Sachin Tendulkar', my most-read ever poem. *'centuries': batting records in cricket run into a few centuries, mostly in five-day international test-matches. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 EPITAPH for a Living Poet: WPN EPITAPH for a living poet: WPN (upon reading a bookish interview of his on his poetry) He had talent and a voice And vocation not by choice Now his words lie all alone Living, none left them still lone His words came from all around Voices from merry-go-round He read Masters many bold All drowned his message untold He espoused a language Not his own to assuage A chasm sans tradition His land of re-edition He had willed the borrowed tongue Adorned he in ways unsung He refused not the honours Re-making words for others Would he now contented be First poet of his country Nay, re-invent poesy For all mute poets at sea! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 ARTE MAYOR: Neither Cricket nor Football ARTE MAYOR*: Neither Cricket nor Football Is this the way to prop A-first Sock not oval ball overhead Slam not round ball with drumstick dead Cut not corporate tax: the worst Hundred millions sweat till tv burst Swamp Super Bowl cheer-leaders' tights The day England scorned Wales' rights* Would arméd football rugby durst Catch not ball in leather-gloved hand Watch how slip-fields pluck balls from air Out-fields brave boundaries debonair That's what cricket's in any land Trumped-up charges make no A-men grand Nor soft base balls stop eyes grow sore A-1 Nation must make World soar Hail Rugby! King Twickenham brand! Throw missile back You Quarter-Back Take no step beyond the Red line Referee draws to keep the front-line Push no further than ball in pack The Golden Rule's not to kick back Unless you're in scrum cheek to jowl And lick the foe if he must growl Block those horns in grid-lock Am-track! Curve ball's By Gad no in-swinger Reach first base sans one lone strike Home runs no match sixes through dike Stop runs coming through huge bouncer Best way to take the World over Scrap apéd games from lean memory Learn to play ball gentlemanly You'll need no Vinson carrier! *Arte Mayor (Sp. Major Art) stanzaic form, the art of Archiprest de Hita (12th- 13th c.) : eight syllabic lines in eight-line stanzas, rhyming abba acca. *England beat Wales in epic match at Cardiff to win Six-Nations' Rugby 2017 Trophy; the same day the Super Bowl was watched by 125 millions on TV. If the same audience could have seen the match at Cardiff, I'd wager that would have been the very last Super Bowl event in history. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Ambiguity and Ambivalence in the THIRUKKURAL: Canto 4, K35, a random example Ambiguity and Ambivalence in the THIRUKKURAL: Canto 4, K35, a random example alukkaa ravaavekuli yinnaacchon naangku milukkaa viyanra tharam (unrefined, given in the original state of the connective/combination particles of 'punarcchi' rules) alukkaaru avaavekuli innaacchol naankum ilukkaa iyanrathu aram (refined, shorn of the connective particles) Tis virtue when, his footsteps sliding not through envy, wrath, Lust, evil speech - these four, man onwards moves in ordered path. (Tr. G.U.POPE) That conduct is virtue which is free from these four things, viz., malice, desire, anger and bitter speech. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) The way of vileness, self-congratulatory aid, ire and foul-mouthing - these four attitudes will cause the alms-giver to slip from the natural path of virtue into ignominy. (Tr. T. Wignesan) Breakdown of the words and their individual meanings: alukku = foulness; aaru= way; avaa= desire, lust; vekuli= wrath, anger; innaa= unpleasant; chol= speech, words; naangkum= (the latter) four; [ili= slip down, fall down, become vile; ] ilukkam= ignominy; iyanrathu= that which has proceeded naturally; aram= virtue. Discussion: I - Both G.U. Pope and Drew & Lazarus translate 'alukkaaru' as 'envy', and they are not wrong, but I have opted for an etymological separation of its semantic constituents and have come up with: 'the way of vileness', i.e., 'alukku' = foulness and 'aaru' = way, so that ambiguity emerges (becomes apparent) from both the valid translations. Yet, it must observed that the Pope and the Drew- Lazarus' translations appear to deliberately avoid having to relate their versions specifically to the topic of the decade, i.e., the giving of alms and make/intend their versions (to) conform to the general theme of the section in which the kural occurs; in other words, they rather draw attention to the general theme of VIRTUE at large and not VIRTUE as related to ALMS-GIVING. II - In my translation, I keep close to the topic (though I give nothing or only a little away by way of nuance) under discussion: Alms-Giving. III - Evidently, both versions are valid (though one or the other may be prefered by the reader at any given moment depending upon his/her participatory performance) , and hence it could be said the KURAL in question is AMBIVALENT, giving it an additional dimension in the reading. IV -It would serve to note that the indigenous exegetes like Parimelalargal and others opt for the individual topic explication. What this exceptional poet intended in the first place matters, of course, even if one cannot refuse disowning or accepting concepts such as 'intentional fallacy' or 'total intention', especially in a case where the whole is in the detail and the detail will/must not detract or displace art from the ultimate purposes of living life itself. The artful way of living the art of life is no less a life worth living. Does the one enhance and enrich the other without in any way detracting from the other? (I'm well aware of the tautological expressions in the above argument.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Mnemonic Devices: Rhyme and Alliteration in the THIRUKKURAL, Canto 4, K35 Mnemonic Devices: Rhyme and Alliteration in the THIRUKKURAL, a random example: Canto 4, K35 by T. Wignesan alukkaaru avaavekuli innaacchol naangkum ilukkaa iyanrathu aram (refined, shorn of connective particles) The way of vileness, self-congratulatory aid, ire and foul-mouthing - these four attitudes will cause the charity-giver to slip from the natural path of virtue into ignominy. (Tr. T. Wignesan) I - Rhyme (ethukai: there are SIX kinds) in the Venba metre of classical Tamil poetry: (a) Initial Rhyme (idaiyaasethukai) : where the second letter/syllable of the first words in successive lines have to rhyme, e.g. alukkaaru/ilukkaa Here the syllable 'lu' (with a macron underneath the 'l' to distinguish it from two other 'l's in the Tamil alphabet) occurs in both the identical slots. (b) End-Rhyme (iyappu) : naankum/aram II - Besides, two other forms of rhyme can also be found: a) thalaiyaasethukai: the entire first feet in the two lines are identical, even if and because 'a' and 'i' are phonetic equivalents (of the same genre) : b) moonraamelutthonrethukai: the third letters/syllables of the first words in both the lines are in consonance - 'ka' and 'ka'. II- Alliteration (monai: here, too, there are SIX kinds) : For this feature to be valid, it is enough that the first letters of two or more words be either the same or one of its class, i.e., their phonetic equivalents: Here,1) the first letters of the first and second words are 'a' in the first line; 2) the first letters of the first and second words are 'i' in the second line. The above two examples of alliteration are known as 'inaimonai', i.e., where two successive words are in alliteration. Commentary: It's quite obvious the poet was writing at a time when widespread dissemination of his work was not available to him (and to others of his ilk) , and so poetry having been the principal form of expression for the Tamils throughout the ages, they developed the art of making learning by rote as simple as possible. If you knew that a kural consisted of seven feet in two lines, and that the initial rhymes fell on the second letter/syllable of the first word in each line, and that alliteration was an adornment Tamil poets could not do without, not to mention the special character of the seventh foot (cf. previous posts on the Thirukkural) , these features in themselves would be sufficient to aid constant and total recall. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Metre in the THIRUKKURAL: Kural 35 of Canto 4, a random example Metre in the THIRUKKURAL: Kural 35 of Canto 4, a random example. alukkaa ravaavekuli yinnaacchon naangku milukkaa viyanra tharam (unrefined, given in the original state of the connective particles of punarcchi rules) alukkaaru avaavekuli innaacchol naankum ilukkaa iyanrathu aram (refined, shorn of the connective particles) Tis virtue when, his footsteps sliding not through envy, wrath, Lust, evil speech - these four, man onwards moves in ordered path. (Tr. G.U.POPE) That conduct is virtue which is free from these four things, viz., malice, desire, anger and bitter speech. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) The way of vileness, self-congratulatory aid, ire and foul-mouthing - these four attitudes will cause the charity-giver to slip from the natural path of virtue into ignominy. (Tr. T. Wignesan) Breakdown of the words and their individual meanings: alukku = foulness; aaru= way; avaa= desire, lust; vekuli= wrath, anger; innaa= unpleasant; chol= words, speech; naangkum= (the latter) four; [ili= slip down, fall down, become vile; ] ilukkam= ignominy; iyanrathu= that which has proceeded naturally; aram= virtue. Scansion: The classical VENBA metre with which the poet has to contend in order to compose a mere two lines - not to mention (I will treat of other prosodical and literary features in the next post) the elements of occasional ambiguity and ambivalence/multivalence with regard to the whole; allusions and symbolism, etc. First, there are in the Thirukkural 1330 couplets, i.e.,2660 lines, each word or groupings of words making up a foot. Each kural is made up of SEVEN feet. In other words, there are in all 18,620 feet which the poet had to assemble in a particular order according to very strict prosodic rules. This in itself is a formidable and trying task. In the VENBA metre, there are TEN feet, some have equivalents in the European tradition, like the iambus, trochee, pyrrhic, spondee, anaepest and dactyl, etc. 1) Now, the strict rule is that certain feet ending in a long syllable (THEEMA= spondee and PULIMAA=anaepest) must not be followed by one beginning in a long syllable. 2) Likewise, feet ending in short syllables (KUUVILAM= dactyl and KARUVILAM= proceleusmatic) must be followed by feet beginning with a long syllable. 3) The same rule applies to four other feet (THEEMANGKAI, PULIMAANGKAI, KUUVILANGKAI and KARUVILANGKAI) as in (2) above. The short syllable can be designated by 'u' and the long by '__'. Hence, the above kural can be transposed as uu__ / u__ /uu__ / __ __ __ / __uu / uu__ / uuu__ / uuU / The last foot in the kural has its own particularisms, often ending in the phoneme 'u', and in the present case, known as PIRAPPU. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Niitthaar Perumai, The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic: Canto 3, K29 and K30 of the Thirukkural Niitthaar Perumai, The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic: Canto 3, K29 and K30 of the Thirukkural by Thiruvalluvar (In these kurals, I give both the 'unrefined' versions using connective particles and modified post-positions (in Tamil: according to the rules of 'punarcchi', etc.) of the seven groups of words and, subsequently, the 'refined' versions where the alliterative phonemes are clearly apparent.) K29: anthana renpoo raravoormar revvuyirkkunc senthanmai poondoluga laan (unrefined) anthanar enpoor aravoormarru evvuyirkum senthanmai poondoluga laan (refined) Towards all that breathe, with seemly graciousness adorned they live; And thus to virtue's sons the name of 'Anthanar' men give. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * The virtuous are truly called Andanar; because in their conduct towards all creatures they are clothed in kindness. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J. Lazarus) * (*In both the above works, this kural is #30.) The Virtuous are deemed 'Anthanar'*, those who towards all creatures, being imbued with love, show respect, these will be so acclaimed. (Tr. T. Wignesan) *(meaning 'ascetics' or 'sages'; Anthanan= The Supreme Being) K30: urannennunth thooddiyaa noorainthung kaappaan varanennum vaippukkoor vitthu (unrefined) urannennum thooddiyaan ooraintthum kaappaan varanennum vaippirkuoor vitthu (refined) He, who with firmness curb the five restrains, Is seed for soil of yonder happy plains. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * He who guides his five senses by the book of wisdom, will be a seed in the world of excellence. (Tr. G.W. Drew & J. Lazarus) * (*This kural occupies the fourth place, i.e., #24 in the above translated works. The order of the couplets, as far as I can judge is of no great moment.) The man who persists in controling all the five senses from going astray His is the seed that will propagate in Elysian fields. (Tr. T. Wignesan) [It should be evident to the reader of these couplets in this Canto 3 of the Thirukkural that the poet had some other design in mind when he set himself the task of having to elaborate on one given and self-chosen topic or theme in a fixed decade for all 133 chapters, that is, his monumental task of having to encapsulate an entire philosophical perspective of the Hindu PURUSHA aims in life. The question is why would the author choose the extremely difficult and concise venba metre to restrict and confine his thoughts in? The answer should be evident to all. He was writing at a time when there was obviously no printing paper nor printing press. He had a code of ethics to impart, and he had to find a means to make quotation and repetition possible for all - the learned and the ignorant, so something that approximates the proverb would fall within his choice; and hence the reliance on mnemonics: alliteration and initial rhyme, the riddle in the form of the complex clause with the key word falling often on the fourth word or feet, not to mention the last foot in the form of a long syllable (neer) or two or three short syllables (nirai) and often ending in the phoneme 'u'. And as for the reason why the poet insisted on expatiating the kernel of an idea in a topic into TEN couplets, I do not think, however, it has anything to do with the Judeo-Christian penchant for the Ten Commandments by way of an influence. T. Wignesan) . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017. Niitthaar Perumai, The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic: Canto 3, K27 and 28 of the Thirukkural Niitthaar Perumai: The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic, Canto 3 of the Thirukkural-K27 and 28. Translations and Commentary. K27: kunamenung kunreeri ninraar veguli kanameeyung kaatthal larithu. The wrath 'tis hard e'en for an instant to endure Of those who virtue's hill have scaled, and stand secure. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * The anger of those who have ascended the mountain of goodness, though it continues but for a moment, cannot be resisted. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) * (*In Pope's book et al, n° K29) Resist not the visitations of ire of the ascetic who secures his powers by the requisite discipline won only after equivalent efforts at scaling mountain heights (for the consequences will turn out dire) . (Tr. T.Wignesan) K28: ainthavitthaa naarra lakalvisumbu laarkoomaa ninthiranee saalung kari Their might who have destroyed 'the five', shall soothly tell Indra, the lord of those in heaven's wide realms that dwell. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * Indra himself, the king of the inhabitants of the spacious heaven, is a sufficient proof of the strength of him who has subdued his five senses. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) * (*In the respective books of the translators, n° K25) The very existence of Indra, the King of the gods who rules the endless heavenly spheres, bears testimony to the powers of the ascetic. (Tr. T. Wignesan) (Here again, there's some wayward proof that Valluvar, the presumptive author of the Thirukkural, was first a Hindu and then perhaps - by adoption - a Jain or a Buddhist; both these latter religions having flourished - even nationwide - since the great Maurya emperor Asoka's rule in the sub-continent. See my poem on the poet: 'Master Valluvan the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor' in Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008,750p. First published by the Institute of Asian Studies, Chennai,2006, xiii-439p. Also available at PoetrySoup, PoemHunter or OccupyPoetry and in BLIND MAN's LANTERN: Poems that lash out, mock and rip into the dark. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2015,886p.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Niitthaar Perumai: The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic, Kurals 24,25 and 26 Niitthaar Perumai: The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic, Kurals 24,25 & 26, Translations with commentary K24: niraimoli maanthar perumai nilatthu maraimoli kaadti vidum. The might of men whose word is never vain, The 'secret word' shall to the world proclaim. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * * In the Pope edition of the Kural, this's number 28. He who guides his five senses by the book of wisdom, will be a seed in the world of excellence. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) In this world, the ascetic's greatness will reveal itself through (magically) unfathomable means. (Tr. T.Wignesan) K25: suvaioli pooroosai naarramen rainthin vagaitherivaan kaddee ulagu. Taste, light, touch, sound, and smell: who knows the way Of all the five, -- the world submissive owns his sway. (Tr. G.U.Pope) * *In the Pope edition, this kural is numbered: 27. The world is within the knowledge of him who knows the properties of taste, sight, touch, hearing, and smell. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) Only ascetics who control the five senses: gustatory, visual, tactile, auditory, and olfactory - can influence (and possess) the world. (Tr. T. Wignesan) K26: seyatkariya seivaar periyaar ciriyar seyatkariya seikalaa thaar. Things hard in the doing will great men do; Things hard in the doing the mean eschew. (Tr. G.U.Pope) The great will do those things which it is difficult to do; the mean cannot do those things which it is difficult to do. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) Men who have renounced this world can do what is out of reach of those who remain attached to this world. (Tr. T. Wignesan) (Here, it would be tautological if 'niitthaar' were to be translated as'great or noble' men in the sense of the 'jun tzu' of the Yi Jing. The emphasis is clearly on the element of sacrifice: the wilful suppression of the rewards of the five senses and their concomitant detachment of benefits available for selfish indulgence, so much so that a more literal translation would sound rather platitudinous, such as: Big things can be done by big people. Small men who attempt to carry out great undertakings will fail. In other words, the purpose of this couplet is somewhat dubious (it doesn't add to our knowledge) ; it rather looks like a 'filling in' of the decade. T.Wignesan) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Sun setting over the dark green fringe of a shivering lake Sun setting over the dark green fringe of a shivering lake on the last day of winter An old man still unbent sits on a deserted wooden bench with the load of his cares on his convex-ed back beside him a plastic bag full of weekend wares sags unable to straighten his cowed congested torso he blinks through mist hanging under barely-clothed branches hardly a soul trips over the jagged burnt-amber cobbled-bricks fresh bursts of prickly sweat teem under collar cramped armpits the unease of sticky underwear stretches taut legs but the load will not set him free from the pincer lock and spanner hold three score and the six year curse undermine the octogenarian as if a cast-iron sickle and chain hooked his mind to a runaway train he gasps and leans against the load his eyes smart assailed by the column of simmering myriad mirror chips dancing on the lake swept by swishing cold blasts of reed-tossed gleam over the never becalmed lake transparent linden and birch stare cropped and cut-up naked and unashaméd neither warblers nor crows crouch hushed in their lost fastnesses only the claret whistle-sharp tweets of a lonely but jolly Great tit cleave the air from sunrise all around the lake and skirting tenement-flats tree tops piercing clear over the crunch of tires stuttering hoots and growls of changing gears while the Song thrush apes and parodies the forlorn complaint past children yelling during recess after painted gaudy face rubber balls spilling over gated kindergarten railings for days now she or a he calls on every cluster of branch brush or bower breach dingk dingk/dingk dingk/dingk dingk dingk dingk dingk dingk ding.../ wher've ya been dingk dingk dingk dingk... have you/have you/have you seen my mate these days now/ have you/tell me now... the burnished listless eye of molten gold over the sill of mauve ether waves floating on grey eminences of pencil-shade cloud banks reflecting infinitesimal shiny scales all aquiver in the instant gaze till the yellow yolk gold stains the melancholy mauve looming larger than the eye yet for some more moments as the grave grey grow round as a robin flirt the demure circular twinkling of the garden warbler tweeting for a partner as the silver beam on the tired murky waters recedes even as it were there now now no more the mauve turning ever so reluctantly till grey cloud formations recall the silver-lining of a sunken undimmed molten globe © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Niitthaar Perumai, the Fundamental Role of the Ascetic, Canto 3 of the Thirukkural by Thiruvalluvar Niithaar Perumai, the Fundamental Role of Ascetics, Canto 26 of the Thirukkural, the Tamil Classical Treatise on Ethics, Translation and Commentary by T. Wignesan [Given the scarcity of information (mostly conflicting even then) on the origins and times of the author of this classical Tamil literary masterpiece, I have selected the above decadal canto for treatent in order to ease some of the contention over the author's weltanschaaung. The decade here also best illustrates some of his literary strengths and weaknesses, for not all his distiques stand up well to impartial scrutiny. His choice of elaborating on a topic through composing ten couplets a piece may perhaps have had other more elusive aims (on which I too have my own verifiable notions) , but this canto should serve to illustrate both his ingenuity as well as his forte at spinning out an idea -at moments - simply, it would seem, for the sake of it. The question is why only ten maxims per topic? Why not twelve? Or even twenty? Is the Judeo-Christian 'ten commandments' a possible influence in the form and/or content? Christian Tamils would be the first to rally to this hypothesis, even if Europeans like Pope and Zvelebil would less grudgingly decline such an honour. In some cantos/chapters, one gets the feeling he is merely exercising his talents by approaching a topic from various angles without, in reality, having added fundamentally to the perceptions some few couplets had already convincingly contributed to the élaboration of the case. Only the overall picture is being served here, that is, the author like most of his counterparts in the South Asian continent has had the main religiophilosophic PURUSHA aims of ultimate spiritual development in life in view: aram (virtue) , artha (wealth) , kama(m) (pre-marital love, sexual and wedded cohabitation) and vidu or moksha (release from re-birth through renunciation) , according to the purusha concept of the mainly Hindu aims and phases of development in life. Yet, even if a specifically entitled fourth book devoted to « moksha » is absent from the Thirukkural, there are many couplets which treat of the subject such as this section under discussion. The poet, himself, has come to be described as an « eclectic » thinker, a label first mooted by G.U.Pope in the nineteenth century and echoed by others like Kamil Zvelebil and a host of others in the twentieth. The Jains claim him as their own, not without reason, but, on the same score, perhaps the Christians ought to delve deep into the Dead Sea Scrolls to see how the Buddha's teachings seeped into their own.] Canto 3: « niithaar perumai » and a few translations to highlight the manner in which the poet Thiruvalluvar ensconced meaning in order to serve both literary and didactic purposes. K21: olukkatthu niithaar perumai viluppatthu veendum panuvar runivu The settled rule of every code requires, as highest good, Their greatness who, renouncing all, true to their rule have stood. (Tr. G.U.Pope) The end and aim of all treatise is to extol beyond all other excellence, the greatness of those who, while abiding in the rule of conduct peculiar to their state, have abandoned all desire. (Tr. W.H.Drew and J.Lazarus) The true worth of moral works ought to be judged by whether their teaching directs one to renounce all forms of possession through inner detachment. (Tr. T. Wignesan) K22: thuratthaar perumai thunaikkoorin vaiyatthu thiranthaarai yennikkon darru As counting those that from the earth have passed away, ‘Tis vain attempt the might of holy men to say. (Tr. G.U.Pope) To describe the measure of the greatness of those who have forsaken the twofold desire, is like counting the dead. (Tr. W.H.Drew and J.Lazarus) If one were to measure the greatness of those who have renounced the world, it would be tantamount to totalling up the number of deaths on earth. (Tr. T. Wignesan) K23: irumai vakaitherinthu iinduaram poondaar perumai pirangkirru ulaku Their greatness earth transcends, who, way of both worlds weighed, In this world take their stand, in virtue's robe arrayed. (Tr. G.U.Pope) The greatness of those who have discovered the properties of both states of being, and clothed themselves in virtue, shines forth in this world (beyond all others. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus) The highest attainment resides (in pondering and) rejecting both birth and rebirth [samsara], the ultimate achievement open to man on earth. (Tr. T. Wignesan) (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 The Anatomy of a Kural: Maxim 245 of the Thirukkural by Thiruvalluvar The Anatomy of a Kural: Maxim Number 245 (taken at random) of the Thirukkural, the Tamil Classic on Ethics by Thiruvalluvar allal arulaalvaarkku illai valivalangum mallalmaa naalam kari (K245) " The teeming earth's vast realm, round which the wild winds blow, Is witness, men of 'grace' no woeful want shall know." (Tr. G.W.Pope) " This great rich earth over which the wind blows, is a witness that sorrow never comes upon the kind-hearted." (Tr. W.H.Drew and John Lazarus) " Misfortune the good-natured spares, the wind-tossed Great cornucopian world bears ever testimony." (Tr. T. Wignesan) allal=privation or affliction arul=kindliness, benevolence aalvaar(kku) =to those who manage or exercise; (ukku) =here denotes the dative case ending illai=negation (no/not) vali=wind valangkum=passing round mallal=abundance ma=great naalam=the pendant globe of earth kari=witness Now the task here for the poet is to put these senses of the words together in an arrangement of seven metrical feet to comply with the classical Tamil prosodic rules while incorporating certain rhetorical features, such as, initial rhyme (ethukai) , alliteration (monai) , exceptionally end-rhyme (iyaippu) , typical to a particular metre called 'venba'. Example of 'ethukai': allal/mallal. The rules require that the rhyme must fall on the second syllable, here: 'll' or as pronounced " il" . Example of 'monai': line one = a/a/aa/i/ (according to the rules 'a' and 'i' (or as pronounced " e" ;) for the sake of alliteration are phonetic equivalents. Feet: There are seven metrical feet in each 'kural' or couplet or distique, four in the first line and three in the second, though now and then this pattern may be reversed. The feet are represented by both the short syllable: '-' and the long: '_'. This distique (given the lack of adequate diacritical signs on my computer) could be transcribed as follows: -- -- -_ _ _ - - --_ ----_ --_ _ _ -- --* * lines above are short, lines below long. In order to respect the brevity of these pithy sayings, the author has also to constrict the grammatical structure of the sentence (often a complex sentence with a main and a subordinate clause) by the adroit use of ellipses through omitting case endings or post-positional morphemes, etc., and by the use of substantives to take the place of verbs and by juggling the words in groups through meaningful juxtapositions. To illustrate this device, see how he uses the negative particle 'illai' placed further away from the noun 'allal' which it qualifies; or see how he separates the epithet: 'valivalangkum' from the 'noun' it qualifies in the next line while interposing yet another two epithets in between. The last word, the seventh is almost always only made up of two short syllables. Thiruvalluvar has had to cope with all these poetical and prosodic devices and literary embellishments, such as, the use of imagery, metaphor or simile, and even ambiguity, all through 1330 couplets, arranged according to thematic chapters of ten distiques apiece. This exercise in itself is a veritable achievement, not to mention the overall philosophic treatment of his thesis which is the admonishment of a way of life for a people in all the aspects of the domestic, amorous, social and political spheres of their existence. Little wonder then why the Thirukkural has enjoyed the highest place of praise and pride in the hearts of an entire Tamil population which can boast of having engendered a totally unrelated/isolated family of languages in South India (including Brahui in present-day Pakistan) with a continuous corpus of literary masterpieces lasting over at least two-thousand three hundred years. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon for the author - male or female, prince or pauper, playboy or priest - of the THIRUKKURAL*, the reputed 'bible' of the Tamils, the principal Dravidian race credited with having engendered the first literary heritage of the Indian subcontinent. Only one thing might be said of him with certitude: he tamed the language like none other and was more alive to his 'times' and his literary, inter-personal, romantic, religio-philosophical and political environment than any prince, philosopher or priest ever since. In my view, whoever he may have been, he was an unjustifiably oppressed individual like King Wen who wrote the judgments on the hexagrams and provided the explanations of their images and the Later Heaven arrangement of the Yi Jing, the Canon of Change. Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon Words come asunder blown on road side-table Debris of wanton collisions intone Long-gone ages singe the stylo his work shone Who knows what diamond crumbs spill disable Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon Sans case-endings morphemes participial pun Regimented feet in seven steps enable Debris of wanton collisions intone Who confined meaning in drumbeat phoneme moan Lest envy upper-caste knowledge expose enable Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon None know who he was nor what age saw he sun Savants pat cheeks his lines to render readable Debris of wanton collisions intone While lordly conferees seek to feather nests own His sculpted riddles tease meaning and jumble Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon Debris of wanton collisions intone * Thiru=Sacred; KURAL, meaning 'short' or epigrammatic composition in the form of couplets (1330: ten kurals allotted to each topic in three books with a short introduction) , composed and ordered according to the rules of a strict classical prosodical pattern: the 'venba' metre while adhering to complex rhetorical features, such as, alliteration, assonance, initial-rhymes and ellipses. The author was known as Thiru-VALLUVAR. One of the earliest commentaries on the Kural, still extant, was made by a Tamil scholar PARIMELALAKAR during the 13th century. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Unquotable quotes: EVIL PEOPLE - VIIIL Unquotable quotes: EVIL PEOPLE - VIIIL (42) Animals (amphibians, reptiles) , birds, insects, dinosaurs and even imaginary beasts kill to eat. Humans for pleasure, pain and profit. Evil people never think of Evil lest they feel remorse over whether the extent, duration and intensity of their acts wrought the mostest and the damnedest on the object(s) of their wilful designs. Evil people never inflict harm on others unless it is to placate their gods. And their gods are always right, so say their prophets and their preachers. Crusades, conquests and colonizations are always under-written by the sacred commandments of holy texts rained down from above for the benefit of heathens only, for they are invariably the most devout. Evil people never understand why the evil they wreak is not always successful nor productive -from their point of view - for they fear to step out into the open from out of the grip of their conditioned reflexes they were bound into from babyhood. They rather not - they will not - believe their gods can be less than the plenipotentiaries of the multi-verse pantheon, even if the revelations of present-day astrophysics and quantum mechanics were unknown to their gods and prophets at the time of the composition of the holy texts taken right out of the mouths of their gods. Evil people always feel invulnerable when they lay their lives down for their beliefs and convictions: god before country, country before caste, race before religion, religion before rights, club before cause, sperm before spouse, money before madness, airs before achievement, avidity before nudity, the party before parents, the House before home, profit before principle, the prophet before poet, violation before violence, the President before peasant, His Holiness before humanity… Evil people always find happiness for the happy are those who are protected here-in and here-after by the powers that be. Evil people know they are always right for don't their leaders always remind them of their might. The Seal of the Saviours always sits well on evil people provided they further his/their side every time they have fun at the expense of those born with less in their pockets or much less grey-matter behind eye-sockets. Evil people always manage to stay afloat: watch how they gloat even in a leaking boat in the moat around their fortresses, far from the final departing coast. Evil people earn merit by trampling on those who swear by no holy spirit. Evil people all hate to be told they make no haste to read the texts of their ingrained faiths, nor that they take no vows to vie with other fellow louts. Evil people all dream of the day when their captains will call it a day to put an end to the melting mountains of ice by pulling the foolscap over their eyes. Evil people all drink and belch in the faces of those without the wherewithal to be merry for they know they can sell their souls as a last resort for a thimble-full of sherry. Evil people all put the blame on the nation for their trials and fibrillations of their fabrications owing to the wheezing bag of bones in the name of the people prone to a measly existence. The ancient Chinese classic of Change, the Yi Jing says: Retreat into yourself when you see evil people approach: they will go away by themselves. But maxim 1073 of the classical Tamil treatise on Ethics, the Thirukkural, says: theevar anaivar kayavar avarumthaam meevana seitholuga laan. Evil people resemble the gods in that They too may do as they please. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2017 Le Rat Noir - Translation of Iris Clayton's The Black Rat by T Wignesan Le Rat Noir - Translation of Iris Clayton's « The Black Rat » by T. Wignesan (Iris Clayton of the Wiradjuri tribe in New South Wales was born in 1945. One of nine children, six of the elder children were forcibly removed by the authorities and placed in « wardship » - according to Kevin Gilbert in Inside Black Australia,1988 - which amounted to « slavery », having to work for a pittance ‘as cooks, housemaids, gardeners, stockmen, and quite often being sexually abused and used as concubines.' This White Australia policy of « assimilation » was the motivating force behind the annihilation of aboriginal culture and traditions, even to the extent of severely punishing children at foster homes if ever they used aboriginal words. ‘A lot of the girls died from sclerosis of the liver, through alcoholism … some turned to prostitution, lots of them committed suicide.' Iris had six children of her own and worked for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Affairs in Canberra, and she was determined to let the world know ‘about the injustice, racism, slavery and abuse that still happens in this country today.') T. Wignesan, Paris, December 17,2016. Il habitait la cabane dont le sol la terre endurcie, La porte fut composée des sacs cousus ensemble. Il était un soldat, un Rat de Tobrouk jusqu'à quarante-cinq, Il faisait partie d'une poignée qui rentrait vivant. Blessé et martyrisé, il battait pour cette terre, Et dès qu'il rentra, tout le monde s'apprêta à serrer sa main. Le prix pour lutter pour la liberté de l'homme N'a guère amélioré la condition humaine de cet Homme Noir. Il était allé à l'intérieur, mais ne trouva pas des copains, S'il osa boire une bière, il risquait la prison et une amende. Il a dû vendre toutes ses médailles qu'il portait avec fierté, Elles n'avaient plus d'utilité pour lui dorénavant. Confus et solitaire, il errait partout En cherchant du travail sans pouvoir trouver le moindre. Des défilés d'ANZAC, il les avait évité, Et ses camarades l'ont bien compris qu'on lui avait oublié. Il luttait pour ce pays afin d'être libre, Mais il n'avait même pas pu voter malgré son calvaire au désert. Et ces années au désert lui avaient coûté chers, Il s'est allé là-bas un jeune homme mais rentra un vieux. Grand de taille, il appartenait à une tribu des Noirs fiers, Il s'éteint tout seul - personne à ses côtés. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Les Souvenirs de Noel - Translation of Joy Williams's Memories of Christmas by T Wignesan Les Souvenirs de Noël - Translation of Joy Williams's « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan (Joy Williams, b.1942 in Sydney. Since she was born « fair » of skin, the authorities forcibly removed her as a baby to be placed in a children's home, and at the age of 6 to be assimilated in a « white » institution. She later studied for a B.A. at Wollongong University in New Soth Wales. Joy's first born, Julie-Anne Joy, was taken from her at 10 months by the Aboriginal Protection Board. She worked for an organization called: « Link-Up » in Canberra with tentacles all over the continent whose prescribed aim was to bring together parents and children thus forcibly separated by the authorities. Joy, finally, « linked-up » with her family 42 years after enforced separation. - Info culled from K. Gilbert's Inside Black Australia, Penguin,1988.) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 16,2016. Les Souvenirs de Noël - Translation of Joy Williams's « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan C'est 16 heures la veille de Noël et je pense de toi. Je m'amuse en rappelant de ce que tu as dit: Noël est pour les enfants - Je pleurais car je ne jamais étais un enfant. Je vois un arbre, tout allumé des guirlandes de Noël, J'aperçois la réflexion des lumières dans les yeux de mes enfants tandis qu'ils dansaient autour de l'arbre avec une anticipation joyeuse. Je me demande ce qu'elle aurait pu être la vie d'un enfant. Est-ce que mes souvenirs auraient pu être heureux au lieu de rien? Est-ce que mes enfants se souviendront de leur enfance? C'est le matin de Noël, J'entends des cries de joie, On m'a réveillé d'un sommeil agité et j'ai senti deux pairs de bras autour de moi, J'éprouve le sentiment qu'on a besoin de moi. Dieu, comme j'aime mes enfants! J'essaye d'apprécier le Noël à travers d'eux, mais, à l'intérieur, je pleure, Une nonne arrive avec une boîte de vivres et je me sens maladive et vidée, Elle comprend ce que je ressens. (Mettez la boîte là, je dis.) C'est le soir de Noël, Je suis fatiguée. On m'aime. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Le Probleme avec des blancs - Translation of Jim Everett's The White Man Problem by T Wignesan Le Problème avec des Blancs - Translation of Jim Everett's « The White Man Problem » by T. Wignesan (Jim Everett, Mawbana Pleregannana, b.1942 on Flinders Island, Tasmania, has had a chequered career and like almost all the aboriginal poets and writers in English of the first post-WWII generation, hardly made it over the primary school curricula. He's a poet, playwright and essayist (short articles) . Among the jobs he tried his hand at: telegram boy, factory hand, fisherman, merchant seaman, rigger, truck driver, public servant, aboriginal community worker and political activist. He was the national secretary of the National Aboriginal and Islander Writers Oral Literature and Dramatists Association.) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 15,2016 Des aborigènes ayant lutté ne cessent de perdre. L'homme blanc est venu pour répandre son fléau, Ils ont apporté leurs droits que nous n'avons pas choisis. Nous ne pouvons pas contrôler cette chose qui nous étouffe, Malgré cet obstacle nous devons nous faire avancer Et nous devons aussi rester fidèle à nos croyances dans leurs évolution, Dans l'espoir que l'attitude des blancs va se diminuer. Des hommes blancs ne s'intéressent pas à comprendre nos traditions, Ils pensent que leur technologie est la meilleure solution pour l'homme. Et ils persistent à nous faire renoncer à nos coutumes ancestrales Et leur ‘civilisation' continue à nous nous faire soumettre. Ils ne voient pas à quel point ils ont tort, Etant aveuglés par la gloire et le pouvoir. Leur pouvoir les empêche à distinguer le vrai but de la vie, Ainsi créant le problème des hommes blancs qui nous rende amers. Les problèmes des blancs s'avèrent être l'avarice et le viol, Et leurs dix commandements qu'ils désobéissent à volonté. Pour quelle raison ont-ils des telles lois s'ils ne peuvent pas les suivre, C'est toujours le cas des tous les blancs. La réponse devrait se trouver dans le fait de leur pouvoir, Exploitant d'autres pauvres blancs sans défense parmi eux. L'histoire de l'homme blanc se résume à: chacun pour soi-même, Que le problème de l'homme blanc n'est guère confiné à la couleur de sa peau. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. Tali Karng: Le Serpent du Crepuscule-Transl go W Les Russell's Tali Karng: Twilight Snake by Wignesan Tali Karng: le Serpent du Crépuscule - Translation of W. Les Russell's « Tali Karng: Twilight Snake » by T. Wignesan (W.Les Russell, b.1949 in Melbourne, joined the Royal Australian Navy - where he received training in photography - in 1965. He soon found himself at odds with the hierarchy, and so he requested and obtained an honorable discharge in 1970. He worked for the Education Department in Victoria for ten years as a photographer, and thereafter served on many levels on various aboriginal uplift bodies in Victoria and Queensland; in the latter state, he helped to make the Aboriginal Mining Information Centre, according to Kevin Gilbert in Inside Black Australia,1988: « …one of the largest indigenous research bodies in the world… », and says of this poem in English that it « shows a control and imagery far beyond the parameters of the majority of Australian poets to that greater universal level beyond country, beyond life. ») T. Wignesan, Paris, December 14,2016. Tali Karng: the serpent du crépuscule: Dans le cratère se trouve le lac. L'eau brun roux: peu claire profonde; Le lac froid: un lit des feuilles et des écorces Déchiqueté raide le mur du cratère Tous couverts gris vert imposants Plantes alpines et Cendres de Montagne Où des oiseaux délicats de plumage éclatant cabriolent D'une branche à l'autre en chantant d'une voix douce Jusqu'à l'arrivée subite du soir doré Et: Tali Karng: le serpent du crépuscule: Est en train de chasser près des eaux du lac. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 L'octroi des droits a Jacky - Transl of Mudrooroo Narogin's They Give Jacky Rights by T Wignesan L'octroi des droits à Jacky - Translation of Mudroroo Narogin's « They Give Jacky Rights » by T. Wignesan (Note: The first aboriginal writer to have achieved - according to Kevin Gilbert's Inside Black Australia - international fame with his novel: Wild at Falling (1965) as runner-up for the Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize, in 1966, Colin Johnson who renounced his Christian names in 1988 for the aboriginal: Mudrooroo Narogin was born at Narogin in Western Australia in 1938. Educated at an orphanage, he was thereafter left to fend for himself on the streets of Melbourne. He has also travelled widely in Southeast Asia, Britain, the United States and India where he became a Buddhist monk for seven years. He is a published playwright, poet and novelist, and he co-authored: Before the Invasion: Aboriginal Life to 1788 (OUP,1980) with Colin Bourke and Isobel White.) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 13,2016. On l'octroie des droits à Jacky Comme le serpent tigre des droits à son proie: On l'octroie des droits à Jacky, Comme le droit d'une victime d'être visée d'un viseur de fusil. On l'octroie des droits à Jacky Comme on les donne à un bébé pas encore né Arraché de l'utérus par une mère insouciante. On l'octroie à Jacky le droit de mourir, Le droit de consentir qu'on fonde des mines sur sa terre. On l'octroie à Jacky le droit de regarder Comment sa terre sacrée du Rêve (Dreaming) devient un trou - Son âme meure, ses ancêtres pleurent; Son âme meure, ses ancêtres pleurent: On l'octroie à Jacky son droit - D'avoir un trou sous le sol? La Justice pour tous, Jacky s'agenouille et prie, La Justice pour tous, ils font des trous dans sa terre; La Justice pour tous, on lui accorde ses droits: Une cruche du vin de table pour calmer sa douleur, Et sa femme devait se prostituer pour ce cadeau. La Justice pour tous, on lui octroie ses droits - Un trou sous le sol pour y cacher sa méfiance et sa peur. Qu'est-ce que Jacky peut se faire sinon continuer à lutter: Les esprits de son Dreaming* lui rendent fort? •Dreaming/Alcheringa: The creation of the universe, the time known to most people as the Dreamtime or the Dreaming. (Oodgeroo, My People,1990.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. Buddgelin Bey - Translation of Rex Marshall's Buddgelin Bey by T Wignesan Buddgelin Bey - Translation of Rex Marshall's « Buddgelin Bey » by T. Wignesan (Rex Marshall, b. July 16,1943 at Grafton, belongs to the aboriginal tribe, Thungutti/Gumbaingeri of the Baryulgil Reserve in New South Wales. He studied up to 6th grade in primary schools and then set himself the task of working for the betterment of aboriginals. The Hardy company's asbestos mine, situated right in the centre of the reserve, accounted for the deaths (through asbestos poisoning; l'amiante in French) of many miners and their family members. Asbestos tailings were used for covering roads. Rex Marshall and his fellow kinsmen then set up the Aboriginal Embassy in 1972 in order to draw international attention to « the racist oppression and covert genocide of Aboriginals. » He served on various aboriginal organizations for the uplift of his peoples, both on the regional and national levels. (Inside Black Australia,1988) . T. Wignesan, Paris, December 12,2016. Les nuages noirs s'amoncellent loin dans le ciel D'un moment à l'autre l'orage va s'éclater Et Maman le tient à l'oeil sans cligner des yeux En tenant l'hache dans ses mains et en gardant les deux pieds bien firmes sur le sol Enfin elle se prépare pour se défendre Contre le vent déchainé et la pluie se tombant tout autour En accordance avec ses coutumes, elle devait couper les nuages orageux Pendant qu'elle agitait l'hache en chantant avec toute vigueur Un rite qu'elle avait hérité de sa tribu Cette coutume qu'elle pratiquait toute fière d'elle-même Elle acheva le rite en poussant le cri: « Buddgelin Bey! » L'orage est bien sûr dissipé. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Le vieil identique probleme - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Same Old Problem by T Wignesan Le vieil identique problème - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Same Old Problem » by T. Wignesan (For Kevin Gilbert - cf. the introduction to Inside Black Australia (1988) - as quite obviously for Oodgeroo, too - aboriginal poetry refused to adopt the « 100th monkey imitation style that was so prevalent in Australia during the 70s. » Aboriginal poets « identified with the freedom poets of the lately decolonised countries (…) demanding a new perception of life around us, a new relation with the sanctity, the spiritual entity and living Presence within th earth and all life forms throughout the universe.' Aborignals strove to preserve their culture by vigorously opposing assimilation and by the need to protect themselves against abuses, such as, the sport of « ‘Lobbing the Distance' which entailed the burying of live Aboriginal children up to their necks in sand and seeing who of them could kick off the heads of the Black children to the farthest distance from the body. » Another sport involved the slitting of Black women and men's throats and « let(ting) them run in terrified flapping circles » before throwing them and Black children alive « into the flames. ») T. Wignesan, Paris, December 11,2016. Souvenez-vous de l'haine le taux de mortalité le taudis et la pluie les enfants qu'on enterre la douleur que vous dissimulez le désespoir et la dénégation vous subissez à l'intérieur du pays vous êtes désemparés, vous êtes battus il y reste quand même de l'ombre de l'espoir le passage du vent emmenant du soupir que vous ne pouvez pas vous expliquer mais de nouveau vous êtes leur problème dû à votre refus de mourir par votre obstination votre sac d'eau est vide les travailleurs mineurs vous moquent la poussière remuée par leur Toyota vous brûle la gorge aux Elections du Novembre les contestations abordent toujours les Noires il y a du fer là où votre Saint- coeur refuse de céder souvenez-vous des rivières d'eau vos chansons s'arrête point l'instant que les cavaliers apparaissent vous devez ‘smell off' (?) le bétail ‘vous ne devez pas boire ici les hommes de votre tribu ne doivent pas boire cette nuit les hommes de votre tribu seront assoiffés de vengeance cette nuit Vous voyez les Pléiades les soeurs et le serpent, le sacré dingo à la poursuite les esprits éternels qu'illuminent les cieux et presto! - une ligne brillante s'entache leurs visages une satellite tourbillonne là où les dieux promènent un autre endroit pour être sondé vous essayez d'être sages et retenez l'haine en pleurant des rivières pour les aveuglés vous penchez sur la pelle sachant par coeur ce que se passe un mec au gouvernement soupira ‘encore un mort, effacez son nom de la liste ces jours-ci ils crèvent comme des mouches.' © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Ceux qui celebrent '88 - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Celebrators '88 by T Wignesan Ceux qui célèbrent ‘88 - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Celebrators ‘88 »» by T. Wignesan (This poem mocks the bicentenary celebrations of the founding or « settling » of the Australian continent by the British in 1788 from the point of view of the aboriginal.) Les feuilles bleu vert et grisâtres du gommier furent emportés derrière le banksia qui penchait avec respect suppliant sans dire rien - en deuil dépourvus du cercle des noirs qui autrefois s'étaient assis autour de son tronc pour le caresser et chanter des chansons lequel firent couler les fleuves en faisant enrichir la vie des légendes et la rivière aujourd'hui sont remplacées par des ravines rongées par les moutons et la boue lesquels entravent les rivières en battant la retraite finissent par s'accumulant la boue comme un signe de la défaite on entendait le croassement des corbeaux devenus plus lugubre en goûtant de la chair humaine en putréfaction sous la pureté du soleil depuis l'époque des pionniers aujourd'hui voilés par le smog qui empêchait même les fantômes de les s'apercevoir les colombes de la rivière s'arrêtaient de chanter par peur invitera le chasser apportant la mort foudroyante le kookaburra rie étonné puis garda la silence haletant tout en étant saisie par la peur Les plumes des législateurs en mouvement hésitaient comme des voleurs s'accroupis autour de leur butin combien de milliards eux ils octroyèrent pour fêter le Bicentenaire et faire dissimuler leurs tueries par la hilarité et donner voix à la chanson pour ne pas entendre le grondement du fourgon mortuaire. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 La Paix et le Desert - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Peace and the Desert by T Wignesan La Paix et le Désert - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Peace and the Desert » by T. Wignesan Pendant que la braise du campement de feu scintille J'entendis l'appel du courlis annonçant la naissance ou la mort de quelques uns le vent du désert calmait durant la nuit et dans une voix tremblante poussa un soupire à l'entrée interdite des pas quand on entend le battement des tambours lointain le petit matin arrive en ne faisant pas trop de bruit la nuit des premiers âges est en fuite laissant l'impression frémissante des bruits du carnage et la puissance des carnivores immobile, malgré l'espoir d'un roitelet gazouillant un lézarde qui survive bougeant sur un roché un émeu, deux cherchant de l'eau dans une source d'eau les aigles fixent leur regarde en toute intensité heureux du fait de ce que la nuit pourrait les apporter les tourbillons s'élèvent inaperçus en remuant les arènes en convulsions par les pas d'une danse macabre s'abandonnant à l'ivresse des derviches aiguilles qui piquent mes joues mon front puis lance des cris de rage sur cette mer maintenant morte. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Le Vrai et Nouveau Hymne National - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's The New True Anthem by T Wignesan Le Vrai et Nouveau Hymne National - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « The New True Anthem » by T. Wignesan En dépit de ce que Dorothea a dit sur le sujet de la terre brûlée au soleil vous ne l'aviez vraiment jamais aimé ni essayé de lui rendre plus précieuse vous polluez toutes les rivières et répandez des détritus sur chaque chaussée votre graffiti d'une telle barbarie défigurent la scène où des grands arbres poussent les plages et les montagnes sont couverts par votre honte l'injustice sévit sans restriction malgré votre insistance sur votre renommé les fleuves pollués alourdis de boue sont cachés derrière des barricades afin que des voyageurs et des assoiffés ne soient pas au courant où des sabots d'étrangers ne les piétinent votre âme dominée par la tyrannie et que vous êtes aveuglée ne voyant pas votre propre image votre manque de pitié et vos manières grossières aujourd'hui la marque de distinction de votre peuple Australie O! Australie vous aurait pu s'ériger en un pays fier et libre nous pleurons en étant angoissés et amers en raison de votre haine et votre tyrannie les corps brûlés des noirs se tordant dans des convulsions - humanité enchaînée - vol de terrain et d'assassinats raciaux vous vantez de vos gains en copeau et en uranium la mort angoissée que vous répandez laissera les enfants de ce pays un héritage mort Australie O! Australie vous auriez pu s'ériger en un pays fier et libre nous pleurons en étant angoissés et amers en raison de votre haine et votre tyrannie © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Klacatoo - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Klacatoo by T Wignesan Klacatoo - Translation of Kevin Gilbert ‘s « Klacatoo » by T. Wignesan On nous avait coincé sur la rive de Lachlan un endroit qui s'appelle Klacatoo là où nous rassemblions au coucher du soleil quand nous entendions le cri de la Mort du courlis les femmes appelaient leurs enfants autour d'eux les hommes prenaient leurs nulla et lances en mains le courlis de nouveau sonna son avertissement on se sentait les pas de la Mort s'approchant de nous Barjoola sautait haut illuminé par le feu du campement Et en jetant son lance cria: ‘Courrez! ' son corps brûlé vifs dans la braise atterri par le coup de feu d'un fusil le cri perçant du courlis comme celui d'un sifflé fut submergé par l'éclat du tonnerre hommes femmes et enfant entrain de fuir tombèrent et s'entendait une voix: ‘Nous l'avons tous éliminé' et puis on entendait l'écho des coups de feu isolés mettant fin aux corps qui bougeait un après l'autre et au-dessus du bruit de la hémorragie coulant à flot on entendait le rire nerveux d'un homme déclarant: ‘Ils sont un peuple rusé, surveillez la rivière.' ils tiraient jusqu'à ce que tous ce qui nageait soient noyés mais ils n'apercevaient pas la famille Djarrmal se cachant sur le côté sous le vent de la rive Djarrmal dit aux autres: ' Si vous bougez, vous êtes morts iIs nous massacrent comme nous étions des chiens sauvages mettez des roseaux dans vos bouches - sous l'eau nous allons flotter sous la couverture de tronc d'arbre un coup de feu sonna et perça le tronc une jeune fille Kalara s'arrêta de respirer en se suffoquant plus tard elle deviendra ma arrière grand-mère et raconta l'histoire de la mort de mon peuple L'oiseau Yoorung pleure encore en cet endroit-là aucun poisson de taille grande ne nage dans ce trou mon peuple ne s'arrête pas quand-t-ils passent par là effrayés leur âme frissonnant la nuit quand les blancs se sont endormis se contentant à se rêver d'une manière moderne nous nous passons par Klacatoo avec hâte où nous entendons même aujourd'hui des cris qui nous font trembler vous dites: ‘ Ne chantez plus des chansons d'un temps déjà écoulé ne nous discutons plus de tout ce là' mais la question toujours reste sans réponse Comment pouvez-vous nous refuser comme faisait Pilate on nous privant des droits inaliénables. Le pays est maintenant approprié la scellé commun de la Couronne est un linceul pour cacher le vol de terre et les crimes d'assassinat lesquels ne suffissent pas pour suffoquer les rêves des gens d'une fierté digne. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Tu le fera, n'est-ce pas, Papa- Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Won't you, Dad by T Wignesan Tu le fera, n'est-ce pas, Papa? - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Won't you, Dad? » by T. Wignesan Si toutes les jolies mélodies de ce monde eussent été chantées et toutes les chefs d'oeuvres des maîtres fussent être exhibées dans des meilleurs galléries et toutes les statues de David et les poèmes et autres oeuvres de l'Homme eussent été mis à feu pour la joie de la Mort partout dans le monde, un petit enfant me regarda et en souriant et en étant tout fier rempli de l'amour et de la joie et il dis: «'Tu ne laissera pas qu'on explose la bombe sur ma tête, Papa. Tu les empêchera, n'est-ce pas, Papa? ' Son signe d'interrogation c'était comme un arque entouré des flammes Je lui répondis en toute confiance: ‘Nous les empêcherons, mon enfant.' Mais, dans mon coeur, j'ai peur et l'honte me consume de faites je PAYE l'HOMME pour fabriquer la BOMBE Je lui donne de l'IMPOT pour chanter sa chanson d'haine Je tiens le chien de guerre en laisse Je l'aide à éprouver la haine et la faire croître Je PAYE l'HOMME pour fabriquer la bombe pour garder le monde et mon enfant dans la peur Je ferme mon coeur aux autres êtres humains comme s'était j'avais peur quand l'amour est en train de m'approcher C'est MOI qui suis en faute c'est MOI qui fais bruler la chanson c'est moi qui fera bruler la jolie mélodie parce que j‘ai peur que d'autres humains près de moi peuvent d'une manière ou l'autre me faire remplir d'amour la flamme se chauffera et fera fondre les yeux de mes enfants en train de me regarder et demander aujourd'hui avec amour et confiance en moi: ‘Tu les empêcheras de faire tomber la bombe sur moi, n'est-ce pas, Papa? ' © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 L'Arbre - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Tree by T Wignesan L'Arbre - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Tree » by T. Wignesan Je suis l'arbre la maigre et dure terre qui a faim le corbeau et l'aigle le soleil et la lune et la mer Je suis l'argile sacrée laquelle constitue la base l‘herbe les vignes l'homme Je suis tout ce qui est crée Je suis vous et vous n'êtes que rien mais par le biais de l'arbre vous existez et rien ne peut m'atteindre que par le portail de cette seule chose pour être libre et vous êtres toujours rien car toute la création - terre et Dieu et homme - est rien sauf qu'ils s'intègrent et devient partie d'une totalité de quelque chose ensemble s'intégrant dans une même conscience et chaque partie sacrée soit consciente vivante dans un même esprit d'affinité © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Maman - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's Mum by T Wignesan Mama - Translation of Kevin Gilbert's « Mum » by T. Wignesan Kevin Gilbert (July 10,1933 - April 1,1993) - father of Irish-English ancestry, mother an aboriginal from New South Wales - was orphaned at seven. His elder sisters looked after him until he left school at 13 to scavenge a living through hunting rabbits and kangaroo and thriving on what he could pick up from white peoples' rubbish heaps. He was also a seasonal worker, as he says, « …not just because times are hard, but because I was BLACK and the white man had taken my country from my people and kept me and my people as victims, as slaves. » In 1957, he was sentenced to penal servitude for life for having killed his white wife in a brawl when he was « pissed » in the wee hours of the morn. « …of which I can only say that, I was a Black boy in a white court where the jury, the judge, the lawyers were ALL white. What chance of justice? » He served fourteen and a half years in prison where he managed to get some training in printing: a good many of his works were self-published at first. He has the distinction of being the first aboriginal playwright (his first play, The Cherry Pickers, written on toilet paper, was smuggled out of prison) ; the first to anthologize aboriginal poetry; the first to produce a political tract or dissertation, and the frist to produce an oral history of his peoples in book form. Like his contemporary Oodgeroo Noonuccal, he enjoyed the reputation of being a great talker. This poem and the quotations are from his anthology: Inside Black Australia, Penguin,1988.) T. Wignesan, december 4, 2016. Quinze chiens rôdaient ils hurlaient sans relâche leurs poils sales broussailleux et leurs os désignaient leur forme rappelant d'un passé maigre voire, encore plus pénible autour de leur vieille maison dont ils restaient toujours fidèles comme si ils voulaient dire il y ait quelque chose plus que le manger que nous retiennent ici une qualité que nous nous sentons et apprécions laquelle fait hérisser et briller nos pelages par l'amour de ceux qui habitent là-dedans et en entrant par la porte de la tente je m'étais pris à la gorge je vis une femme sur un lit ses jambes pareilles à des boîtes d'emballages morte - elle resta immobile le drap d'une couleur jaune sale la couverture déchirée se trouvant sur ses pieds la condition déplorable de sa tente délabrée des casseroles enrobées de graisse m'ont presque obligé à pousser des cris d'horreur - mon esprit divaguait tout azimut - le bruit me tambourinait aux oreilles j'entendis la voix douce d'un homme: « Ma Mama elle est aveugle et pendant toutes ces dix-sept années je n'ai jamais vu sans rime ni raison la décision pour ne pas nous accorder un chez-soi ce fait témoigne de cette vérité-là: la tente le lit les chiens sont mieux abrités, ' lui dit-il. ‘Ma Mama, elle est aveugle, elle dors maintenant elle réveillera bientôt la vérité est que elle n'ira nulle part ailleurs que restait dans son lit La Commission décida: pas de foyer ne pas mérité ou Noire ou quelque chose et…' dit-il: ‘les chiens vivent mieux que nous dans ce pays et nous ne pourrions faire mieux que mourir ma mère, elle est aveugle, ' dit-il. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Un appel - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's An Appeal by T Wignesan Un appel - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « An Appeal » by T. Wignesan Les hommes d'Etat qui ourdissent les lois de la nation Munis du pouvoir pour contraindre ceux qui résistent, Guidez nous réaliser le but de notre cause: Ceci est le devoir des dirigeants. Les écrivains dont la nation toute entière sont à votre écoute Vos plumes sont des sabres qui font reculer les opposants, Parlez haut et clair de ce que nous sévit Afin que tout le monde soit au courant. Les syndicats qui soutiennent la démocratie Protecteurs de la liberté sociale, Soyez sensible à la justesse de notre plaidoirie Et agissez-vous avec vigueur. Les églises qui prêchent le Nazaréen, Soyez de notre coté et intervenez en notre faveur. Montrez-nous ce que c'est l'amour chrétien Nous qui l'avons tant besoin. La presse qui est dotée d'un pouvoir suprême, Les déshérités vous en font appel: Mettez fin à cette injustice et le fléau Dont nous nous souffrons. Tous les blancs qui nous soutiennent, en dernier lieu Nos plus ardents espoirs se trouvent dans vos mains; L'opinion publique c'est notre meilleur ami Pour lutter contre l'ennemi. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Le Courlis poussa des cris -Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's The Curlew Cried by T Wignesan Le courlis poussa des cris - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « The Curlew Cried » by T. Wignesan (Note d'Oodgeroo: Le courlis fut le frère d'aborigènes. Il venait trois nuits de suite pour pousser des cris près d'un campement afin d'annoncer la mort d'un entre eux. Ils croyaient que le courlis venait pour conduire les ombres des morts vers le monde Inconnu.) Durant trois nuits on entendait le cri du courlis, L'ancien avertissement tous savaient interpréter: Le cri leurs rappelle quelqu'un va mourir cette nuit. Tant frère qu'ami, il entre et sort En dehors de la Terre des Ombres La voix la plus insolite sur terre. Il a en sa charge le bien-être de ceux Dont chaque âme qu'il conduit à sa destination - A quel monde mystérieux, à quel étrange Inconnu? Qui donc devait nous quitter cette nuit: Le vieux aveugle? L'enfant handicapé? Tout le campement sera au courant demain. Le défunt malchanceux ne sera pas si effrayé, Le frère de la tribu lui tiendra compagnie Quand le voyage non voulu devrait être entamé. ‘Tiens bon, la mort ne pas une fin en soi-même, ' Il semblait dire. 'Bien que tu dois pleurer, La Mort est bienveillante puisqu'elle est ton ami.' Durant trois nuits le courlis poussa des cris. Une fois de plus Il vient pour accompagner les morts timides - Quelle macabre changement, quelle épouvantable rive? c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 La Tombe d'arbre - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Tree Grave by T Wignesan La Tombe d'arbre - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « Tree Grave » by T. Wignesan Quand-t-il s'était parti, notre défunt, Au-delà pour le Monde des Ombres, Pendant que nous poussions des gémissements, Nous lui avons enrobé dans d'écorce d'arbres, Et nous lui avons porté, en récitant Notre chante de mort lugubre, Vers sa tombe dans un arbre isolé Au bord de la Longue Lagune. Même quand nous sommes bien éloignés De nos feux de campements éparpillés Nous ne l'oublions jamais Ni de jour ni de nuit En faisant face à l'endroit où il sommeil Sous la lumière d'une lune blanche, Au bord des eaux scintillantes De la lagune silencieuse. Sont déjà oublié ses exploits de chasse Et les chansons qu'il avait composées; Le pauvre gars tout seul, Il aura surement de la peur Quand les vents de la nuit chuchotaient Leurs aires d'épouvantes Parmi les chênes marécageux hantés Au bord de la Longue Lagune. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Daisy Bindi - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Daisy Bindi by T Wignesan Daisy Bindi - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « Daisy Bindi » by T. Wignesan L'esclavage à Roy Hill, quelle honte profonde misère: Les noirs obligés à travailler sans paie l'année durant, L'esclavagistes encouragés par la connivence policière Avec la bénédiction subreptice du gouvernement. Mais une femme guerrière sans aucune aide Conduisait son peuple noir pour abolir la servitude. Saluons cet esprit fin, Daisy de la tribu Nullagine, Qui sans aide et avec vigueur Osa l'esclavage à défier. Daisy Bindi, la grande, pareil aux hommes chaussa les étriers, Entama les tâches de l'élevage dès le lever du jour Et les heures du ménage qui rendaient la vie pénible Les années durant, même sans paie hebdomadaire possible, Quand Daisy du coeur inébranlable organisa son clan Réclama la justice pour ses pairs et des Droits de l'homme. Toute honneur et l‘éloge A Daisy de Noongah siège Pour avoir mis fin à la tyrannie L'esclavage elle osa à bannir. O! les patrons la menaçaient, les patrons en vitupérant En faisant appel à la police pour contourner la loi, Et les hommes et femmes noirs furent malmené et attaqué Pour avoir résisté la dégradation fut battus et incarcérés, Mais Daisy, la militante, aucun homme ne pourrait dompter Celle qui réussi faire sortir son peuple de l'enfer. (Note d'Oodgeroo: Madame Daisy Bindi de l'intérieur d'Australie de l'ouest s'était fait connaître comme une meneuse des aborigènes. A Roy Hill Station où elle travaillait, les aborigènes éleveurs et domestiques travaillaient sans salaires ni récompense jusqu'à ce qu'elle motiva son peuple à lutter pour leurs droits. C'était une longue bataille parsemée d'incidents outrageux commis à l'encontre de sa race, mais le résultat final fut victorieux aboutissant dans l'instauration de l'admirable Pindan Co-operative Aboriginal Community à Port Hedland.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Mon amour - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's My Love by T Wignesan Mon amour - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « My Love » by T. Wignesan Me posséder? Non, je ne me permets pas L'amour que les autres connaissent, Car j'ai épousé une cause: Je me prive de tous loisirs de finesse. Vous voulez me posséder toute entière: Mon corps, mon âme et mon esprit; Mon amour est réservé à mon peuple En premier lieu, et puis l'humanité m'a pris. L'entité sociale, celle qui désigne mon Moi J'y ai renoncé depuis des lustres; Ma vie est vouée au service des autres, Aucun homme ne peut la ravir en maître. L'intolérance des blancs m'emprisonne, Des insultes et le mépris à me contraindre, Je me dois d'être libre, je me dois d'être forte Pour pouvoir lutter et les vaincre. Car il y a des injustices à rectifier, La malveillance des hommes à supporter, C'est un long chemin, un parcours de solitaire, Mais, Oui, le but est sûr et salutaire. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 C'est bientot l'aube - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's The Dawn is at Hand by T Wignesan C'est bientôt l'aube - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " The Dawn is at Hand" by T. Wignesan (Note: In this poem - the title poem of her second collection - Oodgeroo has come full circle, la boucle est bouclée, come to terms with her and her people's predicament; no more the fierce apostrophising she filled her first poems with. Yet, disappointed with the Labour Government's refusal to enact the promised Land Rights laws, she renounced her Christian names: Kathleen Walker and assumed the aboriginal name: Oodgeroo, meaning the « paperbark tree » (of the Noonuccal tribe) and returned to settle in traditional tribal land in North Stradbroke Island on Minjerrebah enviorns. From then on her protest movement led her into militant political activity as an office-holder in aboriginal development affairs, both as a speaker and as a pamphleteer. In this translation, I have tried to keep to the original structure and rhyme scheme, not without taking some very minor liberties.) T. Wignesan, November 28,2016 Mes frères noirs, la première race australienne, Bientôt ils occuperont la place qui est les siennes Comme des frères, longuement attendus en triomphe, Jamais plus en habitants de la zone limitrophe. Pénibles, pénibles, les larmes que vous avez laissé couler Quand l'espoir fut anéanti et la justice restée aveuglée. La longue nuit était-elle épuisante? Soyez fort, clan noir, Le lever du jour est bientôt là. Allez de l'avant avec fierté et sans crainte Pour réclamer vos droits inaliénables, jusqu'ici restreints, Car d'ici peu l'honte du passé Sera enfin effacée. Vous serez le bienvenu avec l'esprit de camaraderie Dans toute entreprise et l'industrie; Aucune profession ne vous lancera des apostrophes Jamais plus en habitants de la zone limitrophe. Les noirs et les blancs à pieds d'égalité Dans des clubs et des bureaux et circulant librement dans la société, Vous sentirez l'amitié chaleureuse du pays Dans la façon on vous serre la main en paix. En partageant la même proportion d'égalité Dans des collèges et de l'université, Tous les labeurs soient manuels ou d'intellectuels Ne vous serons plus conflictuels. Car toutes interdictions et préjugés seront abolis, Le futur vous encourage d'avancer avec courage unis Pour accéder aux domaines des arts, des lettres et du monde officiel en triomphe, Jamais plus en habitants de la zone limitrophe. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Ne soyons pas rancunier - Translation of Oodgeroo's Let us not be bitter by T Wignesan Ne soyons pas rancunier - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Let us not be bitter" by T. Wignesan (Note: The fiery fearless rebel of Where we going (1964) and The Dawn is at Hand (1966) - Oodgeroo's first two collections - soon finds appeasement and forgiveness in My People (3rd edn.) . The overwhelming consensus of the Referendum of May 27,1967 conferring citizenship and voting rights to the estimated 400,000 aboriginals, together with her own projection on the international stage, must have contributed towards the thawing of her heart though Oodgeroo continued to rage against the Federal Labour Government's refusal to enact the promised National Land Rights laws. Oodgeroo's conciliatory tone in some later poems must attest to her own maturity as a poet - she had had to become a domestic servant again as a single parent earlier on when her husband deserted her. The International Acting Award she received for the film based on her life: Shadow Sister (1977) and the year she spent as Poet-in-Residence at Bloomsburg State College, Pennsylvania, during 1978-79, may have helped to ease the pain of not belonging anywhere in particular and paved the way towards adopting an enlightened attitude vis-à-vis her nemeses: " European Australians must let go of England. (…) American universities are the leaders in providing cultural role models for students.(...) …our universities must acknowledge and recognise the fact that their domineering and entrenched elitism still implements the mid-Victorian attitude of the ‘survival of the white tribe at any cost' and is counter productive to the racial equality of the future." (My People,1990) - T. Wignesan, November 27,2016 Finissons-en avec l'amertume, Mon propre Peuple basané, Venez, prenez position avec moi, avec le regard tourné vers l'avant et non derrière soi, Car un nouveau monde s'ouvre à nous tous. Il est temps que nous changions. Pour une éternité Le Temps s'était arrêté pour nous; nous le savons maintenant Que la Vie n'est que changement, la Vie est progrès, La Vie signifie l'apprentissage, la Vie continue. Les hommes blancs auraient dû apprendre à vivre selon les exigences de leurs civilisations, Maintenant c'est notre tour. Finissons avec l'amertume et la mémoire du passé insupportable; Faisons un effort pour comprendre le comportement de l'homme blanc Et acceptons-les de la même manière qu'eux nous acceptent; Essayons de juger les blancs par le comportement des meilleurs parmi eux. Ceux qui sont racistes sont moins nombreux que nous, Nous ne nous voulons pas du mal, pas plus qu'eux à notre encontre, Ne soyons pas amer, c'est une attitude négative, Un vers de terre dans l'esprit. Le passé a disparu exactement comme nos jours d'enfance au bon vieux temps, Le futur arrive comme le lever du jour après la nuit, Tout en emportant sa récompense. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Dawn Wail for the Dead by T Wignesan La plainte au lever du jour pour les Morts - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Dawn Wail for the Dead" by T. Wignesan (Note: The style of the original smacks of hurried note-taking, say, by an anthropologist or that of just a mere diary entry.) Maintenant la lumière peu claire à l'aube Désigne à peine les corps de ceux qui dorment au campement. La vieille Lubra, la première à se réveiller, se souvient: Le premier devoir au lever du jour C'est de se souvenir des ancêtres, pleurer leur sort. Doucement au début elle pousse des gémissements Un après l'autre en se réveillant on l'entend, On la joint dans la plainte, et l'entier campement Pousse des gémissements pour les Morts Partis d'ici vers l'Endroit Sans Lumière: Eux ils restent présents dans la mémoire. Puis le devoir est complet, maintenant commence la vie, Les feux sont attisés, le rire se répend dès lors, Et un nouveau jour les appelle à la tâche. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. L'age de pierre - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Stone Age by T Wignesan L'âge de pierre - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Stone Age" by T. Wignesan Homme Blanc, ce que nous séparent ne que du temps. Il y eu une période dans le lointain passé quand vous habitaient dans des caves, Vous utilisaient l'hache de pierre, vous vous habillaient avec les peaux des animaux, Vous aussi avaient de la peur pour la nuit, vous fuyaient tous ce que vous ne comprenez pas. Retournez-vous à cette période-là, souvenez-vous de votre propre Alcheringa* Quand l'éclair semblait être produit par magie et vous vous cachaient Face au terrible tonnerre réverbérant aux cieux. La race supérieure blanche: ce qui nous sépare ne que du temps - Exactement comme certains sont des adultes et d'autres malgré eux des enfants. Nous sommes les dernières de tribus de l'âge de pierre, Attendant notre tour De la même manière que le temps vous avaient servi. •The creation of the universe, the time known to most people as the Dreamtime or the Dreaming. (Oodgeroo) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 La Femme Woor - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's The Woor Woman by T Wignesan (La ballade de) La femme Woor - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " The Woor Woman" by T. Wignesan Le chasseur Bhoori demandit de la colline, Puisque le ciel à l'ouest était de rouge, Et le monde entier devenait triste et calme Les arbres chuchotait quand-t-il passa là-bas, Il n'y avait eu personne non plus. Il entendit Le chant poussé de crake et aussi celui du pluvier. Il s'était arrêté et regarda autour de lui. Là-bas dans la verdure Une étrange femme debout lui fixa des yeux, La plus belle qu'il n'avait jamais vu. Elle changea de position et courrait un peu, Puis elle s'arrêta et tourna son regard vers lui. ‘Suis-moi, suis-moi' dite-elle, semblait-il. ‘Si, je dois la suivre, ' dit-il. ‘Elle hantera mes rêves dorenavant Si je la laisse fuir loin de moi.' Une fois de plus elle s'éloigna, puis elle s'arrêta, Et continuait ainsi de la lui faire suivre Tantôt animé, tantôt un peu éffrayé. Jusqu'à qu'ils arrivèrent là où il y avait d' eaux, Le marais silencieux de la Femme Woor Où personne n'osait aventurer ni de nuit ni de jour. Au-delà il voyait des eaux qui brillaient. ‘Suis-moi, suis-moi, ' elle semblait dire. Bhoori continua de la suivre comme dans un rêve. Soudain sur les eaux devenues moins claires Elle courrait ses pas legèrs et y resta debout, Et là elle restait ses yeux fixés sur lui. ‘Je vois l'apparition, maintenant je le sais, Elle fait partie du Peuple des hombres.' Et comme l'accueil chaleureux et confortant Des feux du campement de sa tribu, Son peuple lui recevait en l'appelant par son nom. Mais Bhoori paraissait comme un homme envoûté, Son peuple à lui maintenant devenu des étrangers, Aucun visage lui fut familier. Son histoire on écoutait avec des yeux écarquilles Et tandis que certains souriyait, les vieux Témoignaient de la pitié et murmuraient entre eux. ‘C'est le signe de la vieillesse, ' disaient-ils. ‘Bhoori a vu la Femme Woor. Ici trois jours, il n'y sera plus.' © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Les Protecteurs - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's The Protectors by T Wignesan Les Protecteurs - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " The Protectors" by T. Wignesan (Note: Oodgeroo never claimed to write poetry à la manière des poètes occidentaux; she said - without mincing words - her lines were sheer ‘propaganda'. Others thought otherwise: Judith Wright, a part-time reader for the then newly-founded Jacaranda Press and the young publisher Brian Coulson recognised the need for an honest and courageous voice to set right wrongs, and thus began a career to seek justice for the hard-pressed and humiliated aborigines in Australia. As Judith Wright, herself, says: " Those demands, and many more, rang out against a background of long-accepted silence, and they seemed to me imperative. This poetry had to be published and listened to, for it was a challenge and a warning as well as a new achievement./ Was it poetry? It could be set against the general run of largely boring and cliché-ridden verse that thudded on to publishers' desks every day…" (Oodgeroo, p.166) And here's a relevant quote, if justification to voice oneelf in poetry were thought necessary, from Oodgeroo's acceptance speech on the conferment of an honorary doctorate from Griffith Universty: " As a proud Aborigine, I have witnessed, among Asian and European peoples, the replanting of their grassroot cultures on my Aboriginal homeland, and I have seen only the continuation of prejudice and suffering for my people. Only the history of the European and English Australian, it seems, repeats itself over and over again in this, my country." (Oodgeroo, My People, p.104) T. Wignesan, Novmber 23,2016.) Trop de gens nous méprisent et nous exploitent Quoiqu'il en a des blancs qui nous aident, Mais non pas ceux qui sont nommés et des fonctionnaires salariés. Non, certainment pas la police des protecteurs feudales, Les protecteurs qui ne protègent pas. La police qui se trouve dans des bourgades à l'intérieur, Le Protecteur d'Aborigènes Qui nous déracines ici et ailleurs comme des bétails A la demande des surveillants et leurs épouses Nous nous sommes réduits à des animaux, propriétés du Sergent-Major, Le Protecteur qui ne protègent pas. En cas de viol d'une fille noire par un ou plusieurs hommes blancs Il n'y aura lieu aucune enquête; Il n'y a pas de remède, pas d'appel aux autorités. A qui pourront-nous fait appel sinon au Protecteur lui-même? Celui qui méprise les noirs. Le sentiment est mutuel, Sergent-Major! Lui, il s'en fou si les enfants noirs ne sont pas inscrits dans des écoles, Ou des femmes obligées à travailler du matin au soir sans relâche, se sentant emprisonnées et malheureuses; Il rit avec les autres en entendant comment les noirs sont dérobés par les magasiniers, Ils ne font que de la sourde oreille quant à tout cela, Ces grands patrons des bourgades dotés du pouvoir absolu sur nous, Le Protecteur qui ne protège pas. () T. Wignesan - Paris,2006 Le Passe - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's The Past by T Wignesan Le Passé - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's « The Past » by T. Wignesan Que personne ne le dise: le passé est mort. Le passé nous entoure et aussi là-dedans. Hanté par le souvenir de la tribu, je sais Que ce petit moment, ce présent accidentel Ne me définie pas entièrement dont la conception prolongée Est fruit d'un passé profond. Cette nuit tandis que je suis assis dans un faubourg de la cité Devant un appareil de chauffage enfoncé dans un fauteuil Se sentant chaud dû au feu rouge et brillant, je me glisse dans un rêve: Je suis partie Je me trouve autour du feu de campement des broussailles, parmi Mon peuple à moi, assis par terre, Sans aucun mur autour de moi, Les étoiles dans des cieux Des grands arbres autour que le vent fait bouger si peu Faisant sentir leur propre musique, Les douces chansons de la nuit que nous rappelons, là Où nous faisons partie des vies de la vieille Nature Tantôt reconnus qu'inconnues, Dans des endroits où nous étions bien accueillis quoique maintenant abandonnés. Le fauteuil profond et le radiateur électrique Datent que d'hier, Mais des milliers et des milliers de feu des campements aux forêts Se chauffent dans mon sang. Que personne ne me dise que le passé soit totalement disparu. L'instant présent ne qu'une partie infime, une si infime partie De toutes les années de la race dont font partie de mon être. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 La Civilisation - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Civilization by T Wignesan La Civilisation - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Civilization" by T. Wignesan Nous qui sont arrivés en retard à la civilisation, Une lacune des siècles que nous ait laissé tomber, Lors de votre arrivé à nos terres nous vous admirions émerveillés Mais nous ne nous sentions pas effrayer. A l'époque nous n'avions rien d'autre que le don d'être heureux, Chaque jour un jour férié Car nous étions des humains avant d'être des citoyens, Avant d'être redevables aux impôts sur le revenu, Et locataires, consommateurs, employés, paroissiens. De quelle façon pourrions-nous comprendre Les stratifications de l'homme blanc, toutes rigides et sans appel, Vos totems sacrés, de Seigneurs et Dames, Altesse et Sainteté, Eminence, Majesté. Nous ne pourrions pas comprendre Votre étrange culte de l'uniformité, Cette adhérence totale à la ponctualité, discipline comme à programmer le travail. Confus, nous nous doutions De l'importance pour vous de l'urgence et de la signifiance Des cravates et des gants, de cirage, de l'uniforme. Des prisons et des orphelinats étant des nouveautés pour nous, Des locations et des impôts, des banques et des hypothèques. Nous qui possédons quasiment rien hormis les choses essentielles, Nous n'avions pas des policiers, des avocats, des revendeurs intermédiaires, Des courtiers, des financiers, des millionnaires. Ainsi ces choses-là, tous ces merveilles nous avaient rendu abasourdis Valeurs mobilières, le marché d'immobiliers, L'intérêt composé, des ventes et des investissements. Si nous avions pu nous en profiter et de nous faire élevés Avec des telles connaissances nouvelles peut-être un nouveau monde aurait pu nous accueillir. Absorbés de jour au lendemain dans de façon à vivre de l'homme blanc Nous voilà acceptions avec résignation tout avec joie et reconnaissance, Puisque c'est la voie de l'inévitable. Mais souvenez-vous, Homme Blanc, si par contre la vie est faite pour atteindre la joie de vivre Ne vous aussi nul doute éprouveriez grand besoin de changer. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Je suis fier - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's I am proud by T Wignesan Je suis fier/fière - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " I am Proud" by T. Wignesan Je me trouve noir de peau parmi les blancs Et je suis fier. Fier de ma race et fier de la couleur de ma peau. Je suis abattu et pauvre, Je porte les vêtements usés et déchirés de l'homme blanc, Mais n'y pensez pas même un instant que j'ai honte. Des lances ne pouvaient pas nous protéger contre les fusils et nous étions vaincus, Mais quelques choses y restent qu'ils ne pouvaient pas arracher de nous ni de les détruire. Nous étions vaincus mais non pas dompté, On nous avait obligé d'obéir mais nous nous restions digne. N'y pensez pas d'ôter mon esprit d'indépendence comme certains blancs se soumettant aux autres. Je suis fier, Bien que humble et pauvre et sans abri A l'égal de Christ. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 La discrimination raciale - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Colour Bar by T Wignesan La discrimination raciale - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Colour Bar" by T. Wignesan Quand d'ignobles d'hommes me méprisent parce que je suis brun de peau Ce là ne m'inquiète pas. Mais quand un enfant ridiculisé rentre à la maison le visage taché des larmes La colère féroce m'emporte. La discrimination raciale! Ceci révèle une mentalité D'une sorte d'idiotie. L'Homme n'est toujours pas sorti de son état médiéval tant que Une telle sottise persiste. Si seulement il pourrait s'apercevoir, ce con qui cherche à discriminer Qu'il renvoie le blâme au Dieu Qui nous a tous crée et tous Ses enfants Lui Il aime de la même manière. Tant que les frères sont bannis de la fraternité Vous continuez d'exclure, La Chrétienté que vous appréciez tant N'est qu'un mensonge, La Justice des paroles d'hypocrites, le contenu Qui renvoie aux précédents. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 L'Integration - Oui - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Integration - Yes by T Wignesan L'Intégration - Oui! Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Integration - Yes! " by T. Wignesan Nous apprenons de vous avec gratitude, La race qui nous devance, Vous qui incarnent des siècles des usages et coutumes, Nous sommes des Australiens long temps avant Votre arrivé lequel ne date que d'hier, Que nous devons être disposer de changer, Apprendre à vouloir des choses que nous ne voulons pas du tout, Des nouvelles contraintes que nous n'avons jamais subis, La rançon de notre survivance. Une bonne partie de ce que nous aimons a disparue et devait disparaître, Mais ne pas les fondements profonds de notre être. Le passé fait toujours partie de ce que nous sommes, Il se trouve toujours autour de nous, toujours en dedans de nous même. Nous sentons les plus heureux Quand nous sommes parmi notre propre peuple. Nous aimerions pratiquer Nos propres coutumes vivantes, nos vieilles Danses et chansons, nos arts et nos corroborées.. Pour quelle raison devons nous échanger nos mythes sacrés pour les vôtres! Non, pas d'assimilation, mais l'intégration, Pas de domination mais de notre essor, Afin que les noirs et les blancs pourraient s'avancer main dans la main En paix et la fraternité. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Le gommier de la Municipalite - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Municipal Gum by T Wignesan Le gommier de la Municipalité - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Municipal Gum" by T. Wignesan Le gommier qui se trouve sur la rue de la ville, Le bitume autour de tes pieds, Il vaudrait mieux que tu sois Dans le monde des espaces fraiches entouré d'arbres feuillus de la forêt Et des chants des oiseaux sauvages. Ici tu me parais Comme ce pauvre cheval de trait-là Castré, démoli, une chose écartée et damnée, Harnaché et bouclé, c'est l'enfer prolongé, Dont la tête baissée et le mien fade exprime L'espoir à jamais perdu. Le gommier de la ville, c'est douloureux De t'apercevoir ainsi Figé dans ta pelouse noircie de bitume - O concitoyen, Qu'est-ce qu'ils ont fait de nous? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Translation of Aboriginal Charter of Rights by Oodgeroo Noonuccal La Charte des Droits de l'Homme pour les Aborigènes - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Aboriginal Charter of Rights by T. Wignesan Nous avons besoin de l'espoir, pas de racisme, La fraternité, pas d'ostracisme Du progrès pour les Noirs, pas l'essor des Blancs: Faites-nous des égaux, pas ceux dépendent de vous. Nous avons besoin d'assistance, pas d'exploitation, Nous voulons la liberté, pas de frustration; Pas de mainmise sinon la confiance en soi-même, L'Independence, pas l'obéissance Pas d'insouciance sinon l'éducation, Respect pour soi-même, pas de la résignation Libère-nous d'une soumission abjecte, D'une Protection bureaucratique. Nous allons oublier des esclavagistes d'antan. Donnez-nous de la camaraderie, pas de faveurs, Encouragement, pas d'interdictions; Des foyers, pas des cantonnements et des campements de prosélytisme. Nous avons besoin d'amour, pas de la surveillance autoritaire, Qu'on nous serre la main, pas d'être fouetté par nos maîtres, L'opportunité qui range Les Blancs et les Noirs sur une base d'égal à égal. Vous nous dépriment, vous nous laissent sans protection, Vous nous proscrivent au lieu de nous traiter comme des amis. Faites-nous sentir le bienvenu, pas avec mépris, Donnez-nous le droit de choisir, pas la coercition froide, Un statut digne, pas la discrimination, Les droits de l'Homme, pas la ségrégation. Vous incarnez la Loi comme le Romain Pontius, Faites en sorte que nous soyons fiers, pas conscients de notre couleur; Rendez-nous ce que nous appartient lequel vous vous aviez Approprié de nous, Soyez gentille avec nous, ne montrez pas le préjugé d'un bigot; Laissez-nous sentir ambitieux sans interdiction, La confiance et ne pas la condescendance; Octroyez-nous le droit de prendre l'initiative, pas de restriction, Donnez-nous le Christ, pas la crucifixion. Bien que baptisés et bénis et endoctrinés avec la Bible Nous sommes toujours l'objet de tabous et de diffamation. Vous les pieux vendeurs de la salvation, Faites de nous vos voisins, pas d'habitants de bidonvilles; Faites de nous vos copains, pas des parents non privilégiés, Citoyens et non pas des esclaves dans des plantations. Devrions-nous le peuple d'origine d'Australie Compter parmi des étrangers sur notre propre terre? En abolissant toutes les restrictions et en détruisant les rigueurs (du système) de caste Qu'on arrivera à gagner ce que nous appartient de droit. (Note: In 1788, the first white settlers set foot on Australian soil after James Cook's maiden voyage of « discovery » in 1770. The aboriginal peoples were allowed citizenship and voting rights only in 1967, three years after the publication of Oodgeroo's first volume of poems.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 L'Assimilation Non Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Assimilation No by T Wignesan L'Assimilation - Non! Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Assimilation - No! " by T. Wignesan Born Kathleen Jean Mary RUSKA on November 3,1920, in the North Stradbroke Island, off Queensland, she was deemed as an aboriginal (poor whites too were subject to the same fate) - as was the custom during the White Australia Policy days Down Under - fit at 13 to leave primary school to labour as a houseservant, and in 1939, she volunteered to serve out the War in the Women's Corps. She married Walker, a fellow soldier - who spent his days in detention at Changi Prison in Singapore under the Japanese Regime - and had two sons: Vivian and Denis. After the War, she met and befriended for life her biographer, Kathleen Cochrane, a great solace to her during her " single parent" days. Kath Walker then wrote poetry, essays, stories and articles to highlight the plight of her downtrodden and despised kith and kin, and with the publication of her first book of poems: " Where we going" in 1964 (sold out in three days) achieved national fame, and other collections soon followed in 1966 to the eighties with the backing of the poet and critic, Judith Wright. Soon followed after international acclaim, even a doctoral degree honoris causa. Not just the first aboriginal poet to be published, she became almost instantly the spokesperson for her people all over the Continent, a people until then without a voice: not until 1967 were they even given voting rights, and not until recently has the government even proffered an " apology" for the way aboriginals had been treated for so long. Kath Walker - before her demise in 1993 - then assumed her native name: OODGEROO - " Noonuccal" being the name of her tribe. At the same time, she even chose to wear loose flowing garments as a symbol of her difference and achievement as the champion of the aborigines in Australia, a success story to reinforce the belief in poetry as the most formidable weapon of peaceful change in history. (Oodgeroo was also a competent cricketer, having represented the State of Queensland a couple of times or more, and it only goes to show that having mastered the finest art form of play known to man, versifying or poetising was mere child's play to her: it goes without saying that good cricketers make for dazzling poets!) Assimilation - Non! Versez votre cruche de vin dans la grande rivière Et où se trouve votre vin? Il n'y a que de la rivière. Le génie d'une vieille race doit-elle disparaître Afin que la race puisse-t-elle survivre? Nous qui désirons d'être des égaux de vous, un peuple digne, Nous devrions maintenant nous priver de trop dont nous aimons, Des libertés d'antan pour des nouvelles contraintes, Votre monde en échange pour le nôtre, Mais un noyau restant nous devrions conserver toujours pour nous mêmes. Vous nous faites changer et nous contraindre par la force afin que nous assumons une autre forme, Mais laissez nos racines ancrées profondément dans la terre d'antan. Nous sommes dotés des coeurs et des esprits différents Dans des corps insolites. Ne nous demandez pas D'être des déserters, désavouer non plus nos mères, De changer l'inchangeable. On ne peut pas persuader un gommier de comporter comme un chêne. Quelques choses se perdent, quelque chose est sacrifiée, mais Nous allons continuer d'avancer afin d'apprendre. Ne pas être vaincus et perdus, dilués, mais conservant Notre propre identité, notre fierté raciale. Versez votre cruche de vin dans la grande rivière Et où se trouve votre vin? Il n'y a que la rivière. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Ou allons nous: Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Where are we going by T Wignesan Où allons nous? Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's " Where are we going" by T. Wignesan Ils sont venus dans une petite ville Une bande à moitié nue soumise silencieuse Tout ce qui restait de leur tribu. Ils sont venus à leur vieux territoire bora Où beaucoup d'hommes blancs maintenant vont et viennent comme des fourmis. La pancarte de l'agent immobilier dit: " Il est permis de jeter des ordures ici." Maintenant les ordures couvrent plus que la moitié du cercle de bora. " Nous sommes maintenant comme des étrangers, mais la tribu blanche est en réalité des étrangers. La terre nous appartient, sommes nous les héritiers des vieilles coutumes. Nous sommes la corroboree* et la terre bora. Nous sommes de vieux rites, les lois de nos aïeux. Nous sommes des contes des émerveilles du Temps de Rêves, des légendes racontées de tribus. Nous sommes le passé, les chasses et les jeux qui nous font rire, les feux allumés autour de nos campements ici et là. Nous sommes des éclairs sur la Colline Graphemba Eclatants et effrayants, Et le Tonnerre venant après lui, ce gars bruyant. Nous sommes le lever du soleil silencieux Illuminant pas à pas la lagune enterrée par la nuit. Nous sommes des ombres-épouvantes revenant subrepticement aux feux de campement qui s'éteignent doucement. Nous sommes la Nature et le Passé, tout ce qui comporte nos vieilles traditions Maintenant en train de disparaître ici et là. Les broussailles sont détruites, ainsi la chasse et la rire. L'aigle, lui, est déjà parti, l'émeu et le kangourou ont aussi quitté les lieux. Le cercle du bora a disparu. La corroborée a disparue. Et nous sommes en train de disparaître. *An Australian Aboriginal dance ceremony which may take the form of a sacred ritual or an informal gathering. 'Aborigines living in the coastal Kimberley region of Australia's top end sometimes dance a corroboree re-enacting the arrival of dingoes to Australia. (Oxford English Dictionary) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: The How of Democratic Kill - IXL Part Two Unquotable quotes: The How of Democratic Kill - IXL, Part Two No, tell me not my vote now does not count (Shakespearean Sonnet) No, tell me not my vote now does not count For with my vote you do what pleases you most You stoke the breath of dragons in Levant And melt the caps of ice encased in frost Tell me not my vote will make enemies flee And set right wrongs long festering in hearts My vote's my word you take and hold un-free In Senate and House with bickering darts You cursed and you conned your rival's public You lorded your worth with your campaign wrath Who would've wondered who I'd have to pick And make me rue my days gone behemoth Ask not for my voice to be raised in hope Lest you lay at my feet world in syncope ********************************* The difference between a Democratic State and a Dictatorship is that there is - in the ultimate analysis - NONE! when it comes to dealing with its/their socalled 'opponents' whom they consider 'persona non grata' within or beyond the State (likewise between States) , with the difference that Democrats - through long experience as colonisers of 'barbaric' heathen peoples - have acquired the art of best concealing their means: toolkits and tried and tested highly refined sophisticated methods of persecution. Dictators, on the other hand, don't much care what the world thinks of their art of enslavement which simplifies things for them. Within the Dictatorship (as with Royal Houses) , 'the family and favourites' assume and share power to the exclusion of even the army or the political party which may have at some pivotal stage permitted the rise and empowerment of the Dictator and which will have 'legitimised' his sway over the masses by permitting him to abandon the electoral processes and by dismantling the bicameral institutions in order to make room for direct rule by decree. In the democratic state, the leaders like to be seen to be courting the people with populist chants during election campaigns which somehow have the habit of turning into hollow promises during the period they stay in office, as if to say, 'If only the mandate had been for life! ' Under a dictatorship, the leaders subject the people to the constant fear of being held in a perennial court where the Dictator displays the art of taking the law into his own hands, whereas in the democratic state political-party leaders succeed in subverting the due process of law whenever it serves their interests. By contrast, in a Democratic State, even if all the semblance for the proper working of the rule of law appear to be in place, real power would seem to reside in monolithic political party heads, trade union leaders, industrial magnates, conglomerate bank CEOs, media over-lords, the secret service, the police and in some cases the very judicial apparatus, itself, and the chiefs of armed forces and veterans of resistance movements and other pressure groups, lobbies and their likes, but the truth is certain ethnic and/or religious entities and the not-so Free-Masons share the power to influence and shape the future of communities and townships not only within but also over the borders of nation states. Now the real or imagined 'personae non grata' in a democratic environment is often made out to be an 'anti-democratic' individual (when in actual fact the free-masonic and religio-ethnic groups brand the unwanted un-submissive individual as a bigoted racist or anti-semite) . Democrats are only as racist as their morals are free. If you watch carefully how politics evolve(s) mostly on the world stage, the driving motivating force is racial or religious/atheist in origin, no matter how much or how fervently politicians and religious leaders talk of love of unity and peace in the name of humanity at large. At an insignificant level, some like the Free-Masons may give the impression of wanting to transcend racial, religious, sexual or ideological divides, but this even in countries with five major 'obediences' reeks of hypocrisy: in one, you have to be a Jew; in another, a woman; in yet another, be mixed man and woman; in the fourth, a Catholic or Christian, and in the last, an Atheist. Just as there are dictatorships and democratic states, there are 'demidictatorships' all over the colonised world striving hard to imitate their mentors. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine illanelle: Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine (I have just found a poem I wrote three days before I was tossed up and knocked down by a speeding car while I was mid-way on a zebracrossing on an entry-road to a mosque. I had the right of way. The curious thing was/is that I saw no car approaching from the right. The driver - a Tunisian in a hurry to pay his respects to Allah - did not, according to him, see me either. Curious! P.S. The car hit me right where there is a 30km speed limit signpost in front of a primary school, and the driver is still driving around in a postal services delivery van. Vive la France! Viva la Francia! The emasculation through isolation and the strangulation through noise nuisance continue unabated! The Brave New World! under Socialist management!) Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine Jabbering heads rap on the panes of my ears Can howling winds meticulous eke out Nature's design Last Exit to Brooklyn not by rote every line Requiem for a Dream's stream of consciousness leers Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine Do my words madly rushing winds now entwine Whose bones rattle in the shutters of my fears Can howling winds meticulous eke out Nature's design Does the magic fridge's realism pop pills divine Make me look the svelte creature the world requires Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine The Algebra of Need's burning cold in my vein Black dealer king's piston bursting through dry tears Can howling winds meticulous eke out Nature's design The gaping hunger in my soul sickens in my brine Spoon-fed needlefuls bloat attention in dears Whose voice so insistent and so early to whine Can howling winds meticulous eke out Nature's design (c) T. Wignesan, Paris - February 6,2015 Unquotable quotes: Addictions: Smokes, Drugs, Sex, Films and Sleep - XL, Part One Unquotable quotes: Addictions: Smokes, Drugs, Sex, Films and Sleep - XL Where the hand leads, the eyes close. When the eyes shut, imagination is on fire. What you don't really see is what you feel. When you feel at ease you fool yourself. No joy is real until the pain is turned on. If the pain digs in, illusion becomes reality. What's real never fails to be distasteful. Pray on your knees, the head'll rejoin them. Habit makes all things equally legitimate. All one asks for is a little bit of nothing: A chance to loop the loop on the tangent. When you fall asleep, you forget yourself. When you wake up, you re-mind yourself. Sleep forever in dreams, never to wake O! Happy Happy the Day! Tobacco consumes itself when lit up emitting hot air, smoke and stench, leading to cough, consumption and cancer; so does sex with the difference the more you do it, the more the gum comes unstuck. If you suck on a cigarette, cigar or pipe and fail to puff on it again and again, it will go out on you, so will your partner, however much he or she says… The film industry before the sixties thrived on making its actors chainsmoke at every appearance; since then it has added violent, bestial, sadistic sexual acts to its répertoire. What's left? Paedophilia or Incest or copulating with animals? Who made sexual preoccupation a figment of the imagination? Should women not entice once in a season and men knock themselves out for the privilege of siring the harem? How does the other guy or gal know what size fits - until they have tried them all at least just once? And have tried and tested them on tarmac, tree-trunk, bitumen, gravel, lofty stool, back-seat, bumpy bus, ferris wheel, crashing train, stair-case, kitchen-sink and toilet to boot? If the week had 6 days and the weak-end 9, the population of the world will return to the wild old filthy cave-dwelling days. Beat the carpet over and over again if you don't want to have to bite the dust by putting your wo/men in the lurch. The purity of the Brahmin caste and its spiritual aims can be gauged by the caste of the author of the Kama-Sutra. For decades since the post-WWII Independence spree, Western powers prised secrets by waving the white-young-chick muleta at African and Asian Brahma bulls: now that the muleta is torn to shreds by immigration and toros roam the arena at will, their horns bloodied-full with mini-skirts, what's the new secret weapon of the secret services? The harder the rock, the louder the battery drums and gongs: no wonder the baby bawls when born! Wilhelm Reich's designation of the sexual act as a method by which to free oneself of neurotic behaviour acquired through « sexual abuse » makes of it an art form that might spare the embryo dread and damnation! Non-mothers of course may happily envoyer en l'air by getting their Fallopian tubes bound up! © T. Wignesan, Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: The How of Democratic Kill - XXXIX, Part One Unquotable quotes: The How of Democratic Kill - XXXIX, Part One Born in 1868, Alexei Maximovich PESHKOV, better known as MAXIM GORKY and hailed as the chief proponent of Soviet literature, the veritable champion of the proletariat and the downtrodden masses, and who counted among his foremost friends LENIN, STALIN and TROTSKY, was poisoned with camphor by his doctor Levin at the instigation of Yagoda, the former Chief of Secret Police in 1936. His father passed away when he was five, and his paternal grandfather turned him out of the family home after subjecting him to merciless thrashings which had him bed-ridden for weeks at a time. He was condemned to roam the streets and wilds for a living right from his teens and his attempted suicide ruined his own lungs for life. His experiences, unlike those of the cosetted and untrammeled bourgeois Tolstoy's (whose wife besides slaved as his literary amanuensis: no resemblance to Patricia and Naipaul though) , fed his immensely popular stories, novels, plays, articles and his autobiographical trilogy, culled from living in Russia (Nizhny, Novgorod) , Georgia (Tiflis) , Italy (Sorrentino, Capri) and the USA (New York) . For Alexei Maximovich PESHKOV, the reputed " Father of Soviet Literature" Now the Cossack rode roughshod From Novgorod to Vladivostock Trans-Siberian rocked the railroad -40° suckled by deepfreeze livestock Tartar's shuddered locks splayed on docks On Syrian shores an Assad naval sword Levin commits sin in Stalin's Krêmlin Yagoda in Tsarist skin makes Lenin turn Putin Who executed the high Bolshoi entrechat on the battleship Potemkin Was it Kerensky or the scélerat or Rasputin under Romanov skin Unstrip the balalaika chez the Peshkov to let grandma kitchen tales unfold Levin commits sin in Stalin's Krêmlin Yagoda in Tsarist skin makes Putin turn Lenin Go now Ivanko! Cut hermit Miron's head off and his prayer for mankind eternally cold Ivan the Terrible'll make Daech listen to Lavrov no camphor poison could ever be Soviet sold Did Yagoda tell Saudi Prince Al-Qaïda off Or a Putin not bar lethal secret tatami hold Levin commits sin in Stalin's Krêmlin Yagoda in Tsarist skin makes Lenin turn Putin No petty Levin plied the Volga or bakery Escaped the pogroms under Stalin enmity The long arm of rivalry split Trotsky skull in exiled lost Méjico City Drained the peoples' lungs of victory In the proletariat Chief Maxim Gorky! Levin commits sin in Stalin's Krêmlin Yagoda in Tsarist skin makes Putin turn Lenin © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 A Soulful Cry of Anguish against Fate A Soulful Cry of Anguish against Fate (" The Tale of the Lonely Ghost" , a film (2013) by ANUP SINGH - who collaborated on the screenplay as well, an Indian, a Sikh born in Dar-es-Salaam but settled in Switzerland - enjoys the good fortune of an exceptionally brilliant Parisian: Béatrice THIRIET for the musical contribution: the tone/mood of the multi-tragical tour de force is struck right from the start and maintained right through to the end, a profoundly moving poetical elegy on the fate of simple village folk, victims of their own traditions and taboos. Set in the post-Independence India-Pakistan " partition" torn Punjab during the Hindu- Muslim and Sikh carnage in 1947, the film must convey even at this late date some of the stark déchirements of religious conflicts and political faux pas: a British magistrate who had no inkling of the ethno-religious set-up of the region merely settled the border issue between the two new countries by drawing a blunderbuss line across the map. The sets and frames vacillate constantly between desolate rugged terrain and other-worldly Rembrandtesque facial expressions whose under-tones depict fierce obsessions and helplessnesses in the wake of tradition and custom reducing every character to mere pawns in the fatidic drama of interplay with even the supernatural. Near the end, at the moment of dénouement Béatrice Thiriet introduces an excerpt of a song in the background which best encapsulates the spirit of the telefilm, at about 1 hour 13 minutes 53 seconds. Click on the link if you so wish to sample vicariously the pain. The transliteration is approximate, and my English translation takes directly after the French sub-titles - with apologies and thanks to the film property owners, if they have no objections for I do not know how to obtain prior permission.) http: //www.arte.tv/guide/fr/043014-000-A/le-secret-de-kanwar (This link will not open after October 4th,2016, so hurry up and torture yourselves.) roko ji kohi roko jaathu jagumathu jagumathu ji raathu va geindi kaali chaduthjar jaave lasuthaaraa lasuthaaraa lasuthaaraa chaduthjar jaave lasuthaaraa lasuthaaraa lasuthaaraa isukhi rathi ya kare shaara isukhi rathi ya kare share roko ji kohi toko toko ji kohi toko suhi saruthalu saruthalu ji raathu gaali La nuit glisse sur nous Un serpent de passion L'étoile rouge sang s'élève Impregnée d'amour elle nous fait signe Retenez-moi, je vous en prie La pas de la porte vibre Rouge, rouge encore The night slithers over our bodies A serpent of passion The blood-red star over the horizon The blood-red star over the horizon Shining with love beckons us Shining with love beckons us Hold me back, I implore you The doorstep quivers Red, still glowing red © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes Writers - XXXVIII Unquotable quotes: Writers - XXXVIII for Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra and Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoieski who let not even hope sustain them and who used their own last drop of blood for ink The time is at hand when robots tutored by " how-to-write" softwares are ready to take over from creative-writing teachers. Successful " robot writers" won't need penthouse apartments nor mountain resort hideouts to produce their masterpieces. The cut-up and fold-in method, the stream of consciousness and surrealist techniques are mere bird-formatons broken by airplane wings or shoals of sardines shattered by sharp shark strikes. Every living creature espies the world through a tiny aperture in its eyes. The writer perceives the same world with himself in the principal role. Writing unlike painting or composing music requires full-time living and for which you don't get paid: it's like living in limbo and you get paid once you're dead. A writer who has attained " sacred cow" status through, say, the attribution of a Pullitzer, a Booker or a Nobel, produces thenceforth manna and ambrosia fit only to be consumed by the Gods. Even the most prolific writers have only a few much-talked of books to their name, but the greatest only leave one - at the most two - to be remembered by: The Odyssey, Ramayana, Shakuntala, Manimekalai, Silappathikaram, Genji Monogatari, Monkey, Don Quijote de la Mancha, Gullivers Travels, Candide, Canterbury Tales, Crime and Punishment, Ulysses, excepting Shakespeare, of course, for he certainly must have had three pairs of hands. The self-published writer still perpetuates the hallowed lineage of the great writers of yore. You can always tell when a writer has nothing much to tell: the book gets catapulted into the eye from every bus-stop and train station platform. Isn't the best writer of prose always the poet at heart. Who is the true author of the book? Experience or the educated eye? Or both? Can a man or a woman who hasn't lived dangerously nor be in constant danger of being overwhelmed by life, itself, author a work of lasting value? Writers who autograph their books at a book launch can be assured the buyer will not read beyond the autographed pages. Post-colonial writing is exactly what it says: after the fashion of the colonial-canon: historical fiction, magical realism, anthropological travelogue, diary diarrhoea, testosteronal feminism, poésie à la mode de bourgeois sentimentality… War and Peace, Dr. Zhivago and Cien Anos de Soledad beget Midnight's Children, etc., and A Suitable Boy; Greek tragedy - The Road. And a good deal of what passes for poetry in South Asia and Southeast Asia where Eliots, Yeatses and even Horaces abound! The successful prize-winning author - in the eyes of the media - is a prophet: by rights he/they may pronounce and declaim on the fate of the world. The unquenchable dream of all unknown writers, not represented by top-notch literary agents: an Ayatolla FATWA! The facile tongue often betrays the true métier of the author: ACTOR! The pecking-order for authors in the limelight is ordered by the number of books sold. Writers who have made it into the eight-digit royalty class tend to shed wives like moulting skin: fill in the blanks - Arthur _______/ Marylyn ________. Don't " enfants terribles" writers let late starters walk all over their backs as " fast finishers" ? A wise writer will hold on to his best work while he lets the literary agent and publisher's editor re-write his juvenilia, until the hooked public acclaims his name. When you have finished reading a novel, and you are not totally and abysmally disgusted with every living human being still standing - including yourself - then, ask for your money back! Writing is like eating: what gets digested must of necessity be absorbed; the rest must be expelled. It helps to have sturdy Hemingway legs! If you became a full-fledged writer by following creative-writing courses, then you have no right whatsoever to your name on your books. Who said: " Don't ever (let your shadow) darken the portals of a university if you want to be a writer! " Tom Wolfe? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Gals, Dolls, Bitches and Broads - XXXVII Part Two Unquotable quotes: Gals, Dolls, Bitches and Broads - XXXVII An adulterous couple soon make lying, cheating and downright treachery (not to mention their role as carriers of germs within the orbit of the family) the principal characteristic of an ethic which is underwritten and buoyed by hypocrisy. It may appear legitimate for the Sartre-Beauvoir tandem to have advocated the tolerance of one another's emotional and sexual lives, but they should also consent to bearing the responsibility (since they became, whether they wanted it or not, the role models for the intellectually-inclined youths all over the Western World which the East replicates apishly) for the wanton rot corroding societies all over he world. Being or becoming " intellectual" is not necssarily the hallmark of the possession of " intelligence" : it's everybody's responsibility to everybody else to foster the " health" of mores and morals in every society. It would therefore follow that sexual freedom is perfectly alright for those who don't have or don't want children, provided those who practise this art form don't impinge or impose their craft on those who accept the responsibility for the upbringing of children. The Reich-ian Sexual Revolution, to all intents and purposes, aimed at undermining and dismantling the authoritarian state's strangle-hold on the defenceless individual without proposing a substitute to replace the familyunit structure as the principal incipient force in the shaping of individual character. The Reich-ian solution of the orgasmic release as a cure for emotional blockages and all sorts of other psychological ills and phobias and neuroses has also accentuated the spread of venereal diseases, indulgence in perversions and sadistic behaviour which continue to find a repetitive crescendo echo in films from all over the world. Whether we like it or not, we have a duty, first and foremost, to ourselves, even if Nature has already devised its own overall plan for us in the long run. GOU - Hexagram 44: " Coming to meet." One Yin associates with five Yang (might even mean more) . Beware of the lean pig in June hoisting and flaunting her haunches in mid-autumn. The Yin's shoes fit the male's feet as well. Whatever fascinates makes you forget your own embattled situation. The quality of life depends on who is mother. No child can outlive the reputation of a mother gone totally or even partially astray. Curiously enough, though, if it were not for gals, dolls, bitches and broads, LIFE - as we know it - would not be perpetuated on earth. They are the principal drivers of the Yin's motor: they entice, rivet, pollute, distract and entertain and sap the Yang forces, and all they have to show for it is their ephemeral flicker of fun and release from the cares of the world; all to no purpose for they are made to self-destruct themselves unless they drag the Yang down with them, too; their saving grace being their role in the perpetuation of the human race, for better or for worse. Nature makes certain they don't wreak havoc all their living days. They may and do reign supreme between the ages of fifteen and, say, thirty-five, leaving them alone to their abject fate and their wiles in managing their own pleasure and pain thereafter. A sad plight! A very sad fate! © T. Wignesan, Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Gals, Dolls, Bitches and Broads - XXXVII Part One Unquotable quotes: Gals, Dolls, Bitches and Broads - XXXVII (No aspersions are being cast here, willingly or otherwise, on the fairer, stronger and infinitely more sagacious sex. Even if these over-used words are somewhat overloaded with derogatory connotations, depending on the circumstances, their use here in these " effete efflorescences" are not meant to affirm or deny the original sacred conception of womanhood which is made up of the qualities of the most refined, and, not to mention, the most beautiful " creatures" among the human or even animal species. No attempt is made to sidestep the issue: the spectrum of life forms include the best and the worst specimens, of course.) No apologies are tended, here, for the use of these terms: gals, dolls, bitches and broads since what they represent are the salt and spice and also alas! the vinegar of our daily existence: take a pinch or sip and feel the itch twitch for the rest of your days. Given the traditional roles of " Mother" and " Sex-Object" that gals are called upon to assume, it would only be fair to remind them: You can't have your banana and milkshake it as well! The choice is plain: Either you opt out of being a mother or you make the ultimate sacrifice - multiply the population of the world, but PaLEASE! Stick to one or the other! The quality of human life and the human race depends on your choice. All forms of morals and the enduring values of human existence depend on/await your choice. Not to make the choice by continuing to assume both the roles is the fatal error: you can't be a virtuous mother and loyal wife and - let's admit it - a " bitch" as well. Life would be an interminable Sunday morning liturgy on TV if gals, dolls, bitches and broads didn't make us sink deeper into the quagmire, that is, late Saturday night - only to wake us up early the next morn. Who is the more despicable a character: the thieving hound who hides out in the basement or the stairways till the husband shunts off to work or the adulterous bitch who hurriedly kisses her children and bundles them off to school? OR, or the husband who drops off the commuter train to bounce some other babe on the way home? If you're a gal and some guy called you " bitch" , or even - excuse the word - " bloody bitch" ! What would you do? Take it all lying down like a putdown paid broad? Or would you mount your charger and pound the guy in broad daylight down your street, cheered by all the dolls in your neighbourhood? Why is it an axiom that a really stunning-looking gal when ogled at would be generous with her poses and rewarding with her smiles whereas the opposite is the case with the passably pretty bitch or broad? Wouldn't wives give half their gold reserves to know what their husbands tell broads about themselves? Doll-makers know as much about the art of sowing wild oats as dolls about dark matter. If dolls can bitch about what kids did or do to them in a year, even a broad's ear will shrink from shame. Even if guys who play with dolls all day long keep bitching about it all, they'll sooner or later get them enthralled. Guys who fall for gals but refuse to tie the knot tend to make their dolls bitch, look and talk like sods. (End of Part One) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Poets - XXXVI Unquotable quotes: Poets, Poetasters and Platos - XXXVI For James McAuley - in remembrance of a memorable week in Cardiff 1965 The greatest poet ever is NOT Homer, Lao Tse, Ovid, Dante, Chittalaic Chattanar, NOT Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Tulsi Das, Archipreste de Hita, NOT Goethe, Pushkin, Pope, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Quevedo, NOT Shelley, Keats, Gongora, Rimbaud, Yeats, Pound or Eliot, BUT as you all already must know: Ern MALLEY, for he draws on a thousand surrealist tongues. To be even greater, just emulate his creators! The difference between a poet and a prosateur is that the latter is honourbound - at the risk of exposure - to master grammar while the former is granted the licence to invent his own by those who cannot tell the difference. The real reason why poets continue to dish out what they write is that no one expects them to be intelligible, much less by those who put their work out. The less a poet appears rational in his creations, the more he'll be praised by those who do not or cannot understand his work, for they will read whatever they want into his work to conceal their own lack of comprehension. The great thing about being a poet is that you can say the same thing a million times over and over again and no one will mind, so long as you are less coherent every time you repeat yourself. If a poet understood or mastered the craft of poetry, he would still be composing the first canto of his epic at the end of his life. In other words, the poem is the shortest cut to the epic highway leading back to the first steps of the poetic phantasy which is the fine art of lisping with words without aim. This is why he who has never died alive cannot know the soul of the poet. No poem says nothing. Each word in a poem alters the meaning, if any, of a poem. The more the words, the greater the risk of deranging the sense, unless you really mean what you mean and not just let words mean what they mean anyway. Poets are born, not made, says the critic who is weary of reading more than he can take. Poets are born and made, says the poet who takes the trouble to read. Poets are neither born nor made, says the mad poet drunk with the sound of words. A poet who conveys exactly what he wants to say in a poem is a mathematical genius who has cracked the riddle of the poem and is eager to record his findings in an equation which he is convinced is a poem. A poem is like a person you meet for the first time: the more you get to know him, the less you might think of him - unless you remember while you talk to him (or read the poem again) what others who know him better than you have said of him. The most successful poems are those which like some (wo) men bend backwards to reveal every nook and crotch as long and as longingly as you want them to. Poems that taste good to the tongue reek often of bad breath and gums. A poem out-of-shape spilling out of the page is best read in the dark. A hot poem makes you sweat with joy. A poem which tickles your fancy is best read in the pantry. A poem that cannot stop giggling in bed ought to be pilloried and bled. A not tragically-inclined poem should be read post coitum when omne animal triste est sive….. Poems never die, only unpublished poets. Proverbs are poems distilled by the illiterate masses over the ages. Didactic poetry is the constant attempt to achieve proverbial status. Even an anthropologically lost or isolated tribe is survived by its sayings, jingles and rhymes. No great wealth or dominion, no nation, country or civilization can occupy the summits of glory if its heart is empty or even half-empty of poetry. The human soul is entirely made up of poetry which is when it entirely stops being human. Every people's greatest pride is their greatest poets, more than founding fathers or conquering victorious generals who spoke poetry to their wards and soldiers. The gods people invoke to soothe their woes make them wax poetic. The stuff of dreams is poetry turned to cash: stop dreaming and you end up among the poor mass. Even a Cyrano de Bergerac nose turns into a Marlowe's which launched a thousand ships through poetising with his love. The Republic everywhere is in shambles due to a Plato's hardened and un-poetic logic. Abuse a poet, if you will, with common pedestrian pun, and he will return the kindness with sweet lilting rhyme and fun. What poets love turn into pairs of lifelong doves. Skip a meal a day and buy a book of poems every day: Dieu vous le rendra! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Paris the last week of the August reprieve- XXXV Part Two Unquotable quotes: Paris, the last week of the August reprieve - XXXV Part Two II The first signs reek tell-tale Buffer-to-buffer parking lots choc-a-bloc Long insistent hornblowing concertos announce the Yin's arrogant blazè uppitiness Electric drillers sink deeper into the unconscious stirring unconscionable beasts still dormant Care-may-the-devil youths ride sputtering broncos rearing their muzzles revving their lawn-mower engines signaling their presences to their belles Even lordly crows scare desert languishing lawns pavements quadrangles Chinese crackers drop on the old and weary out to retrieve their morning baguettes Indoors slam the doors drop loads of toilet slam-a-dam-slam Skateboards grind parquets Dark stealthy hands whip carpets down terrace butter-cups Bumpy pubertied girls bounce basket-balls on every stilted cobble stone Harsh threats hurled by gardiennes on some lone defenceless decrepit ricochet between grainy gravely walls The monotonous neurotic beat of the rapper blares out of some open car door Stately high wooden horse-shoed chairs screech-scrape naked parquets The children upstairs take turns with parents to tap-tap with iron tongs your scalp trepanised by stilettoes Lèche-culs gather favourite crowds at your doorstep to wail their concocted woes Mothers dragging loads of holiday-gossip on steel-grip chariots scream at children they enroll for the new-born kinder-garten year Overhead cargo planes and pompier helicopters tie clouds in whirls of hurricanes The Mairie sends forth its armada of grass-cutters branch-lobbers road-washers to churn the cité in a putrefying maelstrom of carbon-monoxide Interminable garbage chariots bring lone scavengers looking for the mislaid meal their gastric growls louder than the grating wheels up and down the basement climb Heavy metal garbage vans pound kitchen utensils discarded car parts used-up batteries spades paint tubs sloppy almeirahs in the still darkened dawn Upstairs thick-skinned villains drop heavy spilling metal ball-bearings metal boxes their nasty bottoms on uncarpeted wooden resounding terrain Bulky chunky women stomp on high-heeled blocks all their way out of the entrance foyer down stoney stair steps to catch the early Metro No less than four-hundred sore throats yell into the intercom on their way in or out Late night revellers arrive in hitch-hiked cars to continue the yelling over the night-club din at the entrance patio never failing to rap on the first door Distraught women yell their chagrin into mobile cases out in the midnight moonshine Tiny tods drag school books paraphernalia through tarmac landing craft rumble The lèche-cul terrors draw tight round their scents conspirators from far Slavic lands Who said the Mediterranean didn't flow into the Black Sea Even the thunder over the lake recedes into the rear of the ear At the Carrefour cashiers' the queues thicken and stink longer III One dark perhaps failed actress, beer-can opened in hand, gives herself a captive audience: " ….I told him I'm forty-eight. He said: ‘What? Can't be! (takes a gulp from the half-crushed can) You are thirty, if a day! ' He shook his head, looked me over. (She pats and smooths out her streamlined abdomen.) …What's this world come to? Prices keep going up and up! You work all day (takes another gulp) , work all year (spittle spurt on the guy in front who dares not move, dares not look back, the fear - mixed with pity or sympathy - of those gone round the bend, the fear of what might stalk any one of us, the fear of being opted out of life, the wonder that is life keeping us all in check) …I told Mrs. Minelli, you know, my neighbour… You know what she said? (takes another gulp, her protruding lips on an otherwise elegant classic African-mask of a face, pouts) …What's this world come to? Who are we? One doesn't get a fair chance in this life." (her voice alternates between shouting and confabulating) …you give and give and see what you get in return? " The more she shouts, the more resounding the silence all over the shop-floor. A gathering cloud of grief grips those within ear-shot. Are all withdrawn into their own private shells? People avoid looking at one another. Some sort of guilt descends upon us all - a shroud a winding sheet? Yet, she's aware of herself; she knows what to do, how to use the self-service cashier machine. She pays and leaves no yells behind her now, her false straggly dull-blond knotted chiffon hair thick with dust, her worn-out décolté dirt-pink blouse slouches over faded bosom, soiled loose dark brown pyjama pants sloppy over hidden canvass shoes. Was the silence due to just one phrase, punctuated by curses? " What? You want a PIPE? " IV - Do turtle doves in love in the last week of August go where halcyons rendez-vous? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Paris the last week of the August reprieve - XXXV Part One Unquotable quotes: Paris, the last week of the August reprieve - XXXV Part One I Even the turtle doves secretly in love in the sticky linden wake In the still chill of the lambent dawn recalling halcyon days The broods they raised gone to roost beyond the wooded lake In wild terrain where the socialist sickle cut no customary hay Where they told and re-told without halter nor sapping fervour Their simple untrammeled joys hopping about fluttering insects Over over-grown wild scrub lawns fooling around a grass-hopper Now old cockle-warming tales turn rumble-grumble no one forgets The short aptly-rhymed refrain rolling rough on gravel stone The close-cooing couples' complaint toss through sleep frantic The first leaves shed wilt down quilt shafts mementoes of bone Brittle the worrisome air burnt oxygen neurotic cataclysmic The Yin steal back in the witching hour of the frenzied night Lèches-culs lèches-bottes and their official vaunting supporters To hoist their flag still stewing in their murky muddy might Roasted chestnut to their undies charred looks of brazen looters Three months from June to hoist and foist their haunches Now to stomp deep in the silt of their care-may-the-devil guilt Rude thick the arteries pump up autoroutes to citadel ranches To continue to suck the sap from a world other sweat built The refuge of the kind who never seek to otherwise mind If turtle doves too may make the most of what they built Through the North and North-East passage of log-ice grind Into the region of Southwest complaisance tomorrow may find II The first signs reek tell-tale Buffer-to-buffer parking lots choc-a-bloc Long insistent hornblowing concertos announce the Yin's arrogant blazè uppitiness Electric drillers sink deeper into the unconscious stirring unconscionable beasts still dormant Care-may-the-devil youths ride sputtering broncos rearing their muzzles revving their lawn-mower engines signaling their presences to their belles Even lordly crows scare desert languishing lawns pavements quadrangles Chinese crackers drop on the old and weary out to retrieve their morning baguettes Indoors slam the doors drop loads of toilet slam-a-dam-slam Skateboards grind parquets Dark stealthy hands whip carpets down terrace butter-cups Bumpy pubertied girls bounce basket-balls on every stilted cobble stone Harsh threats hurled by gardiennes on some lone defenceless decrepit ricochet between grainy gravely walls The monotonous neurotic beat of the rapper blares out of some open car door Stately high wooden horse-shoed chairs screech-scrape naked parquets The children upstairs take turns with parents to tap-tap with iron tongs your scalp trepanised by stilettoes Lèche-culs gather favourite crowds at your doorstep to wail their concocted woes Mothers dragging loads of holiday-gossip on steel-grip chariots scream at children they enroll for the new-born kinder-garten year Overhead cargo planes and pompier helicopters tie clouds in whirls of hurricanes The Mairie sends forth its armada of grass-cutters branch-lobbers road-washers to churn the cité in a putrefying maelstrom of carbon-monoxide Interminable garbage chariots bring lone scavengers looking for the mislaid meal their gastric growls louder than the grating wheels up and down the basement climb Heavy metal garbage vans pound kitchen utensils discarded car parts used-up batteries spades paint tubs sloppy almeirahs in the still darkened dawn Upstairs thick-skinned villains drop heavy spilling metal ball-bearings metal boxes their nasty bottoms on uncarpeted wooden resounding terrain Bulky chunky women stomp on high-heeled blocks all their way out of the entrance foyer down stoney stair steps to catch the early Metro No less than four-hundred sore throats yell into the intercom on their way in or out Late night revellers arrive in hitch-hiked cars to continue the yelling over the night-club din at the entrance patio never failing to rap on the first door Distraught women yell their chagrin into mobile cases out in the midnight moonshine Tiny tods drag school books paraphernalia through tarmac landing craft rumble The lèche-cul terrors draw tight round their scents conspirators from far Slavic lands Who said the Mediterranean didn't flow into the Black Sea Even the thunder over the lake recedes into the rear of the ear At the Carrefour cashiers' the queues thicken and stink longer (continued on next page: Part Two of XXXV) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Olympic Antics - XXXIII Unquotable quotes: Olympic Antics - XXXIII Why do Judo-kas bother to wear anything at all since all they do is to try their very best to undress one another before hugging themselves on the mat? Wrestlers at least take up perverse porn positions right from the start. Besides, Judo-kas always also wait for their opponents to trip themselves up to end up on the latter while they are on their backs. Gymnasts are still in the invertebrate stage of Evolution. Archers in the Neanderthal. A rotating disc is a slipped-disc taking to the air. A horse well-trained is a horse ingrained with adductor muscles round the neck. A steeple-chaser without haute visée is a stapled tumbler in the first water. A long-jumper always leaves his hand-prints in the sands. The escrime épée bout is the art of electrocuting your own clout. The rugby sevens is a game meant to be played in the heavens by saints. The hundred metre dash is the extreme strain of the first fifty metre pain in the neck. Why do white skins turn dark at the end of a long-distance race? The four-hundred metre race occurs when you chase your own tail. The two-hundred metre race ends where your eyes cut round half the space-time curve. The boxing match is the art of avoiding being hit by closing eyes behind blindly-flailing gloves. A hit head is a swirling crown of sweat. The rapid-fire pistol contest requires first and foremost the staring down of the targets. The hop, step and jump is in fact a hop and step on your rump. The marathon is run just for the joy of completing the ultimate round of 400 metres in the stadium. The hammer-throw that rained nails down in throes. Th shot putt is a hollow putt. The javelin spun round in the air makes a permanent green-house hole in the stratosphere. The Marathon Man talked in his sleep while he ran. What vaults up a Pole comes down sans soul. The kerlin in a velodrome can land you in an aerodrome. The women's high jump can get you high up even before they jump. The mile takes only as long to catch your breath after the kilometre. The ten-thousand follows the five-thousand in the same steps all over again. The art of synchronised swimming is the art of making your rear speak up. Even walkers can walk on or under water without fins. All medium-distance runners hunch their backs after the run. To run a relay without a baton, you need to be Stateless. The flag-raising ceremony is the most un-sportif event in the Olympiad. If the hundred metres could continue straight on to another hundred even the Bolt of lightning in the intervening period will peter out. Those who run or cycle behind or after others deserve to lose. There's only one victor in every race or event - the commentator! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Janitor, Gardienne, Portero, Sereno, Hausgast -XXXII Part Two Unquotable quotes: The Janitor, Gardienne, Landlady, Housekeeper, Portero, Sereno and the Hausgast -XXXii Part Two The duties of the Housekeeper in the U.K. par rapport au Portero in Spain or the Gardienne in France is that the former is a sort of " official" who supervises the activities of others who carry out the menial jobs in bigger establishments like hostels, etc., while in smaller houses of two or three storeys, she lives in and also does the cleaning and services the rooms let out by the Landlady. In hostels, the overall authority is the Warden who administered the place much as the Regisseur in France who had charge of a collection of buildings under one or more owners. These days, the Syndic, whose agency might be located quite far away, performs similar tasks akin to the latter's. In Spain, the menial tasks fall to the spouse while the Portero, himself, occupies a niche in the entrance to buildings where - in the old days - he may play the telephone operator and check on anyone entering the building under his charge. In the not too distant past, the Sereno who was entrusted with the keys to all the gates to buildings in each street - from dusk to dawn - somewhat replaced the Portero. To gain entry into your building after dark, you had merely to clap your hands, and the Sereno would appear out of the dark doorways to let you in, and it was customary to tip them for they obviously belonged in the lower income brackets. With the advent of improvements in telecommunications, the Gardienne, too, need no more place under surveillance the entrances, for the intercom facilities have rendered this task superfluous. In post-war Germany, the euphemism " Hausgast" (family guest) served to mask either a paying lodger or a lover. Of course, the lodger left the cleaning and servicing chores to the landlady. The important thing to remember is that all these " professions" must have come about either from the need to house people displaced by social mobility - from rural to urban areas - or from out of the need to supplement the earnings of land-and-property owners, or contrariwise for both reasons. And it wouldn't be far-fetched to conjecture that such a situation soon required the services of a sort of " moral police" to keep a check on free movement in and out of houses and buildings. And morals like thighs ceded to pressure when palms were soothed with tight wads of notes! Yet, in recent times, with the growth of monolithic states, the authorities concerned could count on these building-and house-keepers as the primal source of information on the comings and goings of the inhabitants, and hence this lot is a protected and cherished " race" to be feared by all. A Malay proverb could best sum up this predicament: " Pagar makan padi." (Literally: The fence eats the paddy.) Or rather, trust not the protector! El Manco de Lepanto keeps Sereno Vigil over Espana Echoes hurry clapping in the Plaza de Espana Wake-stirs insomniac Quijote on flankless Rocinante His spear at the ready to serve his sweet Dulcinea Serenos slump stiff in doorways of lands Levante Slung tight over dark green clad Carabineros Silent the semi-automatics steel soft the duo tred Who goes there? Hark the Cornudo! Voice the Madrilenos In the bedded down velvet streets Senoritas bled Jingling keys turn in iron-cast chastity-locked belts Distressed Sancho gawks at windmills in la Mancha Who hears now El Manco of Lepanto's cry melts The snows of Guadalahara in copas de horchata Brothel brawls at Valladolid blamed him for brouhaha Was Cervantes the Sereno of today's lax morals Espana © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Janitor, Gardienne, Portero, Sereno, Hausgast -XXXI Part One Unquotable quotes: The Janitor, Gardienne, Landlady, Housekeeper, Portero, the Sereno and the Hausgast - XXXI Part One Be they so named or not in these here parts, visions of shrieking furies with Gorgon heads and frightful temple-guardian Dvarapalas and Gothic Frankensteins with blood-dripping fangs and gnarled claws loom into view at the very thought of these gentle folk. This class of saintly women cannot but live off the mass of urban populations under the pretext of serving the latter as their hand-and-foot maidens. Gare à vous! The C.S. (Conseil syndical) , the all-powerful co-proprietors council which decides what is to be done with the monies they require residents to pay for the so-called upkeep of the place under their control. The CS - mainly composed of women: housewives, spinsters, widows and old maids, with one or two crusty men thrown in for good measure - is supposed to be elected by the entire number of co-proprietors at the annual general assembly, but, in actual fact, the inscrutable ways of democracy being such the ring leaders canvass and obtain by proxy the majority of votes to do whatever it pleases them. The Syndic administers the accounts of the co-property: collection of provisions, payment for services rendered by plumbers, electricians, lift and intercom maintenance technicians, insecticide sprayers, including the payment of the whopping salary to the gardienne (and her otherwise employed husband) , and of course the famous organization of the General Assembly when decisions taken by the CS are put to the vote for the succeeding year's expenditures. The president of the CS also maintains a common account from which (s) he pays for certain emergency services, the sums of which (s) he recovers from the Syndic, however. Now, the rub is this: the Syndic receives payment for his services; the gardienne is paid a regular salary, but the CS, nothing. Their services are considered to be offered in an altruistic spirit for the betterment of the coproprietors, but is this the case? That's for you to decide. It is however a convention among all the residents that they may help themselves as and when they please to whatever appears appropriate in the circumstances and here much developed forms of imaginative speculation is required to guess at what they can do to pay themselves for what may be considered " work" whether foul or not. The gardienne has the quintessential role in this set-up. She knows the ropes, for her kind on a national level have managed all exigencies and are worldlywise about how to keep the money flowing. She informs and directs the hand of the president of the CS who then allows her a sizeable cut of the purse. For this purpose, a whole array of service providers who are willing to cooperate are called upon to serve them. And the coproprietors don't much bother about who benefits from what, so long as the job gets done, and they are not put out - much too much - of their pockets. Their least of all concerns is the legality of the situation. In this thieves paradise, the insurance companies' employees too willingly play the game by shutting a conniving eye to misdeeds. Little wonder then that in Napoleonic territory, the chief players in this particular form of laissez-faire hail inevitably from the Mediterranean countries. Only such a state of affairs could have provoked the greatest wit in these parts to comment: " …wherever you go in France, you will find that the(ir) three chief occupations are making love, backbiting, and talking nonsense." Cf Candide by Voltaire.) The Terror at the Door There she blows the tough lump twitching rude bums Riding on the mop stick between wily witchy thighs Nasty tongue lolling with itchy gossipy gums Messy breasts soured by curdled milk‘s retchy sighs Mean glutton button eyes on the lookout for victims Those without rich connections the lone occupants On whom she unleashes her venom her whims The hushed neighbourhood numbed by wails by rants Each morning the terror strikes at some bolted door Some migrant woman in arrears rent husband on dole Accusing the wretch of littering some space out of door Summoning to witness the mighty indigene soul Each night she'll scorch indecent threats on paper: " He who laid that lame cabinet down by the basement I know by name - Before the day grows duller I'll have him arraigned by holy writ's firmament! " So she'll whine and she'll grind her victims to pulp Till she's got them all on the run tout azimut While she fawns kiss-asses the rich who cuddle pup At the buildings entrance where she sets up court There to villify denigrate and condemn Those who dared point a finger at what she got To justify phantom expense free flat unearned gem The terror at the door the lèche-cul lèche-bottes This migrant terror who would not finish school Sports a sinecure even Ph. Ds cannot earn Add to that kickbacks from fake contracts drool And payments from useless chores money to burn Do Lords of the Manor tolerate terror at their door Turn masochist key in keyhole of prison What system of human rights permits such horror A land that's seedbed to such criminal poison Everyone's out to break the coded law at will Who's there to watch over other individuals' rights Can the system of Justice prevent wanton kill When the vast majority abhor others' written rights When rulers and electors are left to their devices All turn a deaf ear to open faults and crimes The people show brazen courage in upholding vices So long as those who suffer do not decry the times © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Beggars - XXX Unquotable quotes: Beggars - XXX Who said beggars cannot be choosers? Who chooses for them the place, the moment or the people they choose to beg from; the hours of the begging day; the alms they refuse; the advice they brush aside; the language they use - or the looks they reserve - once your back is turned (depending on the weight of the coin or the shape and size of the note) you place in their hands? There are beggars and beggars: beggars who beg to survive; beggars who beg for others: their children, their old and decrepit; and beggars employed by syndicates and cartels; professional bodies, the police, the fire-brigade, nonprofit associations and poorly-subsidized hospitals, charitable organizations who stoke the " waste-industry" with their mountains of publicity and return part of your contributions as bribes in the shape of quasi-useless objects; churches and religious orders, the Salvation Army, governments - crooks, criminals and thugs piously wrapped and quoting the sacred teachings; campaigning politicians, political parties who promise the world until they seize power and exact payment from the suckers who elected them by enacting laws to make citizens pay for their mismanagement of funds (though they do ensure the continuity of law and order and economic development through the existing apparatuses and institutions they inherit) ; secret societies through repeated threats of execution by making offers one cannot refuse, and so on and so forth. Who said beggars cannot be choosers has not tried the easy and flourishing art of getting rich quickly sans sweat. The lay of Parisian beggars in August Where have all the beggars gone on this cool bright summer's day To tan their skins they have gone on glittering swanky Riviera bay O! Why do they desert Paris gai Alone miserly muttering nay Oh! When will they be back, pray! for their daily euro handout frais Down by the Mall's five-foot way? They'll be back, they'll be back, you say Once they've jigged jingling bags away in their glad rags gay O! Will they be back, will they be back, say before winter's frost is here to stay? Fear not, fear not,0! gentle soul, Sire They'll screech their woes the blue jay Tweets tweets rude tales from yesteryear From yon winter passage lands gay O! Will the Croatian come cavorting, say on crutches of seeming porcelain clay? And on Prefecture fence let limbs splay And will the Haitian light butts, they say cocaine piths within lips dark grey? Yes, Mon Sieur, yes, he's gone Breton way to hear lone father in farmhouse bray O Why do they desert Paris gai Alone miserly muttering nay Across the road along Mall gates' marches lie devastated old women all day Their conniving Kosovan looks reflect touches Saracen swords cleaving mothers at play O! Where's she gone, gone, my Gypsy lassie ray traipsing down the Palais by walkers jay? Whose pipe-dreams she pops open today down dark alleys for frayed euros pay O Why do they desert Paris gai Alone miserly muttering nay Roumania! Mania! Screeches naughty blue-jay Will she be back to flaunt her chops anyway Decked in fineries while lords on horses neigh? Or that wayward child's drained cheeks may Now sprout vibrant goatee strands grey O Why do they desert Paris gai Alone miserly muttering nay © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Fat People - XXIX Unquotable quotes: Fat People - XXIX (I know this piece sounds mean and cruel but as every single parent must have experienced, this is also the expression of utter exasperation, and perhaps there's also the slightest hint of an iota of necessary truth in it after all. No offence meant to those who may feel hurt. If you can laugh at yourself, you are well on the way to a cure, even if what you read is of very bad taste.) The gravest danger facing mankind is NOT the Rio Olympics, NOT the greenhouse effect, NOT the nuclear arms race, NOT the organized immigrant or refugee terror attacks, NOT asteroids and meteorites slamming down on us, NOR the War of terrestrial gods coming to a head after three thousand years, but - you guessed it - HUMAN FAT, in other words, GLUTTONY! Be it deemed of utmost importance that LAWS be so enacted by common consent among nations, and approved by the United Nations' General Assembly, that whenever and wherever countries are stricken by widespread famine due to - or not - over-eating by over-sized people that these latter ought and should be slaughtered to feed the starving masses. And should this extraordinary measure not suffice to relieve the emergency, then other nations being likewise depleted by the self-same variety of culprits in their midst should come to the aid of the afore-mentioned stricken country by dispatching plane and ship-loads of their own excess fat at the first drop of the hat. (Here, my own donation to the cause: a fifty-odd excess-weight progeny who can eat anyone out of house and home.) Be it hereby known that it would be cheaper and easier for any nation to balance its payments if the State in question passes laws to put behind bars all who are oversized on the assumption, for once in there, they can be put on a starvation diet and forced to work to pay off their keep and chow, and this for the betterment of the human race at large. There's no crime more bloody or unseemly than the very act of becoming fat: watch the glutton eat and you'll want to commit a capital crime. The glutton will willingly forego sex to stuff himself in bed. Chew, chew, chew your food, gently chew your meat; merrily, merrily keep adding to your rude seat! Oh! How easy it is to say the fat man or woman is the victim of depression! True, do them a favour and save them from themselves - by force! What the future portends for them: Imagine a future Olympics with fat athletes, even if it will attract more spectators for obvious reasons: the marathon might take four years to complete, if at all. The Tour de France will have to be scrapped for no velo/bicycle will withstand the crush of the first downhill carambolage. Restaurants in the near future will carry sign-boards saying: " Dogs and Fat People Please Take to Your Heels! " All cars, buses, trains and planes will be equipped with single seats - half the size of those manufactured now. The entrances to public lavatories will be reduced to half their present size for the specific purpose of preventing fat people from entering these facilities. Fines for defecating in public places will be tripled or quadrupled. The manufacture of clothing beyond the small-medium or X-size will be definitely banned. Fat people who normally take up 90% of the walking space on pavements and sidewalks will be prohibited from wearing shoes and slippers. Prostitutes will make fat people pay a whopping supplement equal to more than three or four times the usual fee. The sale of chocolates and potato chips to fat people will be limited to one bar and one sachet once in a blue moon. Travel agencies will be instructed to put fat people in the front of the plane's seating arrangements to facilitate the de-capitation of the air-craft during the landing process. No over-sized person will be allowed to present himself or herself for elective office at any level of government. Beaches, spars and swimming pools will be out-of-bounds to over-sized people. The fire-brigade and the emergency health services will be authorised to refuse first-aid to over-sized people struck down by a stroke or heart failure. No over-sized person found in bed with or without another occupant in a nonplussed state will be given a burial according to his religious rites: he or they will be summarily immolated in that very bed without further ado. Furthermore, at the rate populations all over the world grow increasingly fat, sooner rather than later even the porn industry will go fart: one would need to fart vigorously to locate the apertures in concealed flabs and folds of pits! And, finally, to balance the weighing-machine, all manufacturers who grow fat on the weight-accumulating produce, such as, sweets, cakes, greasy meat, potato chips and the like that they churn out indifferently should be made to gorge themselves with their own merde! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Which paradise is not the elusive chimere Which paradise is not the elusive chimère? …how long does it take to live one life…learn the lessons of a lifetime…find the time to live…find the time to sort things out…know what you did was wrong…know in whom lay the blame…what court hears your plea over your unwanted unwilled birth…who is there to tell you here is where you went wrong in the choices you made…take you by the hand and tell you this is not your making…this is all a dream…a dream that'll never come true… what… is the maker a masochist…to what enduring purpose have you been asked to join the rest… would you want sex if you knew who you would put into this world… is there a crime more despicable than the life you engender into a world you cannot foresee… can you live as long as your progeny to protect them from the torture your genes prepare them for… can you provide for the unforeseen… for the dark that awaits you…your own faults visited on some one else you could never have conceived in thought…since the yonder is dark unknowable for all you know empty why continue… what ultimate purpose aeons from now affects you… is there a purpose to purpose…we search and search and see far enough only to be told we are getting closer and closer to the truth… nearer and nearer to the eternal truth… the one single formula to explain it all… the unified theory of theories… only to be told in between lie the dark matter the black holes three times the known dimensions of worlds hidden within unfathomable worlds of universes buried beyond sight beyond thought… all exploding colliding intermingling intersecting in the unreachable distance that may have been but never probably was…that the infinitely tiniest world releases the infinitely bigbangish universe… who is to believe we're going anywhere… who is to believe we are going some place…can you conceive of anything of anybody of anybeing of any self-making engine who/which can create an ounze of space let alone the mighty exploding skies hidden within the atoms… can you conceive of a plan so complex so minute so self-propagating so complete so thorough from time immemorial to time eternal from the ends of the endless space which could have inhabited some mighty self-sufficient allmightiness… and yet it is true… it must be true…how else can you explain this eternal laila this eternal ephemeral-ness this eternal dance…nadaraja stomping twisting flailing his six arms in all six pairs of eye-directions…siva the destroyer…siva the adept dancer…siva the twelve to twenty-nine strings dancing vibrating in dimensions unseen to the eye… IT is there to be seen and be wondered at to be felt and to be suffered to be thought of and to keep thinking about to be befuddled about and to be flabbergasted by… to know that IT exists… touch yourself and you touch the IT… think you're touching and you're the IT thinking… but spread your fingers and cry abacradabra… no matter materialises no ready-made canvass no finished book no symphony drivels drops drips from your fingers… is this a mystery… is this a joke… if i'm part of the IT why is there no nothing at my command… are we then part of the IT… can we be part of the IT… or is the IT split into smithereens… no more the IT… no more the creating preserving destroying omnipotent IT the dancing Nadarajah the thundering Rudra the wailing Vayu the slaughtering Kali the admonishing Krishna the cool beneficent Vishnu…is the IT then in need of its sundered parts…must we all come to gather come together to save the IT and put IT back into place… put IT back in ITS self-conceiving womb never again to see the light of the Brahma Day…is the IT in need of all the consciousnesses IT split into to constitute ITS once inconceivable consciousness…is this the Christian redemption… is this the Arabian heaven watered by streams of milk by date-palms… oases… to the sound of the singing of seventy-two virgins…nay…succulent dates…'a book of verse/a jug of wine/and thou singing beside me in the wilderness/and the wilderness is paradise enow//" …is this the Buddhist nirvana… is this the Taoist-Stoic submission to the ways of Nature…if not what purpose is there to a finalising finite world… what purpose is there to extending a quest for betterment when the Aztec sun drunk with human blood never rises again…when suns quasars galaxies universes are all doomed to be exploded out of their orbits… what purpose to so much human suffering and animal and insect and plant degradation…but gaseous-mineral stoicness…. Abstracted from T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes…Paris,2004-06, pp.308-310. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. The reading of Villon poems at West Berlin's Free University during the 1957-58 Winter Semester The reading of Villon poems at West Berlin's Free University, Winter Semester 1957-58 for Fleur Adcock (b. February 10,1934) The hall was packed full, and the audience seemed particularly restless. No announcement was made from the stage, and the programme spelt out Villon's rather sleazy background: a string of poems to be read, together with some excerpts. That was all. (We) were to listen to the work of a great fifteenth century French murderer and thief turned into one of the finest lyric poets. He was banished from Paris where he was a student reading for his Master's degree at the Sorbonne, for having killed a priest in a street brawl. He then roved all over France. On being pardoned, he returned to Paris, only to be sentenced to death after being found near where a serious offence had been committed. The theft of five hundred " crowns" earned him also a prison sentence. He was then banished from Paris again and was never heard of thereafter. He is however admired for his frankness about himself and his times, and for his ballades and rondeaux. Scheduled to start at six-thirty, the rather youngish audience began to fidget and chat out loud. Students rose from their seats and hailed others in other rows. Some turned around and leant over their seats to chat with some others. A good many were making their way up and down the aisles. The stage remained cloaked in darkness. Then, without any warning, a voice from the audience rose above all the cacophony. A young man in a long white overhanging shirt and brown tight drainpipe hose(s) , his long straggly hair tied roughly over his nape, a leather pouch hanging from a stick over his shoulder, rose from his seat, or perhaps from the steps in the aisle, quoting a Villon ballade and made his way to the front. Lights dimmed. Piped background instrumental music was turned on. Everyone was caught in mid-conversation. Every eye followed the speaker. He virtually sang Villon's lyrics. A great hush descended on the hall like when a Tube/Metro comes to a sudden halt in-between stations. ………………………………………………. Everyone there was quite obviously struck by the dramatic opening scene. The man playing Villon then moved up stage, continued his recitation, then went up the opposite aisle, right to the back of the hall as the entire audience - apiece - turned their heads to follow his movements. He never let up. He recited from the little and the great Testaments. And the background accompaniment of organ and some stringed classical instrument rose and fell with his voice, in unison. Some parts of his recitation were followed by German translations in another voice. Even if those present could hardly follow every word or line, they appeared to register the soul-stirring performance, something to stoke their minds with and let their spirits wander away in a rigidly measured rhythmic world of iambics and anapaests in tetrameters. The sound of florid persuasive language soon relaxed and alternatively electrified their bodies, the fluctuating vowels spinning torrid scenes of squalor and prayer as they let themselves be permeated by torrents of words without immediate meaning, a virtual frontal assault on their sensibilities and consciousness. …………………………………………………………. …me a murderer murdered in my tongue in my steps in my rovings beyond words lost in the bylanes of history my death unknown my life interred in the bones of a jean genet from hotel bed to prison bed my story rolled in toilet rolls i go unrecognised in my garb of a trouvère my bag of musical words blowing in the gusts of backtracked time through drinking hovels among hail-fellow-mets my stolen crowns all five hundred of them clinking through the veins of my rondeaux lines straining into ballades my eye on the envoi my mental feet tapping to the tetrameter en cette foi je veuil vivre et mourir tell your son o maria up high in heaven de lui soient mes péchés absolus the almighty son taking on our weakness laissa les cieux et nous vint secourir and gave to death his very dear youthfulness en cette foi je veuil vivre et mourir et Jeanne la bonne lorraine que les anglais brûlèrent à rouen où sont-elles où vierge souveraine mais où sont les neiges d'antan mais où est le preux Charlemagne prince vous ne sauriez chercher de toute la semaine ni de toute cette année or all your life where they are sans qu'à ce refrain je vous ramène but where are they gone the snows of yesteryear where true may he have gone the valiant charlemagne now alas my song is done ici se clôt le testament et finit du pauvre villon come ye all to his burial when you hear the carillion dressed red like vermillion car en amour mourut martyr ce jura-t-il sur son couillon quand de ce monde vout partir and do you know what he did when it was time at last to go un trait but de vin morillon this villon this villainous villon this villonous villain but where are they gone the snows of yesteryear Abstracted from T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes Smoke in yours. (A Novel) . Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2016, pp.317-320. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Outsiders and Odd Men - XXVIII Unquotable quotes: Outsiders and Odd Men - XXVIII for Colin Wilson (1931-1913) regrets for the " provoked" faux pas To each his own: to Colin Wilson his alienated creators, doers and thinkers - Lawrence of Arabia, Nijinsky, Van Gogh (to name but a sample) , but what about those who sweated their lives out within soft screen to hard covers: James Mason's " Johnny McQueen" in Carol Reed's version of Green's Odd Man Out; Steinbeck's mute mice and merciless military men in Viva Zapata; King Wen of Chou trapped within the hexagram Ming Yi for six years in the tyrant's dungeons made ultimate sense of stray lines on tortoise shells or El Mancho of Lepanto languishing for years in Algerian stone quarries for want of 30 thousand ducats hatched his quixotic plot to appease those who let their whims overwhelm them; like a Ho who would not let a defeated people go down on their knees to superior fire power; like a Gandhiji who elevated and enshrined hundreds of millions of Dalit sous-hommes in articles of human rights in the subcontinent's Constitution; like the Midnight Oil's wail to keep sleeping on while their beds burn Down Under: ‘A fact's a fact/It belongs to them/Let's give it back'; like Kurosawa's Seven Samurai come to the rescue of guileless peasants at the mercy of brigands and the waywardness of seasons; like a Mandela who steered his beaten down and trampled apartheid victims into the clear ground of fairplay in the aftermath of Botha detention; like a Lenin unwilling to let the Tsarist insouciance feed on the under-fed and over-worked proletariat corpse: like Mao who took his diehard followers on the Long March to re-possess his ravaged country equally from traitors and infiltrators and scheming conqueror hoards; like the general who turned the tables on his colonial masters to found the nucleus of the Republic now in Washington; like a Lincoln who forestalled Jefferson's segregationist and cleansing plans of repatriation to bind the Union in mixed blood; like the ever-faithful Castro ready to sacrifice in bon-fires his women and children to face the Roman conqueror onslaught…. All all " outsiders" who harbour the spirit of the " odd man out" in their psyches and willing at all cost to pay the ultimate price for wanting in their dreams to change this incorrigible world in the grasp of bigoted profiteers…. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Limericks crochetes: What if what he warns's true sin Limericks crochetés: What if what he warns's true sin? Is he the wrong man said the right thing Though it'll be wrong to agree with him Who know darn well we mean Such the omen of Djinn Now it's just as likely he might win Thumbs up or thumbs down winds favour him He can go on saying the same thing The more he thumps same thing More the votes he'll reap in Better be wise let him badly win See how and what he does once he's in Till he undoes self in the West Wing There's no way he can grin And keep himself within Right or wrong he must face music's din © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Fashion modeling with an eye on footballers - XXVII Unquotable quotes: Fashion modeling with an eye on footballers - XXVII Isn't " haute couture" like " cordon bleu cuisine" ? Both equally edible? You still have to pull the shrimp scales apart to get at the meat. What do models model more than their own bodies? And are their bodies any the more worth modeling than the cuts and slashes of draperies they model? Isn't the art of modeling the art of walking on stilts and keeping from tripping on your shreds? The mincing gait or the panther stride, the blazé look, the exposed adductor thigh muscles, the tight twitching taught tantrums, the nonchalant swagger and the prayer in the tréfonds du coeur to stay the stumble - what more can the model wish for? The model is the only member of the human species forced to walk from side to side, the art of walking by crossing one leg over the other being an optical illusion, an art footballers all dream of acquiring in order to avoid the yellow or even red card. What makes the final turn on the modeling stage a gasping breath escape - exposing the twitching cherished view from the rear - the return to oblivion? Will the fashion industry die the day models take to the Mohicun-multi-dyed cuts footballers now sport? Contrariwise would footballers take to modeling hair-cuts now in vogue on Euro pitches and turfs? Touch a model and you touch bone, and you'll be lucky if you don't get a wellheeled stiletto in your face; touch a footballer and he'll crumble and tumble and go sprawling and writhing on his face until he gets a free penalty kick. Put a ball between the legs of a model and it'll stay stuck in there all the time she goes gallavanting down the turf; put a ball at the tip of a footballer's toes at a penalty shoot-out - and leave the goal empty - and he'll still aim high enough to place the ball at the bawling gawking crowds behind. Where do the pick of the Tout Paris want to be seen to be thought chic/chique? Gawking up by the modeling walkplanks, of course. Where do you think opera singers go to clear their throats and yell their heads off? Yesteryears' discarded fashions - whom do they adorn? Do kept " wives" and " darling boys" walk the streets to accompanied piped lilting music and canned stage lighting? How many the unemployed if the fashion industry just closed shop to let each and everyone design his own wear without conforming to the tastes of a dictating few - however brilliant - or to custom-imposed straight-jackets? When billionnaire " daddies" cloth their damsels and dames in haute couture, whom do they show off? There's talk now and then, here and there - certainly from vicious sources - about fashion designers collecting and distributing models like trainers their footballers - the only difference, one imagines, is that no models are forced to warm the reserve benches with their butts. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Journalists - Dedication to Andre Fontaine - XXVI Unquotable quotes: Tale-Carriers, Gossip-Mongers, Courrier-Pigeon Caretakers, Smoke-Signal Puffers and Tom-Tom Thumpers - XXVI Could there be such things as political shenanigans or inter-continental warfares, even catastrophes, natural disasters, tsunamis, irruptions, conflagrations, inundations, landslides, typhoons, tornadoes, hurricanes, plagues, pestilence, famines, accidents, police brutality, paedophilia, fratricide, patricide, racism, anti-semitism, corruption, assassinations, bankruptcy, elections, stock-exchange slumps and ruptures, parades and protests, street demonstrations, hooliganism, gangsterism, sexual scandals, incest, money-laundering, illegal migrations, airplane crashes, train derailments, highway pile-ups, weather forecasts, UFOs, even " Trumps" without journalists pouncing to remind us of them all the time? Has anyone wondered how our forefathers managed to live without them? If you want to know what happened yesterday - too late - when you were asleep, then read the newspapers. If you want to know what happened a week or a month ago when the floods had already washed your cherished possessions down gaping ravines, then read the weeklies and monthlies. If you want to know what is going to happen the very next minute - or even moment - then watch TV breaking news - only be prepared for the long haul - baby bottle warmers and napkins at the ready. As you all already know, the only use left for the radio is to keep truckdrivers from dozing off on the thighs of hitch-hikers up on high winding mountain trails. If you look carefully at a TV interview with politicians, you are bound to see a safety zoo rocky pit and railings between the interviewer and the interviewees: your guess as to who play the fauves or predatory immunised overlords. Have you ever wondered why even the most powerful politicians in a TV interview never fail to use the catch-phrase: " A very good question! " - either as a shield for their embarrassment in not wanting to reveal the truth or as a ploy or ruse to appease the blood-thirsty interviewer. The Pullitzer awaits the interviewee who can devise another catch-phrase like: " Great question! , I'd never have in a million years even.! And Lo! a golden sunlight beam lassoes the Sultan's turret in a noose of fright! '" Every one-man/one-woman show is an excuse for the host to voice his or her own opinions on any or all subjects: the guest-invitees serving as mere sounding boards. Why is it that TV literary programmes always shy away from having to examine the contents of books in lieu of the authors, critics and publishers' personal and inter-personal relations? The football commentator spends 90% of his time telling the tele-spectator just what transpired two minutes previously, and the rest of the time reminding us of the idiocy of the coaches on the losing side for keeping the real stars stuck to their reserve benches. If only there was a button on the TV remote control to shut out the commentators' grumpy voices at the annual Euro-Vision Song Contests! Even the studio-commentator's voice hushes when the golf-ball is about to be hit! The difference between a news anchor-man and an anchor-woman is that the latter makes the former envious. Do failed writers take to journalism? Or do writers who want to get published take to journalism? The press conference is the most frequent opportunity journalists have to embarrass and expose politicians. The wise politician appoints a Press Secretary to avoid the debacle - for it is he and he alone who can put an end to the conference. There's a Franco-German workday news review run by a winsome bubbly, quickthinking lady - given now and then to lewd jokes - called " 28 Minutes" on ARTE (the liveliest and most intellectually stimulating " University" in the World) which brings together intellectuals and savant commentators who vie with one another to out-talk themselves all at the very same moment, and if you put together all the words uttered in one line, it would wind its way through our Milky Way and re-appear as fulminating and salivating volcanic cheese. If anyone still wonders who inherited Imelda Marcos's wardrobe, you don't have to look hard or long at the show every evening! Every so often, guest cartoonists (male, saucy females) appear on the scene, and even before the cartoons are flashed - subliminally - on the screen, the debators would have laughed their heads off, making it all seem (except to the French, one hopes) the very private jargon joke of the journalists' trade cracked in a French café. If only journalists could be nurtured on Alistair Cooke's " Letter from America" (1947-2004) , the (Manchester) Guardian correspondent in New York, the world would appear less harrassed and be put through less turmoil, and be amused by his detached but curious eye, while being titillated by his avuncular tone. Just think Orson Welles' " Citizen Kane" and his radio series on the Martian invasion of New York - after all - goaded him to lament: " I spend 98% of my time looking for the funds to make my pictures…" (or words to the effect) . Had André Fontaine, Chief Editor of Le Monde, accepted the offer of the top diplomatic post in Peking during the seventies, would the paper sway Presidents and PleniPotentiaries today? Report an isolated act of injustice, and the people will want the culprit lynched; report the repeated acts of injustice of a given State, and a whole lot of States within the Bloc will rush to succour the beleagured ally. Stop reporting these acts of injustice, and they will diminish on their own - for the perpetrators love the limelight. The more one sees and listens to leaders on the tele, the more they become entrenched in their " self-martyred" positions. Thanks to journalists, the World lies at the tip of our fingers: we can eat and watch, we can eat and computer-read; and we can eat and listen to the tell-tale tom-toms. Or NOT at all! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Witch-Doctors and Tribal Headmen - XXV Part Two Unquotable quotes: Witch-Doctors and Tribal Headmen - XXV (Part Two) Which Asian " King" would crown himself " Emperor" during an elaborate theatrical ceremony while facing and exhorting the ruins of his Illustrious Ancestor's capital? Which commoner army captain would seize power through skill and grit to crown himself " Emperor" with his own hands and appoint his siblings kings, queens, princes and princesses of his conquered territories? Which dear old Royal Dame Head of State reads the Racing Post from cover to cover every day? Which pauper prince might not have received even a secondary school education had it not been for marginal largesse loot only to open the royal gates to thugs, rogues, swindlers and pimps of the moneyed kind? Which royal playboy groomed by a dictator would go off on an elephant hunt funded by the State coffers when his people chalk up 30% unemployment figures? Which Far-Eastern village chieftains issuing from a self-appointed Hindu " king" appoint themselves sultans with rights to elect kings from their ranks claim in the process descent from Alexander the Great? Which class of hereditary princes by caste set themselves the task of deflowering the greatest number of virgins presumably to convince themselves of their virility while their subjects battled their conquerors to free themselves? Which heir-apparent to an illustrious throne surrender his " god-given" rights for a commoner divorcee only to abandon her to her " chauffeurs" while he cubbed little " choir" boys in one wing of the hereditary castle? Which future king would abandon his virtuous " princess" spouse for a divorcee only to hoodwink her for Russian prostitutes in another capital? Which Pacific son of the Rising Sun would make a pact with hereditary warriors in uniform to rape the down-trodden masses of the Asian Continent? How many the centuries scientific truths lay chained and condemned in deep dungeon irons by Witch-Doctors who feared the debunking of their " holy" texts? How many the orphaned hostel boys sworn to dumbness through soul-splitting shame and psychic drubbing stuffed by bible-quoting Witch-Doctors? How many the virgins and dejected spouses gone to confide and beg for solace stuffed by Witch-Doctors chanting mass and morning prayers? How many the orphaned virgins sacrificed to temples as dancers for a fee at the mercy of Witch-Doctors' whims? How many the billions forced to abandon common sense and reason for fear of the fire and brimstone promised by Witch-Doctors if they did not swallow the dictates of their " holy" texts and hasten to slaughter, sack, soil, slay, sully, suppress, shame, slander, sicken, shun, swindle, slap, swat, slog, sling, spit, split, scuttle, soften, straighten, sink, stink and sell their souls to keep them (Witch-Doctors) in place? How many the Witch-Doctors who would anoint themselves as Messiah-Kings in the centuries to come? How many the Witch-Doctors still to escape from the World in order to find refuge in the Cuckoo's Nest? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Witch-Doctors and Tribal Headmen - XXIV Part One Unquotable quotes: Witch-Doctors and Tribal Headmen* - XXIV-Part One The Uhr-Father of the embodiment of spiritual power since the Middle Ages must certainly have been the Witch-Doctor of primitive societies who shared power with the Headman of the Tribe (to which each of us separately belongs) . The roles Witch-Doctors and Tribal Headmen assume and enact out in every society has never changed, though in some cases both roles have coalesced into one and the same person. Quite conceivably, the Headmen are those who manage to seize power over the rest of the clan through intrigue or by brute force. In some cases, they might quite conceivably have been born leaders who came to the rescue of their fellow-men through sheer courage in times of hardship by displaying a sense of justice in the face of corruption and terror, though their hereditary successors fall in line with the Witch-Doctors. On the other hand, the Witch-Doctors - the close associates of the Headmen, one needing the other - might resort to power through the agency of " magic formulae" and the use of spells, mantras and dubious ceremonies claiming ownership of the " unseen/unseeable" dark forces which could either be interpreted as " spiritual" or " daemonic" and with which they threaten the unwary laymen - and likewise the Headmen - with retribution and damnation herein- after if the others didn't submit themselves to their own will and demands. The primordial role of Witch-Doctors is the consecration and anointing of Tribal Headmen who thus become invested with Divine Rights permitting the setting up of Royal Houses with hereditary lineages through heavenly transfusion of " blue" blood. Likewise the " anointers" get to arrogating this right from the Almighty Himself or, at least, this is what they would like the common folk to think. The most lethal weapon ever conceived by the human mind is " the fine art of indoctrination" : Burrough's Algebra of Need - catch them early, catch them dazed and hungry, is the motto. Power operates by stealth: through intrigue and secrecy. He who wields power has access - without your knowledge or consent - to your soul and to your purse as well. The Witch-Doctor and the Tribal Headman are by nature Slave-Traders. The idea is to device a bait, something to drive terror into your psychic depths and hold you prisoner there, and nothing works as well as " fear" - fear for your life, for your children, for your kith and kin, and for your tribe and country, but most of all for the here-in-after, the fear of the Unknown, the Unknowable being the Almighty: for Hell. From the moment the Witch-Doctor instils fear in you of the hell awaiting you, you are his slave. And in this, the Headman will be his closest associate. Hence, with invented texts of " holy" authority the Witch-Doctors manipulate the masses. They control and guide your life on earth by soothing your psychic pains with words of comfort, according to each of their denominations' doctrines, tenets and beliefs. The Witch-Doctor - mind you - is not responsible for the Dead. The Witch-Doctor is protected: his job is to keep the flock in his charge at his beck and call or at his disposal. The Witch-Doctor declines responsibilty for the damage the indoctrinated inflict upon some rival's followers. The Witch-Doctor is a slave to his Lord and Master and must do the bidding of his Alma Mater's managers. In short, he is the paid employee of his own concocted " god" , not the Almighty, for that would mean working for all " gods" , that is, the entire populations that have inhabited this gullible earth. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Dancers - XXIII Unquotabe quotes: Dancers - XXIII Dance like Cassius Clay, Sting like Muhammad Ali. The dancing Dervish's ethereal trip makes the Sufi's Qawwali breathlessness sound like the radio-astral waves dashing on the beaches of their consciousness. The only unlicensed dance free of feet is that of the honeysuckle moth's at the dying of the day. Would a Ginger Rogers marry a Fred Astaire if he didn't have a pair of electric flying feet? The Hindu temple dancers are little virgins offered by their silly parents seeking religious merit as a sacrifice to their gods in order that priests may loan them out to those who can pay to fill the temple coffers. Astro-physics traces the movements of astral bodies through the Dance of Siva (one of the Hindu Trinity of the Godhead Brahman) . The difference between a professional dancer and an amateur is that the former legitimately makes every effort to project that part of the anatomy which we are accustomed to concealing while the latter is hard put not to make the effort. The dancer's raison d'être is to serve the voyeur through twists and turns. Even (s) he who dances for joy must be seen to be thought coy. Disco dancing is aught but coïtus interruptus. Dance all your troubles away so long as you can make it back even on one leg limping all the way. The ballet dancer is one who is always on the verge of taking off either by spinning on his/her toes or by floating on his/her hefty thighs whereas the flamenco artist and the tap dancer are continually trying to drive herself/himself underground. The trouble with watching classical Indian dance meant to communicate epic anecdotes and mythical dallying of the gods by making the body - eyes, fingers, limbs and body postures - speak renders the performances intelligible mainly to the deaf and mute. Dancing to the beat of the tom-toms develops the paps from puberty. Dancing with tomahawks in hands before going on the war-path develops the biceps for splitting heads. Dancing by jumping up and down and swaying in a mass to the blaring beat of the rock-n-rollers develops an acute sense of gradual deafness to the meaning of unheard words. Dancing in disco joints with blinking psychedelic forms in variegated colours can induce in some epileptic reactions while others simulate these contortions wide awake on the floor. Dancing to the jog of thudding beer mugs on wooden logs and stamping trooper boots develops the art of the clash of battering rams. Dancing to the sweep and lilt of waltzes on smooth ballroom floors develops the art of sweating elegantly under gowns and mufti. Dirty dancing like salsa is hard-core porn turned to art. He who has never danced to abandon has never broken out of the walls of his prison. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Philosophers - XXII Unquotable quotes: Philosophers - XXII Take Socrates: the insignia of a true philosopher is the bald pate and the luxuriant beard - the very reason why women make for such pathetic philosophers. The bald pate facilitates the evaporation of the scorching heat generated by deep thought, and the beard attests to their forgetfulness - from the moment philosophers wake absorbed in hectic phrenetic activity - in getting a shave. Philosophers are supposed to supply all the answers: that's why they merely ask the most difficult questions which - thanks to hermeneutics - get interpreted as the right answers. When in doubt, ask a philosopher: he'll complicate your doubts even further. A philosopher who has all the answers is not a philosopher: he is God (whatever the latter word may mean) ! A philosopher who takes time to think is faking it. Ideas make the philosopher - not the other way round. A philosopher who proclaims his thoughts in a book is most certainly trying to conceal the fact that he has picked somebody else's brain (the latter most likely in the plural) . An undisciplined thinker is not a philosopher: he is a poet. When two philosophers meet in peace, one is most certainly a disciple of the other - or a future widow. Pick a philosopher's brain, and your thinking is bound to get muddled up. The difference between a philosopher and a professional philosopher is that one makes you think; the other requires you to think. If philosophy as a subject in any field of thought is developed by practitioners to make things more clear to both the specialist and the layman, why is it always possible to go on splitting hairs on almost any given aspect of the issues at stake? Are philosophers mystificators? In other words, are philosophers by nature unwilling to be intelligible, except with their own disciples who are reared to perpetuate the Master's all-pervading vision of whatever the " mystificator" propounded. Why is it that the most influential thinkers of yore never penned their own thoughts down? One possible reason - the Buddha is supposed to have said: ‘Don't believe anyone who says this is what I said. Reason it out first for yourself. If you find it reasonable, then believe in its truth, if you so wish! ' (or words to the effect) . When philosophers gather to expound their theories, the onlookers and eavesdroppers hold their own silence (and even their breath) for fear of disclosing their utter lack of comprehension. The more complex and continuous and never-ending the discourse on any given topic, the more profound the admiration the ordinary or average individual is willing to accord the debators. The proportion of women philosophers to men philosophers is so lopsided that one is encouraged to ask (be it ever so politely and with the utmost deference) if women are not so well-disposed to the actual act of profound reflection. It is curious how high a place established philosophers occupy in the hearts of those of their own social, ethnic or racial ilk - sometimes even to be condemned and discarded by opposing religious groups; so much so one wonders not why there is a developed science of war and an enhanced state of the art of waging war? Since a philosopher devotes many hours in the day to solitary reflection, what does his wife do during those hours? Philosophers would gladly - and obliviously - inhabit ivory towers, if only the world would mistake the towers for light-houses! A country without a philosopher can always boast of a prophet. ‘No man is a prophet in his own country, ' says the lonely household philosopher. All you need is a philosopher to make even a " happy" world look delirious - if he speaks his mind. Why do philosophers prefer hemlock to the guillotine? Probably to keep their heads intact. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Teachers - XXI Unquotable quotes: Teachers - XXI The pupil, the bitch and the walnut tree, the more the teacher beats them, the better they be. In the old days, teachers were born to the métier like poets; today softwares do the teaching for them. A teacher a day makes the parent all gay and given to play. There's nothing one teaches that cannot be learned by oneself on his own; aren't the best teachers self-taught? Every girl remembers well the arm-pit odours of teachers forced to lean over them in their over-zealousness in imparting knowledge. Do you wonder why the French call teachers a " sale race" (a dirty damned race) by parents? Is it because they wield such ultimate authority over their progeny, and their opinion of those in their charge never equals that of the parents? A teacher's myopia is his pupils never-relenting phobia. Mimicry as an art owes its charms to teachers, for which teacher's mannerisms have not been the subject of imitation by his pupils? A teacher who really tries to teach, that is, who takes himself and his subject seriously, is always trying to convince himself he can teach. Pupils love teachers who suffer from a bladder problem - in spite of their disappearance from class every so often. Pupils always remember the ticks, swear words and expressions and idiosyncracies of their teachers more than those of their parents, for parents are always grateful to see their children off during the better part of the day. The wise teacher waits until his favourite pupil finishes school before he proposes marriage. The teachers one remembers the most are the ones who dish out more than the marks we deserve in our exam papers; yet the teachers one never forgets are the ones who shamed us in front of the rest of the class. Oddly enough, a teacher's favourite never really makes it in life. He or she can never figure out why his peers and elders overlook him or her in their choice of a pretender to a higher post. Most teachers at the school-leaving stage teach subjects they hardly knew much about the previous day or two. A teacher who accidentally or not farts in class is remembered for life, probably due to his penchant for pungent cuisine, the cause probably also why pupils raise such a din during the immediate recess. A teacher who punishes an innocent pupil for the noise/ruckus his class raises makes an enemy out of him for life; the victim's dreams then on take on the dimensions of a nineteenth century Gothic novel with the teacher on the operating table. Why is it that a teacher who makes his class repeat after him always gets called all sorts of names under breath? A teacher not prone to failing his pupils stays popular all through school but earns opprobation thereafter. A pupil who asks the teacher an awkward question which puts him in a spot is likely to find himself the object of incessant interrogation from then on. Teachers always bring home the germs of their pupils in exchange for those their children bring home from other teachers. A most conscientious teacher is one who volunteers to stay back in class to supervise the homework of pupils who are bound to become fashion models. A teacher who does not know or who has forgotten the answer to some question never fails to put the question over and over again to his class until some pupil by chance gives the correct or false answer. Everybody knows the greatest teacher is Life itself - not the parent nor the school-teacher but that which delivers the hardest knocks and setbacks. Teach a donkey to trot and he'll make an ass of you. Teach not a dog how not to bark. Never teach anyone the art of writing: you might deprive him of the enormous pleasure of discovering original writing for himself, and you risk multiplying the host of lack-luster imitators and plagiarists - not vibrant creators. The truly original teachers teach by example without wanting to: the Shakespeares, the Jonathan Swifts, Euripides, Aristophanes, the Dantes, Lady Murasaki, Cervantes, Ilango Adigal, Liu Wu-ki, Lao Tse, etc., etc. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Lawyers - XX Unquotable quotes - Lawyers: XX (No aspersions are willfully or otherwise cast on the honorable profession of the Law. Though I'm not a Barrister, I passed - through self-study - all the subjects at the Bar Examinations set by the Inns of Court School of Law, London, by 1956. And my knowledge of the practice of the law is derived from being compelled as a litigant nearly all my adult life.) " The Law is an Ass" for lawyers often squat on the Ass. " Only a fool goes to court without a lawyer" , yet only a nincompoop/dumbkopf/retardé mental will go to court - period! When lawyers get together, they talk Culture, the commodity they most wish they could own. Whenever you are in the presence of an unsuccessful lawyer, be truly aware you're in the presence of the next President of the Republic. The first time you walk into a lawyer's chambers as a client, you'll be convinced there's such a thing as Divine Justice. Then on, you'll walk the plank without being pushed. Notice how when lawyers go on strike, the breast of the Lady of the Balance of Justice heaves more freely and gently. Never ever lend an ear to the suggestion that lawyers all should be put on the government's payroll: this is worse than downright blasphemy. If you have plenty of money and you don't know what to do with it, then go see a lawyer - he'll help you be free of it. Remember, from the very moment you walk into a lawyer's chambers, you put yourself at his service twenty-four hours a day preparing your case - for him. Always remember when you go to see a lawyer with your case: you want to put a stop to a life-threatening nuisance; lawyers don't ever want that to end. When a lawyer tells you to do something, always make certain you DID it. Marry a lawyer and you'll most certainly make an appearance in the dock for something you have not done. Always choose a lawyer of the opposite sex in your divorce case: (s) he'll aid and abet you in your wrong-doing for the purpose of first-hand evidence. Don't forget that the time you spend in a lawyer's office is 90% used up with personal calls under the guise of in-coming calls from other clients, but you foot the bill for all. The more famous a lawyer is, the more schooled is he in the art of losing cases with oratory and panache. Do not wonder why the crucial documents you gather at great expense for your defence - at the request of lawyers - somehow never get mentioned or produced during a trial or hearing. A lawyer who takes on more than he can chew always turns up late for the hearing/audience/trial - only to ask for a postponement. Some lawyers oddly enough forget on whose side they are pleading their case - much to their own surprise when the judgment is handed down. Don't ever forget that the lawyers' own disciplinary boards are elected by their own ilk. Lawyers don't marry lawyers for fear that the divorce case might last longer than the marriage. Is the solicitor (in England) a tout between the barrister and the client? Lawyers are never guilty of negligence or ignorance even if their clients are obliged to appeal the lower court judgment. How many crimes get to be committed in the actual deliberations and formulations of procedures in cases? Has anyone made a count? How many the billions who simply let torts, crimes and wrong-doing submerge them - day in and day out - without respite? Everybody knows the bigger the name, the bigger the lawyer's fees. The more money you have, the better your chances of getting off the hook. When an innocent man is condemned, who is to blame? The prosecution? The Bench? Or the lawyers? Or all? Do they ever pay? Legal aid is another form of grudged hate. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. Some men die to survive Some men die to survive the Hard endures the Soft succumbs stews in juices reproduces exults disappears the heartless breaks cracks crumbles drags the Ephemeral down the ravines of the also-ran rivers dissolves explodes The myriads and myriads who breathe but spent air the haemoglobin of genetic change all the ephemeral dust of pain destruction and damnation Now and then one hears talk of everlasting Oneness of undying Truth and Salvation whose whispers linger longer than the astroidal rain's howling phantom winds holocaust blasts in the ears of ovens pent-up change piercing permanence Some men die to survive nothing remains of them but the hollow word they shaped and filled with sense common sense the word that thinks creates the Void Even the Compassionate Prince's plain truths grow limp and fall on hardened ears his tooth a colossal myth piercing the sky common words of common sense fetched in Essenic straw-buckets of Dead Sea scrolls whose words survive on the lips of those who cannot lie who remember only the Law words will uphold what Truth will never connive mind-full messages torn from tongues long silent come crashing from mountain-top roofs the frozen trek down tricky treacherous slopes words meander through slots of seething ice-packs the Wanderer surrenders with squeezed-out bated breaths the burden of ages preserved on the lips of the deathless errant Everyman handed down by the Pauper-Prince become the common man who strolls through untrodden paths the simple obvious truths which never stifle throttle How many stark truths make up the ultimate whole Truth will Truth out no matter what The naked Truth is not for Man he needs his truth cloaked clothed to be unraveled made a mystery of by mystificators by authors who only know how to speak with their hands accompanying gestures of effete moral preachment skeins embroidering the skies that shift and shatter with the times Some lisp the Truth heard only by the few and made to look all anew afresh bestowed given as life-renewing elixir and let others connive whose skills lie in making It ring true in caverns beyond lost horizons by starlight gathering mists hugging low the Dead Sea growls Take the worshipful apostle myths away a hundred a hundred and fifty odd years gone the myrrh the high-quality incense the barn-birth and the Three Wise Men led by a trekking star the carpenter's intestate Holy Virgin the Sermon on the Mount the bared cheeks and you still hear Shakhyamuni voice not doubt on the Cross Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Nurses - XIX Unquotable quotes: Nurses - XIX A nurse well-dressed is a nurse well-thought of, even if she administers the coup de grace. Prick a nurse and she'll pamper you; pamper a nurse and she'll prick you. Displease a nurse and no doctor can save you. Report a nurse's malfeasance and you'll find yourself on a stretcher at the morgue's entrance. (This is from personal experience.) A nurse a night can make a patient feel much better over-night - since the bed is paid for already for the price. Always address a nurse as " doctor" ; she'll not think you need a doctor. Always make it a policy of hoarding the presents you receive on your hospital bed; the nurse will almost certainly help you lighten the load. To relieve the back psychological itch, always ask the nurse to scratch your back facing you. When the nurse is absent from the ward, so is the ward doctor. Always ask the nurse how she spells her first and last names while pretending to write on a pad; you're bound to raise her hopes about the contents of your last will and testament. Always remove the ring on your third finger whenever a nurse enters your room. In the presence of the nurse, always remark aloud how the nurse's uniform fits her Brigitte Bardot form. Never fail to attribute the low humming and buzzing sounds emanating from nurses around hospital beds to Maria Callas. Whenever a nurse approaches your bed, just whistle: " Jeepers, Creepers, Where d'ya get those eyes? " Must the percentage of patients dying in hospitals always stay the same when nurses go on strike? Marry a nurse and become an eternal patient. A nurse in need calls a Hemingway to arms. A nurse in bed raises the Dead. Nurse a nurse and you'll always be fed…..up! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: Leftists XVIII Unquotable quotes: Leftists - XVIII (Note: What goes for the Left can go for the Right, too. All you need to do is to interpose the words wherever possible. Don't read ideological warfare where there is none intended.) If the Left is right, the Right cannot be in the right. The more the Left splits right down the middle, the more the leftists in the Right. Since everything on the Left is supposed to be socialist, on which side stands the National Socialist? Or do socialists refuse to subscribe to the notion of the Nation State? In the now tamed Wild West, socialists of various sorts prefer to parade as democrats - an open affront to the European Welfare State. The Left's greatest achievement - first in the Western World and now everywhere else - is the un-buckling of the chastity belt, all due to a world famous French couple double. To be thought of an intellectual, just affect being liberal and " leftist" , but make certain you first bury the silver spoon you were born with: you can always dig it up when no one is looking. Leftists band together to oppress a fellow leftist when they fear the rattling of socialist skeletons in their own socialist sub-consciousness cupboard. When the Right is bereft, the Left denies and denigrates the theft. Why is it that less attractive girls always - well, nearly always - parade with leftist stamps and stickers on their bosoms and bums in order to appear " chicly" artful and/or intellectual? On the other side, it would appear they prefer them straight and loose without the packaging or the slogan-chanting. The Leftist label fits all who play ball with those screwballs who throw balls at night fall. The great thing about being Centre Left is that at some time or other you'd rub shoulders with the Far Left to the Far Right of your rubber neck. The Far Left suspects the Left more than the Far Right, for the Left insists on being thought of as the sole arbiters of rights. Don't turn Left unless the road ahead is blocked; in which case, turn Rightround and come back. What feels good about being in the arms of the Left is that the Left's lefthand comes right round to the Right - around your back. Leave the Left and you'll be left with no Right whatsoever. Left hand and Right hand lock to form one big hug. Left in the lurch is a right for no Church. Left to yourself is a State no Right can dislodge from the ideological shelf. The Centre Left can neither fall to the right nor to the left for its hands stretch out for balance to the Far Right and the Far Left. Keep the Left hand and the Right hand always out of reach, and they'll always be dirty - for does one know what the other does? He who comes to equity must come with clean gloves even if the hands stay dirty. Left side, Right brain; Right side, Left brain. Why does the left-handed batsman always confound the right-handed bowler? Is it because the right-handed bowler has no arm left? Left by Love is Right bloody rough; right in love makes one an incorrigible bluff. Left hand, Right hand, two faces of the brain span - minus the pineal gland. Pinch each hand to see which can outstand the other. © T. Wignesan - Paris, May 18,2016 For old Star-Gazer Master Khayyam - a name like Shakespeare's for some other giants - Part Two For Old Star-Gazer Master Khayyam - a name like Shakespeare's for " some" other giants - Part Two III Is there an answer to this gaping question Will that something which follows on behave Here at least we know death despises life What do you call that which you have Do you die too after what length of time What do you do while you wait for the end What space d'you occupy in our timespace Or does anti-self exist in a parallel dimension Not that these make worrisome questions Nice to know we don't quite disappear Right out and that we go on despite reasons Or perhaps for nothing much after all Here we are caught in swirling whirlwinds Of petty time-pinching emergencies We give what we can of our might to those We care for reserving the best for ourselves Sooner or later the world would just peter out First the sun would give up its nuclear fissions Slowly fizzing down while its body bloats out Then the earth and planets would fry out Would you be still around or would we be too And when the solar system freaks out What will be the fate of your bodiless forms Or would you be hiding in some safe black hole IV What good would it do to know the final outcome If you are caught in a terrestrial fateful bind So do we all the ultimate spacial expanse become Locked into it all by no-backtracking time Does what matters to you be of no moment to us Do we need to be wily to hanker after heaven We're either just alone or wholly naked forsaken Or fused in a mounting blinding swirling circus Some may call this the ultimate form of Oneness Some the Godhead that directs all our wills Some might prefer the wayward terror of ghosts Some just can't bother one way or the other Some who suffer ill the womb of common unity Decide to come together only to wreak hell These harden without mercy for what they wreak They whose work you put down to devilry So where lies the good of your worry-dispelling verse Long have we lost the feeling for your example Yes at first yes repentance we experienced at parting Sorrow at what we might have wanted to curse But all that jitterbug's gone past by now We know darnwell better now the dance No use bothering with what anxious selves see Over what will or will not after be There is just this enormous monstrous engine It throbs on seemingly without and within Who knows why or who deemed it must It simply rumbles on whether you think it just Myself when young did dwell so long Upon your sweet O deep forbidden verses Draughts in tankards quaffed I with song Dreams couched in nubile cascading tresses TAMUM SHUD June 16/18,1996 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016, revised from: longhand notes (a binding of poems) , 1999. For old Star-Gazer Master Khayyam - a name like Shakespeare's for some other giants - Part One For old Star-Gazer Master Khayyam - a name like Shakespeare's for « some » other giants - Part One I Why don't they ever come back? Even if it's just to say We are still there or gone for a while Or just too damned busy That's the reason why we're absent And not for what people say We're gone with the last breath Gone for good into the beyond If that's so then just let us have a sign Why more than just a sign Make Shakespeare direct our hand Let loose Hamlet anew on the Strand And if that's too difficult Ask of Aristotle The text of his lost poetics Cast in a hard disc Better still command the Son of God To make a grand appearance Fanfares heralding the event In a technicolour firmament Or make known to us The lost masterpieces The great forging inventions Bombed to ashes in wars Or for the departed father To come set his house in order Brother against brother For want of a better master O Where have they all gone Leaving us in their muddles Such a kyrielle of contortions We leave for those behind us Those of us who piled effort upon effort For a better day for ourselves Now going we rued the tightfistedness And the bitterly whining quarrels II We have no need to come back To see the mess we've left behind We who ourselves had to sort out Our fathers' mighty ill-windfalls Nor to see what each does in quiet In your sleep in lavs behind walls What we ourselves did of course And thought no one ever the wiser To see how each of you clings to his shell To make it shine best of all Only to see how ours turned to loams Or into a fistful of ashes and bones All all for the pleasure of another body Bodies oozing with slime and foetid stench From all we stuffed them with in contempt Worse still what the voracious brain we fed Is it for this carpe diem reason And for all that they say is vanity For the futility of non-interference In whose favour might we intervene Since all sides pit against all sides Just to keep the inter-twining yin and yang In constantly conflicting tug-of-wars That makes for progress of sorts That we see no reason to pull either way For you do it well enough without aid Though some amongst us wish for revenge And perhaps tilt the balance now and then But you are none the wiser in your pain For you think only of your body's gain And those in whose breeding chain You thought you couldn't lose in vain But where's the justice in this all Living we too strained to achieve Dying we saw the futility of it all Just a game dying from boredom Better we know now we see you in tether There's no justice either way Somehow the particles come together And strive to make sense of one another With the result there is life There is a building in strife Mounting to an ultimate prize The creation of the perfect monster Once the form is gone the content Takes no form of its own The content is the form's overall product Born of a lifetime's construct Dying thus gives fresh birth To what is not of this earth We are free to roam and rollick Though we see no point to it Being without form we may merge Into one whole formless mass Or simply drop out inane As you the voyeurs in a train Here they waft those great Persian savants A sardonic smile all that's left of them They who best knew how the heady wine Made one forget the burden of the grind Yet none read his verse for fear of contempt Those who do make little of the rhyme Others cried foul for he preached the impossible Are wine women and song bought for a dime Turn away from us for your time has come No need to ask us the reason for your end You too will know the total of your sum And face another dilemma round the bend June 16/18,1996 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 from the collection: longhand notes (1999) growing up too soon growing up too soon you said: is there anything more excruciating than lagging behind being passed by a hasbeen still knocking on portals twitching toes twirling thumbs in fidgety drawn-curtained waiting rooms and the always taken-for-granted toiling mothers maimed in mid-life stoopbent under rotting burdens eternally putting-up with their disgruntled men pining for fresh meat their children far too busy suckling roaming the woods for stray milch cows are parents less prone to feeling deserted or girls when young given to much much too much you know to what the side-saddle bum flabs the hangdog lips and nose-tips and nostrils sore grainy red innocence crushed (wu wang hexagram 25) the conning leer lurking behind the simulated orgasm blazé finicky O dear my split varnished nail the mignardise growing up too soon leaves you a little behind hesitant no fresh tarts nor the leisure of making belief the privilege of mending emotional fencesnor the time to toast things over in the backburner or prepare for the day when you may retire in style proclaim to the world your ardent wishes convictions reforms revolutions growing up too soon leaves you a toddler thrusting up in the hunched back regrets simmering in the bitterly polluted taste buds chewing the tongue neither the leisure to pipedream muted laughing peels reverberating rocambolesque within soiled sheets keeping the persona humoured till you stand up wide awake stripped nor the frolicking flaming female mid-summer fudge growing up too soon is not just bypassing a whole generation of ghosts you look back dazed to watch grand nephews and nieces twittering in space-curved time living in a sort of limbo in a cramped attic crib snorting the crawling dust unread books breed heating for the third time your oat meal porridge casting stolen looks from behind drawn curtains wondering who's going to benefit from your garnered gains watch callow lads and frisky girls and wonder when was it you last grew up dallied amongst them unsure you knew any of the kind you see as women today growing up too soon is to forfeit something you never had nor can ever have yet you refuse to let it go even as unwon bread all through your teens seizing handouts the rightful boon until the recurring pain of tendons exploding make you see round the foreshadowed corner round the spacetime's curve and know there's really nothing to cry about nor there's anything you can do without the damn thing which slips through the thinning crop straggly on your bald pate growing up too soon's a blessing you know you want for the maimed for the gnarled and contorted for the ill-provided for the luckless for the inglorious damned to a vapid existence in the cave of their shameful lameness how you'd wished you were so blighted 1997 © T. Wignesan - Paris, re-worked from: longhand notes,1999 anyone for humiliation anyone for humiliation do even the best cringe in shame at the bottled-up look they take of themselves most in fear of being found out others the damage they must have wrought in the image they have of themselves but all all by the tasks and choices their lives lead them on to either through the immediate pleasure that can be got or for wanting to shine in the midst of peers they cling to the glory their imageselves chase after O it'd be so easy to say life after all abuses every one humiliates every precious person puts us all to the acid test some hapless irreversible irreparable disaster inadvertent mistake lapsus even for the insignificant wayward nonentities and leaves us all less proud of our makings our fathers mothers it's even easier to seek the fault in our genes or insist that such and such was the compelling circumstance put the blame on this damned unrequiting thing we call Life which after all must come will come to a final self-defeating end There are others who'd say this life of ours was precisely for this purpose precisely given to make of us the gods we were never born to be but to hanker after unless we sought the feet of the Almighty batter death down and survive into aeons of bliss on the mindblinding petals of the Golden Flower How many may take this death-defying firstclass deluxe flight and for what purpose if the Almighty himself as they who come as messengers say directs all lives in secret is he looking for an assistant Who cares if one is born again since we remember not where or from whom we came and take everything here on earth for what it's worth what can the isolated adult do the most corrosive abusive power rides in the vaults of mindless banks l'appareil judiciaire the police the secret services the chiefs of armed forces the cabals the cartels the secret societies masons or not the media Kings the monolithic political party bosses trade union cadres and in those who wield psychiatric netherworld control of the mind and souls the priests in skirts all all managed by the hungry few in the line of succession in the hierarchical hereditary edifice the age-old royally pontificating pyramidal straight-jacket world must we not then accept our lot try as best we can to let things not get much worse but if the chips fall right only in the other birth think little of the setbacks and come back again stronger all all wishful self-numbing reverie May 8,1997 © T. Wignesan - Paris, revised from: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999 In Bed In Bed The central nervous heating system pumping the womb floating free in seminal fluid sucking on the umblical chord Curled in the bed in the Reichian curlicue between clean silk sheets in the cosy cage away from the cold and the sleet's scorching bone beat tumbling only when the flushing revolving door pulsates the thunder knocking to come crashing in the blood in the mother stream choking in the throttled rush Who wants to be out in the rain in the shine worrying about work about degrees no work lack of opportunity of hurts through making love warding off pain shame and the retributing conscience of justifying every action every little game of the mind from our own standpoint by running everybody down even those who stand up for us brother sister mother father backbiting in the sweating bed in the haven imagining triumphs glories rosy utopias Who hates not some one hates himself hates some body if not his maker at the thought of his plight out the safe mother oven harrowing hate turning the dynamo of pretence hypocrisy basking in blind bigotted bile hate stoking the intense rocket-thrust furnace consuming the guts till everybody hates everybody the most intense force hidden in the pleats of the neuronal strata hates the entire world all humanity the strongest human force generated by man Who would want to be out before time before we're called upon to mind others we have put out of the womb of the world of the safety of the dream bubble bed unless if you call we can say go away i'm in bed or hold on just a sec come to bed bed with me till the morrows never end or something like that and keep the terror of the slinging mind from plunging through the cul de sac for yet a while longer April 26,1997 - Paris © T. Wignesan - Paris,1997; revised from the cvollection: longhand notes (1999) Thinking materially gaseous Mineral Think(ing) materially gaseous Mineral if anything can be thought to be certain what thinks thinks up the multiverses in the first place minus the ego so solipsistic faramineux worlds as the solitary thought can contain other diachronic universes thought up likewise by our anti-selves hidden by necessity to our Selves behind blind coulisses sliding door dimensions opaque window views for some perhaps all = black hole in the head mundane life an out-of-space experiment well why not robots evolving into Pavlovian mice-minded humans but experiment and life equally part of the thinking ding an sich neither beginning nor end the maddened dog spinning after its own tail keeps us in the space-time curve the robot cannot understand nonsense or c an it be programmed for away with avatars saviours prophets messiahs gurus soothsayers mystificators give us this day our four fundamental truths and forgive us our ignorances for Thine is the Big-Bang for ever and ever till Big-Crunch Day drums at your four firm Judgement feet who lives to prove this if answers must always be sought by Einsteins discoveries awaiting corroboration for once gone you're gone for ever UNSUPPORTED CODE for THINE is the Big Banged Kingdoms for ever and ever till bigcrunched balls litter your four law-bound feet May 5,1997 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016; revised from the collection: longhand notes (1999) Where do we come in Where do we come in in medias res not knowing nor caring when doesn't everybody pine being number one we leave behind our lives in pages pictures or else make for images of what we saw dreamt of as part of our lives in marble stone rock twisted metal scrawled hieroglyphics of the tortured deserting mind do we have to leave then or when or do we strain for more ours and others lives in one vista of the whole on the tele they are playing games plentiful games rubber boats caves and scaly cardboard mountains in gluey-glossy plastic colours each team was flown in on the sponsor's purse each team member tailored for each part sporting spotted crocodile scales bunny tails blown butterfly ears bearhair streaming down from head to toe in a brownish hugging fur hue before and after the sponsor's exclusive breaktime slot invited guests clapping deaf on peak dinnertime and for millions and millions of others relaxing at home or maybe standing leaning against the open door or lolling on sofas sweetmeats within reach of crawling fingers highballs in handsafter lush juices streaking down protein-heaped plates turned to a gravy curd on the low table that the au pair would remove before the programme end while the prize board chalked hundreds of thousands for those who merely did nothing else other than have themselves a ball in whose stomach-holes do the golf balls sink the postman in the morning brings in the Waste Industry's thick envelopes stuffed with multi-coloured magazines together with ball-points with your name inscribed as though you were to be called on to affix your signature to international treaties that last only as long as the ball-point would that is to say three and half days if you use it only twice your name and add elegantly embossed on handsome stickers asking for handouts with glorious recall of their efforts for the poor the sans abri the diabetics the heart-stricken the spastics the handicapped the endless medical research for cancer how many million times can research be duplicated and all those lush colours in deluxe printed covers if only they could print a poem for some poet without a literary agent every time they send out a bulging envelope you give to one and the whole damned carnival is at your door cymbals clanging voices hymning every week of the year year in and year out they send you their mag with professional photos of dying but well-fed sick forsaken-looking children posing from Ethiopia India Costa Rica ha the Rich Coast what you give in return cannot cover the cost of stamps after a mere stream of au secour calls for oeuvres caritatives during a period of weeks or months in whose sick souls do the golf balls sink what are they doing so wonderful that is not like the blaring blazé voice of the compère on the tele on a Saturday evening primetime show who gets paid in the hundreds of thousands just because he's a celebrity and all the made-moiselles in the front row with tongues lolling would at the slightest glance be ready to lick their hands a tincan Saturday night chivalrous mounted charger whom the hebdomadaire hounds write pages and pages about their visits to any old place what they wear which senorita worshipping at their lapels so often that people don't look at their faces anymore for they know every feature by heart every trait every dimple and pimple in whose brain holes do the golf balls sink right round the year shine tennis stars the same faces jumping up and down the ATP grunting and swearing after balls that bounce out and away from their needless hands their eyes straining beyond all measure of human endurance each ball they hit virtually a hundred dollar bill and when they are pushed down in the ATP list by the fresh teens buoyed by muscle tyre-lessness there's always the clowning in the rigged up exhibition matches or the doubles or mixed doubles Man and John Yan and JM to take the laugh out of the bounce in the yoyo ATP also-ran list in whose psyche-holes do the golf balls sink what do they send in the post to the directors of the beggars' opera what do popstars contribute they who sell the I heard that classical melody song on bandaid to millions and get gold in return infinitely more than they can use who filled the paupers' grave with Mozart who gives a thought to the lonely pilfered Cervantes but the Sancho of his delirium in whose a-holes do the golf balls sink was that MJ gyrating grabbing his crotch in a spacecraft the decor specially ordered and paid for for the nonce what did it cost what's the cost of an Ethiopian peasant Indian meal a day uncooked corn or flour douzed in tinned or dried milk the surplus waste of white markets all above-board of course eaten out of rusty discarded worm-twirling tins and cans and shells of infested coconuts in whose dream-holes do the golf balls sink where do the directoires of the beggars' opera dine what do they suck on and how often do they sup together in the name of the needy all over the romping world do they wine themselves while gobbling on foie gras caviar shark's fin and pheasant or is this an impudent question you the charity-mongers so here we come in in medias res it ain't mon problème that the needy can't ask but in the street i'm not the conscience of the world the grapes of wrath the martyrised conscience of the common Indian patting tortias on the mud patch a strong people don't need a strong man how do you make a people strong if not with tortias and chilli con carne are they still strong where Zapata left only his riddled body in straw sandals has the Indian peasant still enough fight left in him where drug cartels rule a kingdom where ideals hardly thrust up on reefers follow the golf balls and squirm jumping up and down in a squirting frenzy on the mons veneris © T. Wignesan -Paris,1997 From the collection (revised) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999. Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices - Part Two Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices is there a prize for living for caring for doing what is right for waiting for the end without making it come any nearer for not trying to opt out and away from the responsibility of pure common sense for not believing in the dogma of resurrection heaven and hell for not assuming there may be something else on the other side waiting a prize a new favoured life a higher caste a place at the right hand of the Heavenly Father how about the Heavenly Mother in everlasting peace and plenty in an idyllic existence forever and ever not wanting not caring with the temperature controlled by mammoth air-conditioners the gorgeous meals prepared and served by angels from Maxim's or the ending of the ending endgame through Brahminic moksha liberation forever and ever by joining up with the Atman the Godhead unborn undying forever and ever and who the hell cares if there was a Big-Bang or if there is going to be a Big-Crunch and whether there are laws physical laws governing everything the four fundamental laws of the universe the universe not having a beginning before time nor where all the material came from the trillions of trillions of trillions of trillions of trillions of centillions of megatons to the square root of 32 of hydrogen helium carbon particles particles within particles and particles within unseeble and unknowable particles which way do the Blackholes suck and into what universes those that are parallel how many billions are there of them and those that are continuous in what direction and for how long can we ever see them with huge Hubble telescopes perched on the edges of spinning galaxies is there any prize for knowing at the very last moment the truth whoever comes back to set things right or even to semer la pagaille who cares to set the yang and the yin apart and stop the conflict forever and ever from the surface of our planet whatever happens elsewhere not being our concern who has come back to bring to justice his murderer who his deprecator who her rapist her child-abuser who his constant oppressor traitor swindler brutaliser who who who WHO... April 2,1997 -From the collection: longhand notes (1999) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices - Part One Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices prizes for the abstemious for abstinence chastity? the countless occasions for love you let slip prizes for stopping smoking by yourself drinking even Bordeaux munching on the meat of beasts crustacean flesh fish fowl or eggs for honesty with oneself for commitment to lost causes the ability to see through their deviousnesses and refraining to do anything about it at all for helping them at one's own peril for giving away what you direly need for yourself and your dependents for not thinking of your own future just to bolster someone else's for depriving yourself of the pleasures of the day when you can go out and buy them with what you got and still have enough leftover for spending hours and hours every so often just listening to those who need to unburden themselves on you while you serve them aperitifs then coffee/tea and finally end up cooking dinner and bedding them down in your only bedroom while you may hardly stretch yourself out in amongst the books and things and boxes of files of unread drafts and such and wake in the middle of the night because the suffering soul behind the wall is moaning and tossing and apostrophising aloud in your bed calling your name out at every fiery phrase for all you know accusing you for all his troubles plus those of his friends near ones dear ones and/or dependents prizes for doing everything by yourself looking after yourself cleaning the kitchen washing the clothes by hand doing the dishes in cold water showering cold to save on hot water repairing the car with spare unfit parts from the breakers learning languages all by yourself typing your own manuscripts and those of others starting your own journal and publishing others typing writing setting up photocopying designing printing binding marketing writing letters and posting them after long waits at queues attending to the plumbing redoing the parquet papering and/or painting your own but rented walls shopping on the cheap after hours and hours of comparing prices at different places keeping tabs on your dependents defending yourself against marauding civil servants politicos fighting your own legal battles after reading up on difficult incomprehensible legal texts writing dozens and dozens of letters before you take them to court and lose because the blasted bugger who represents you in the civil case makes it a point of holding back the essential documents which you know were never submitted to the judge although the list of documents exchanged lists them and you can't check on the judge's file because you are not a lawyer or solicitor legally constituted in the case and you need a lawyer to represent you in a civil case prizes for putting up with women who tell you they love you to distraction and would rather die than be parted from you even during the live-long day who vow by suttee but who use you make you marry them by piling lie upon lie present you with a baby not your own while they get pumped by others and let you share the slime the spittal and the shit in their system and the syphilitic rot that will gnaw at your spine years and years hence and leave you with the baby to bring up while they harrass you with complaints and cases about how you may be bringing him/her up with right of access charges rights which they never really exercise themselves and when the baby is no more a baby come around to collect the lad or lass as a crutch for their old age by telling him/her all the lies about how you let them down how you tortured and beat them up how you shat upon them how you made them slave day in and day out and to top it all didn't bother even to shag them prizes for keeping quiet and taking it all in without riposte without carping without being even rude in return for bearing with all the slithering over crimes they rob you cheat you shit with your wives twist your children's minds up into a multiple Turk's head commit missed murders against you and when you discover their intentions the criminals commit more crimes to cover it all up use misinformation as a superpanacea to lull themselves into believing they are innocent dogooders after all doing it for the patrie for the defence of their nation the raison d'Etat without making it known how you the victim without a proper background without a useful education without friends who would swear by you without the citizenship bestowing rights without the State any state on your side without the passport to secrete yourself away without a job without the money put away for the purpose of facing up to them these the faceless cowards hiding behind their secret societies their secret services their secret cabals their secret clubs schools lodges cafés cabinets centres yachts arts and crafts academies royal this and royal that my foot college unions parties and programmes (Continued in Part Two: owing to length restrictions) April 2,1997 -From the collection: longhand notes (1999) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 The fear of The fear of... being thought of the less than what one thinks of railing vengeance against detractors three or four generations all that one might stretch back to and even then with all the woes blights missed/thwarted chances the few that one gets to know in a tightening district of stifling confinement a few might remember and try to forget the awkward recall of some mishap the not-so-good side of at worst the public suicide in the family something left over funereally if only one knew how could agree to let go of one's eddying image the regrets that teach too late does it matter who thinks what years shave away the three-day old beard on a Monday the thoughtless throttling words of anger and the repeated awkward clanger the longing lascivious looks unrequited futile fights in courts spilling over in Kafkayesque dreams affidavits closure of communication of proof in the solicitor's sheets the plaidoirie that omits the crucial documents in the wrapped womb of watching TV alone eating one's insides out the mountains of hours hunched over shoring up that image zeroed in from diverse angles really who or what those who leave behind a name leave not their inner laces graces meannesses gawkiness their stench nor sneezes only their fear of being thought of less than what they thought of dearly cherished mis-spelt polished names the-dare-may-the inhabits the unkempt bearded beggar taking a crap on the edge of the thoroughfare by the Elysian fields of mode-minded graces in full view of the policewoman on the beat won't this his forbears remember in triumph May 23,1997 From the collection (re-worked) : longhand notes (1999) . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan (Homage to Nicanor PARRA,1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the 'Cervantes Prize' (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish) , four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University) , Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes 'Anti-Poems' - a fresh chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris,2016. For the original stanzaic format of the poem, check the original, if you please.) 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. Good. 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, roads, 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, 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. Good. 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 , Hay un dia feliz by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Hay un dia feliz by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan To come by a happy day (In this poem, Parra maintains lines of twelve to thirteen syllables with every other line ending almost in a mono-rhyme: " a" ; I prefer not to follow the same pattern, for I cannot quite see the virtue in forcing the translation into something sounding rather artificially humdrum, given its length.) Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan (Homage to Nicanor PARRA,1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the 'Cervantes Prize' (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish) , four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University) , Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes 'Anti-Poems' - a fresh chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris,2016.) I dedicated this afternoon to combing the solitary streets of my village with for company good ol' twilight who's the only friend I have left. Everything was exactly as earlier on, autumn and its diffused light (reflected) by snow just that the weather had invaded everything with its pale-looking cloak of sadness. Never thought, believe me, for an instant that I'd see again this beloved land, now that I have returned, don't know how I could have kept myself away from its portals. Nothing has changed, not even the white houses nor its aged wooden gates. Everything was in its place, the swallows in the tower taller than that of the church; the snail in the garden; and the moss in the wet grasp of stones. In no way one can doubt, this's the kingdom of the blue sky and of green leaves where each and every thing has its singular and placid legend: even in my own shadow I recognize the heavenly looks of my grandmother. Those were the memorable facts which my early youthful days brought up, the post office in the corner of the square and the dampness in the aging walls. O! My God! Good thing! Never thought that one can appreciate such a truth, when we imagine that to be yet far away is just when it feels even closer. For the life of me! For the life of me! Something tells me that life is nothing more than a chimera an illusion, a dream without end, a small cloud on the wing. After all, at times, I don't know quite what I say my emotions get the better of me. Since the time to keep silent has chimed when I embarked on my singular enterprise one after the other in muted waves, returned the sheep to the stable. I greeted them all in person and when I was standing opposite the grove which entertains the ears of the traveller with its ineffably secret music I remembered the sea and counted the leaves in homage to my departed brothers. Perfectly well, I continued my voyage like one who has nothing to look forward to in life. I passed in front of the wheel of the mill, I stood for a while facing a shop: the odour of coffee is always the same, always the same moon in my mind; between the river of yore and that of the present I am not able to make out any difference. I recognize it well, this's the tree my father planted in front of the door (illustrious father who in his best moments was better than an open window) . I dare affirm that his behaviour was a faithful copy of the Middle Ages when the dog was sweetly sleeping under the right angle of a star. At such heights I feel I'm enveloped by the delicate odours of violets that my loving mother cultivated in order to cure cough and sadness. How much time has passed since then I would not be able to say with certainty; nothing really matters, of course, with wine and the nightingale on the table, my younger brothers at this hour must be returning from school: only that time has erased all things like a white tempest of sand! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Poyecto de tren instantaneo entre Santiago y Puerto Montt by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Proyecto de tren instantaneo entre Santiago y Puerto Montt by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan (Homage to Nicanor PARRA,1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the 'Cervantes Prize' (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish) , four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University) , Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes 'Anti-Poems' - a fresh chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris,2016.) The Anatomy of the Instantaneous Train (plying) between Santiago and Puerto Montt The engine of the instantaneous train occupies the place of the destination (Pto Montt) while the last coach straddles the station of departure (Stgo) This type of train affords the passenger the advantage of arriving instantaneously at Puerto Montt at the very moment he boards the last coach in Santiago The rub is in order to continue voyaging the traveller has to keep moving with his luggage through the train until he gains the first coach Once the passage has been realized the passenger may proceed to exit the instantaneous train which has remained stationary during the entire voyage. •Observation: This type of (direct) train serves only the uni-directional journey. Source: Poem read by Nicanor Parra as invitee to the International Poetry Festival in the Netherands in 1989 (?) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Viva la Cordillera de los Andes by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Viva la Cordillera de los Andes by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! I'm seized with a mad rage to yell long live the Andes Mountain Range may the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain The reason I can hardly divine but I can't hold myself back: Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! May the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain! For forty full years now I've wanted to step over the horizon, go far beyond the limitations of my myopia, but I just didn't dare. Now, by no means, Gentlemen is there an end to my ratiocinations: Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! May the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain! Have they heard what I said? There's an end to my ratiocinations! Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! May the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain! Doubt there's none over my lack of response if they sever my vocal chords (in such a case as this it's almost certain they will) well, if they do stifle my voice I would like to say I have no choice but to accept the dashing of my very last hope. I am a merchant indifferent to the positions of the sun a professor clad in green-coloured trousers who comes apart drop by drop as dew an insignificant bourgeois is what I am in what way do red clouds matter to me? Nevertheless I appear on balconies in order to shout out what I offer: Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! May the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain! Pardon me if I'm going out of my mind while in the garden made by Nature but I have to keep shouting till death: Long Live! The Andes Mountain Range! May the Costa Mountain Range lie low slain! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Madrigal by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Madrigal (Although the poem's title takes on a well-known 16th Century form of Italian origin, made famous in Spain by Gutierre de Cetina,1520-1554, here, Parra only manages to keep to a seven-syllable line at best, the rhyme scheme being quite wayward: abc/ddd/efeg/dhi/jkl. I have therefore not followed his wilfull versification.) I'll become a millionaire in one night thanks to a trick which will permit me to fix images in a concave mirror. Or convex. It seems to me my success will be complete the moment I invent a coffin with a false bottom which will permit the corpse to slip into the other world. Indeed I have burned enough of the midnight oil in this absurd horse race in which the jockeys are kept from riding the wild beasts and they're going to tumble into the throng of spectators. It follows therefore that I should create something which would permit me to live comfortably or at the least permit me to expire. I'm certain that my legs tremble I dream that my teeth are falling out and that I arrive too late to attend some funerals. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 The Test by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan The Test by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan What's an antipoet: a trader in urns and coffins? a priest who does not believe in anything? a general who entertains doubts about himself? a vagabond who laughs at every thing until old age overtakes him unto death? an interlocuter of bad faith in a dialogue? a woman who dances at the brink of an abyss? a narcissist who loves everybody? a bloody humourist deliberately miserable? a poet who dozes off in a chair? a modern-day alchemist? a pocket revolutionary? a small-time bourgeois? a charlatan? a god? an innocent? a peasant of Santiago de Chile? Underline the sentence you consider correct. What is antipoetry: a storm in a tea cup? a sleeve of snow robed round a rock? a shallow tray full of human excreta as Father Save-the-Earth believes? a mirror that tells the truth? a big slap on the face of the President of the Society of Authors? (May God preserve him in his holy kingdom) a warning to younger poets? a coffin in river rapids? a coffin of centrifugal force? a coffin of paraffin gas? a burning chapel without a corpse? Mark with a cross the definition you consider correct. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Poetry has washed its hands off me by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Poetry has washed its hands off me by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan I don't say I'm done with everything I don't feel deluded in this respect I would have liked continuing to poetise but the course of inspiration has run out. Poetry has continued to behave well it is I who is guilty of horribly bad behaviour. What do I gain from saying that I (too) have behaved well that poetry has not been of good behaviour when everybody knows I'm the guilty one. Serves me right that I made myself out to be an imbecile! Poetry has continued to behave well my behaviour has been despicably horrible Poetry has washed its hands off me. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Letters to an Unknown Woman by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Letters to an Unknown Woman by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan When years go by, when years go by and the air having excavated a ditch between your soul and mine, when years hurry past and I be the only man to entertain feelings of love, a being who hovered an instant in front of your lips, a poor fella dejected from walking through gardens, where will you be? Where will you, O! child/daughter of my kisses! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 The Imaginary Man by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan The Imaginary Man by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan The imaginary man lived in an imaginary house in the midst of imaginary trees on the bank of an imaginary river From walls which are imaginary hang ancient imaginary framed paintings irreparable imaginary fissures which recall imaginary events which took place in imaginary worlds in imaginary places and times Every imaginary afternoon he goes up imaginary staircases and leans over the imaginary balcony to survey the imaginary landscape which is made up of an imaginary valley surrounded by imaginary hills Imaginary shadows approach from an imaginary path singing imaginary songs to the demise of the imaginary sun And during imaginary moonlit nights dreams with an imaginary woman who offered to him (toasting) her imaginary love once again he felt this same pain the very same imaginary pleasure and once again began to palpitate the heart of the imaginary man © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Coplas on Wine by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan Coplas on Wine (here, the famous AntiPoetic Chilean Poet Nicanor Parra, b.1914, uses the more popular form of the « copla » genre that he contains in quatrains of 8 to 10 syllables with two lines of each quatrain rhyming at random, though not in perfect rhymes, in order to approximate the lilting « song » forms. He does not adhere to the syllabic and rhyme schemes of other more fixed forms, such as, the « Copla de arte mayor » or the « Coplas a pie quebrado », rather he favours the form known as « Malas coplas », songs composed and sung by the blind in the streets. Parra also uses words which are particular to Chilean expressiveness.) Feeling nervous, but not without defiance towards all that constitutes competition in the face of those who deprecate, I beg pardon and consdescension. With my face deadpan in coffin and my butterflies of old I also wish to affirm my présence in this solemn celebration. Is there (anything) , I (dare) ask more noble than a bottle of wine well interposed between two twin souls? Wine possesses power to command respect and to destabilize transmuting snow into fire and make fire turn into stone. Wine is all things: it's the sea boots for twenty immeasurable distances the magical interior insulation, the sun the parrot of seven tongues. Some drink to slake thirst others to forget obligations and to espy tiny lizards and cracks and fissures in stars. The man who's not drawn to drink his cup filled with liquid like blood cannot be, so I dare think a Christian of staunch descent. Wine can be sipped from vessels of silver, crystal or clay but it's best when in copihue* in fuchsia or in white lily. The poor allot themselves their portion in order to placate their duties which they are unable to fulfill neither with tears nor with strikes. If I was asked to choose between diamonds and pearls I would choose a portion of grapes white and black. The blind man with a cup sees sparks and lightning streaks and the lame of birth who break out dancing the cueca.* Wine when one drinks it with sincerity inspired only then can it be compared to the kiss of a Virgin damsel. In the name of all this I raise my cup to the sun of the night and drink this sacred juice which makes brothers of us all in heart. •copihue: flowering plant cultivated as adornment. * cueca: popular Chilean dance. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Antipoetic cricket: Chalkup the Score Board Antipoetic cricket: chalkup the scoreboard for the Belgium blast victims Someone's crying Someone's dying Someone's lying if it ain't this ‘tis that each gimmick's a trick lemme ge' at ‘im he go' oneon me one up is one down one down packs tonnup for the side if it ain't for this who'd not bowl from the other end someun's go' to bat someun's go' to bat the score must go on board the ducks and duck-breakers alike cannot hide the innings defeat comes after one side fields twice it ain't cricket to chalk up a draw rain or no reign August 3,1997 (re-worked from the collection: longhand notes,1999) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Did I say What I said You said Did I say What I said You said You said looking a little forlorn a little redundant the contradicting crosses in your eyelashes thrusting forth the brazen prophet in you for the day only no country nor community at your command bashfully What is this life? Once you're dead you're gone gone forever! some coarse stele the five a three or perhaps a nine raven rot working into the rubbed-out stone long the frangipani branches drifting with the tide severed from the scarred bones What you said I could have the wooden broad sword of your scouring words scathing my back my nape stung awakening the nakedness of futile words fixing memory vain memory some lines here or there some thoughts culled out of your hands how might I eject sense empty the void of your accusing pain your desolation retain keep only the one possible denotation of the moment Whose ancestral voices linger in my thoughts in yours stray strands of concepts trapped in subliminal dimensions caught just a while in the slanting light cutting through your escaping inturned eye interstitial arrows darting through undead time Will my time age out of time in the dead of time conflict between those who beget you conflict between those who assess you Is there lack of those who'd hate you enough to love your enemies come back a reformed reformist and make the comeback what you want No one opts out for even gone some remember the harsh things you said the hurtful things you did and all the things you should have but did not Or do you depart in disgust at all this fuss over nothing the grating chores of shoring up your image the unbending pride made you the arch-enemy the fear too late of mending your name the fumbling efforts to repair for those you cared the coffee serré with four cubes let your body go the rubbing spasms in stolen moments all heinous crimes and more Better be dead you said than remember the Dead and wondered why you tolerated living so vilely in fear unfree a prisoner of your own will I too may look back over my shoulder and see a gaping vast expanse and look for words teeming words in lieu of you a curlicue crescent balancing on a lame branch in limbo June 7,1996 (from the collection - re-worked- longhand notes,1999) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Limericks crochetes: All the trappings of the rough-neck cult Limericks crochetés: All the trappings of the rough-neck cult All the trappings of the rough-neck cult Baby-faced blond Aryans exult Under star-striped umbrella State seal insignia Some Dad yells « OUT », muscle-men catapult Can SUN also set in the Wild West Where the cash - the Man says - will come to rest How many will share wealth How many get free health Deplete coffers for great job conquest? The tragic loss of a rising star O! Mark « Blond » face! He'll shine yet afar! Blocked not by Destiny But by peer fear envy: Winsome mien sage's ears passion galore! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Limericks crochetes: Once a cardsharp comic called Don Dump Limericks crochetés: Once a cardsharp comic called Don Dump Once a cardsharp comic called Don Dump Made father's money jump during slump Dreamed of ruling this earth Joined campaign (in) stand-up mirth Made people laugh without using trump. He played to the gallery hirsute Soon his jokes turned sauerkraut through soot Before long they cried: Heil! Jackboots clicked, people wail In goose-step, give: Sieg! Heil! salute. Moral: « Listen not to funny man Dump! Migrants all know how to scale wall jump. Ten million there love US Minus some (who) think like louse! Live not solipsistic world on rump! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: Who rules what is or what's not after the fact Villanelle: Who rules what is or what's not after the fact Who rules what is or what's not after the fact The first poem struck wasn't it a cry of hope Words gushing from constricting throats militant act Who must with calipers measure the creative act Draws hot blood choking in dungeons where poets lost grope Who rules what is or what's not after the fact Who lays the laws down robs the poem from the poet Post-mortem never reveals how thoughts in body cope Words gushing from constricting throats militant act Words feel through emotions un-thought by Eliot Though Bousono makes poets mindless on tight rope Who rules what is or what's not after the fact Words at random plucked by the senses speak with tact Not so Essay on Man by Alexander Pope Words gushing from constricting throats militant act Songs of joy set to music in dance speak not slack No Aristotle could glean rules where poets dumb mope Who rules what is or what's not after the fact Words gushing from constricting throats militant act © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - XVII Unquotable quotes - XVII The more the spread of the Multi-Verse(s) , the less the possibility of purpose in our lives on earth. In a world chock-full of people where almost everybody wants to be heard, be seen and be remembered, only fools listen to fools and the vain watch the vain and the duped remember the duped.. Only evil-doers think and act as though they can get away with it all for good. Life humiliates ALL, so what's the difference if one rises or falls. Every born being is a ridiculous thing, and most of all the king. Thinking one can remedy it all - get the better of one's detractors - before one's end is the height of gall. No individual can in all certainty be indispensable to - even - one's own galaxy - to keep it believable: Is our world of any moment to all the other possible worlds? What remains unseen/unseeable is always a mystery to everybody but a few who appear to be inhabited by some alien spirit. Why do evil-doers always find it always easy to triumph over do-gooders? The contrary is the case the other way round. Nothing can change what lies out there - not even with all the goodwill in the world: no man, no god, no will, no sacrifice, no suffering, no prayer, no brilliance, no nothing. Odd that the most obssesive form of pleasure is still rooted around the portals of birth and excretion. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - Friends - XVI Unquotable quotes Friends - XVI Can friends also be lovers; not certainly under covers. Can friends do one another harm and stay calm; not unless they have lost their sense of alarm. Can you make a friend do what you will not do yourself; what's the use of having a friend who will not. Can you ask a friend for a recommendation which will get you a better job than his; if you were him, you'd check to see if the signature was his. Can you ask the friend running the marathon race with you to keep you company until the end; if he does, dump him before you take the last bend. If you asked your friend to take your sick dog to the veterinarian's and if he agrees, give him your chihuahua, your kakatua, your Siamese twin and your cochon d'Inde, for a start. Keep the anaconda for a little later. If you have a friend who has a large family, especially of the right sex, ask him to bring his entire family to your nudist camp at the local beach for the club's commemoration day; if he doesn't, he cannot be your friend, so try another; if the fool does, make certain the battery pack for your movie camera is fully charged and within reach. Can friends who know one another well enough share the same dreams; yes, if they lick on the very same vanilla-flavoured ice-creams. Can friends you call on the phone at home after hours not hang up before you do be trusted to fork out a loan for your mortgage payment; if yes, then go and live with him or her at once. Can a friend who backbites and carries tales about you be trusted to give your bride away at your seventh nuptials? Yes, he most certainly can! Can a friend who reviles his fellow candidates in an election primary be trusted to offer a longstanding friend a cabinet post in the event of a final resounding victory? Indubitably, otherwise they wouldn't be friends for that long anyway. Can you let a friend take from you to give to a sworn enemy; of course you can if you have been trying to get rid of her for a very, very long time. Can a friend who never ceases to talk of having saved you from your friends be counted among your enemy's best friends? Wives of friends who are always alone need to take up the trombone or trumpbone. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016. Villanelle: Who but Great Powers make World look like market place Villanelle: Who but Great Powers make World look like market place Who but Great Powers make World look like market place The crib courtyards of Russia China and US Who reigns in the United States concerns all in space Don't tell the down-trodden rest they're out of the race Even sinking island states may hope for prowess Who but Great Powers make World look like market place Lebens raum's an excuse for Conquistadores Spices for regal banquets stolen art pieces Who reigns in the United States concerns all in space A hundred years of wars deprives Man of grace Leaders thrive on gullible populace nonetheless Who but Great Powers make World look like market place The more the whine the more the fish-market brag place What counts is the clout each Big Brother promises Who reigns in the United States concerns all in space What makes a nation great if not the populace Can any man then replace what's good in US Who but Great Powers make World look like market place Who reigns in the United States concerns all in space © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: friends - XV, Part One If you stick your neck out for a friend, you're likely to lose your head. A friend is a potential enemy in disguise as a loving wife just before vowing ties. Friends are of all kinds but the kind you want them to be. A friend you use is a friend you abuse and who has no use of you. The friend you call upon in need is always in greater need. If you give a friend an helping-hand, make sure you take it back as soon as you can. If you trust your friend with your girl, you're the biggest dope in the world. When friends meet, they always talk about beating meat. If you take a friend to dine, make sure he leaves his horse behind. The friend with daughters is the kind you wished sported blinkers. A friend who works in banks, we always drop in - in person - to say thanks. The friend's wife even if she's a bad cook is no chinook to hook. If friends go on vacation with their wives, they always know who connives. Friends who live close-up always end-up in the lock-up. A friend with an axe to grind always uses it on some friend's uterine. A friendly father is one who takes a lasting interest in his daughter's girl friends. A friend who loans you some dough is always knocking on your door. Only a friend who walks his dog picks the hour your wife goes out for a jog. A friend at your beck and call must be wondering why you don't him enthrall. A friend by any other name is a still a friend you can put to shame. A friend is someone you can entrust your shame with, but never your fame. Keep your distance from the friend who shouts in your face for it's a downright disgrace he spits in your face. Friends who work for rival companies tend to share daily work memories. Friends who work in different embassies are thick as thieves. The greatest friends are those married couples with very large families who realize far too late they are/were really homo-sexuals. Friends who give one another too many presents ought to look for friends who only give presents. The best friends are those who need no psycho-analysts for they can see each other without waiting for appointments. Childhood friends always end-up wishing their friends on other friends. A friend of a friend always turns up for a spend or a lend. Long lost friends who meet to go out for the night leave behind wives happy, whallop-py and tight. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris Villanelle: Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris Vesuvius sank isle strung duckweed in Mid-Sea Tectonic plates clash Zeus' curse sinks Atlantis Tough talk across Atlantic makes Olympus hiss Triumphant magnate tandem with pale Yin on knee Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris No Plato to lament holy Lost Angeles Split through Grand Canyon guts out at New Jersey Tectonic plates clash Zeus' curse sinks Atlantis Meru's father stomachs no campaign mudsling blitz: « Stop the la-di-da now or I'll make you float free! » Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris « Let Minerva win or I'll split Oval Office! I'll not say it again: You'll lose Land of Free! » Tectonic plates clash Zeus' curse sinks Atlantis No curse worse than what shatters Olympus bliss « Come to your senses now: Trump card will make you flee! » Those whom the gods disdain bloat tough in hubris Tectonic plates clash Zeus' curse sinks Atlantis © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 The idea is to The idea is to... steep oneself in panacea scriptures when times seem too unbearable irretrievable finding solace in public place pageants waving papier mâché penants but not lingering too long in the cowed comfort of feeling blameless take courage then and return to this tortured blighted ephemeral existence How else may you live knowing nothing of what lies beyond bad enough while we're here too many things to worry about time to get up the effort to sleep long enough remember not long ago about four hundred million years ago there were but twenty-two hours to the day did the cavemen then sleep two hours less than we who see through our cataract lids the catharsis of the late-night Tolkien saga the cleaning the endless cleaning to stay the smell the dirt the germs the endless spliced and spiced nourishment for the body the brain the damned boredom to look out for those we put on this earth for those who put us on this uni-directional road and for that to strain to study find a job and climb on slippery backs to scale heights of O far too late comfort that would give us a name fame be looked upon liked loved cherished admired glorified followed remembered deified by seven-day wonder blighters fight for what is proclaimed Right for the race for the nation for the class caste community lay down our lives for the faith for our founding-fathers mutilated families who may choose to be born chooses to die the idea then is to seek relief for as long as the cure us sustains and return to the fight to our diurnal plight and hope in another four-hundred million years we would evolve into highrise cavemen needing no sleep nor faith nor bonds of bloodied brotherhood nor food nor sadist sex nor thoughts of selfhood beings evolved beyond the gods their descendants our forefathers handed down to us though on the way we may have laid waste wreaked havoc with the contours on this ekedout earth and all that stood in the way of our will not to hold back yet another monstrous bigoted world July 2,1997 From the privately pub. coll. (rev.2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - XIV Unquotable quotes - XIV Don't trouble trouble until trouble gobbles you; don't rubble rouble until rouble rubbles you. Don't marry a woman out of pity; she'll make you regret her lack of fidelity for a ditty. Don't lose your temper with any old party member; they are all in league licking the leader's member. Don't meddle with paddles if you have never rowed on water; it's not the self-same action you practice with your partner. Don't run to get insurance coverage when you're hanging from a ledge; better wait for the dredger to empty the valley of sludge. Don't go to the cinema to rub or warm thighs and legs; what you're watching is not what you see. Don't climb mountains only to be rescued in the public eye; there are other more subtle ways like making naked love to appear on TV. Don't crack jokes to make others croak; crack their skulls open with a rebuke. Don't eat with your fingers noodles soup; drink the soup first, then slurp the noodles through fingers. Don't tease the neighbour's daughter for lack of laughter; for all you know she may be Bob Hope's screen writer. Don't turn tables in a fight if you haven't got the might, unless you're John Wayne in a Western with a broken hind stern. Don't squirm in bed dreaming of Clark Gable; his teeth kept great actresses crying out for a gargle. Don't swim against the current pretending to be Tarzan, unless you have a Jane willing to put up with any bane. Don't cry for help with a mere yelp. © T. Wignesxan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - XIII Unquotable quotes - XIII Follow love for it's free, free love and it'll flee. Do unto others as you would have them undress you. Easy come, eenie meenie mini go. Practice makes sex a maniac. God helps those who help ten elves. Never kiss a gift horse in the mouth. People who live in glass houses should not throw boomerangs. Two heads are no better than none. Actions speak louder than burps. A watched pot suffers from boils. You can't make a cutlet without breaking legs. Hang on the hand that feeds you. All good things must come to a fiend. If you can't beat ‘em, grind ‘em. If it ain't broke, don't make it work. Dislocation is the greater part of valour. There's no place like eohm. A picture is worth a thousand broads. Better late than dump her. The pen is mightier than the sword for those who're illiterate. One man's trash is another man's pleasure. Beauty is in the dye of the painter. Myopia is the mother of the optician. Familiarity breeds when people camp unkempt. Good things come to those who know how to put on weight. A drain is only as long as the longest drink. Absence makes the heart go ablunder. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him blink. In teaching others we teach ourselves to teach others. If you want something done Right, don't look to the Left. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - XII Unquotable quotes - XII To catch a monkey, you need a young coconut with three holes for eyes; bore a hole in one and wait: the monkey will thrust its hand in to grab a mouthful and will not let go come what may. To catch a false monk, you need an orphan. To catch a thief, you need either a camera or a cobra. To catch a bluffer, you need to make him believe ya. To catch a fly, you need a spider with a parlour. To catch a poisonous snake, you need a retracting loup on a long ten-foot pole. To catch a giant, you need a sling with a stone. To catch a Pharoah, you need his sister with a hisser. To catch a priest, you need the advice of his Chief Geist. To catch a stool-pigeon, you need another stool-pigeon. To catch a plane, you need a valid ticket. To take a train, you need a ticket-puncher. To board a ship, you need to rise with the tide. To catch the woman next-door, you need to wait until the paramour goes out the back-door. To catch a ripe durian, you need to have a hard or an empty head. To capture a girl in a burqa, all you need is another burqa. To capture a rat in a hole, all you need is a secret service mole. To capture a pirate ship in a canal, all you need to do is to lower the waterlevel. To catch a polar bear and her cubs, all you need to do is to raise the level of your exhaust fumes. To catch a lark on a bark, all you need to do is to click your camera. To catch the sun in the morn, all you need to do is to sleep with your window open. To catch cold, all you need to do is to stand stark naked bold. To catch forty winks, you need to be full of drinks. To get on peoples' nerves, you need to step on their toes. To catch the pox, you need to meet a certain lady who lounges around the docks. To come to grief, all you need to do is to rob Fort Knox. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes with more Cricketing Jargon - XI Take your own sweet time, and let others keep time. Tea for two always ends up in a hell-uv-a bellowing brew; tea and sympathy in a hullaballoo. The choice between Scylla and Charybdis is like the dilemma between the crocodile and the pirana fish. Popes, princes and paupers all piddle but a puddle. The janitor knows when any tenant or proprietor in his charge is about to sneeze or freeze. A poor workman blames his stools. Seasons follow one another like troubles and solutions. Since Life (according to the Yijing) is « conditioned and unfree », how is a kiss under the mistletoe completely free? A new broom sweeps well, an old? cannot tell, maybe even hell. If you put the pennies in a piggy bank for a rainy day, what if it never rains? More haste, less speed; more waste, less need. Cricketing jargon « Out stumped »: occurs when a batsman during play decides to leave the limits of the crease in order to meet the bowled ball before it, for instance, hits the ground but misses to connect the ball with his bat while the wily wicke(d) t-keeper has (unknown to the batsman) crept up in the meantime to the position right behind the wickets where, with the ball safely in his gloves, decapitates the wickets of its bails, or pulls up one stump with one hand while the other holds on to the ball up high -- a common foolhardy show of bravado that could cost the batsman his wicket and make him « look stumped ». « Caught and bowled »: occurs when a bowler delivers a ball and the batsman strikes it straight and hard back in such a way that the ball in a nano-second heads for the bowler‘s face just when the bowler buckles under in disequilibrium during his follow-through: he then automatically puts up his hands in a desperate attempt to ward off the ball but the ball gets stuck in his palms by chance. This great feat in cricket is recorded by the scorer as « caught and bowled » by of course the startled bowler. « The break for tea at four » is a mere excuse to take a pee after a long hot post-lunch snooze in the field. « The runner » is another member of the team who is designated by the captain to do the « running » between wickets, for some batsman who has the good sense to cook up an excuse, such as, a sprained ankle which, curiously, disappears on the way home to his wife simply because the wife wouldn't fall for the pretext when it comes to fulfilling his marital bedroom duties. A clever wife, of course, would ask for a « runner » to replace the husband in bed. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - X Unquotable quotes - X A beautiful wife gets to changing husbands as she may. An ugly wife gets to keeping her husband out all day every day. A plain-looking wife doesn't give a damn any either way. A happy wife gets to watching her children in carefree play. A shrew gets to driving her husband round the bend at the end of the day. An adulteress gets to infecting her children every other day. A nymphomaniac gets to making her husband out to be a gay. A high born wife gets to sleeping somehow out in the hay. A gay wife gets to making a harem out of the honeymoon day. A loud-mouthed wife gets to keeping all her neighbours in fear away. An over-aged wife gets to making her husband look like he was in her pay. A frigid wife gets to making her husband out to be an impotent lay. A dumb wife gets to keeping her husband without a say. A saintly wife gets to thinking she wakes up every day on Groundhog Day. A heftily-backed wife gets to thinking her husband hides in her bay. A baby-faced wife in bed gets to making her husband look the other way. A bored wife watches corridas on the tele on a rainy day. A sad wife spots the hairs on her husband's head turn slowly gray. A chaste wife is an empy church or temple where no one goes to pray. A wise man gets to keeping well out of the way of wives and husbands in dismay. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - IX Unquotable quotes - IX You cannot have your cake and eat it, but you can have your meat and beat it. Sow your wild oats on a sow and your tame oats on a milch cow, and reap what you sow. See not evil, speak not evil but fiddle evil. Silence is olden. Blood is thicker than 70% of the body. If you eat your fill, who will foot the bill? Since l'habille ne fait pas le moine, what if the monk goes about in his birthday suit? Money makes Bunnies look funny. When a white-collared worker marries a blue-collared worker, they invariably produce a red-collared sucker. The only impermanent resident is the President. It is only raining cats, not dogs. We are just kissing cousins in the parloir but not in the boudoir. Wake not a man asleep and tell him his wife has given him the slip. Snakes and Ladders: To skid and fall is a blessing compared to climbing a ladder and falling from a height and being hit on the head by the falling ladder while the snake is waiting and hissing… © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - VIII Unquotable quotes - VIII The stray dog is always in search of a god. A tiger leaves behind its stripes; men their gripes. A lame duck is a man without luck, and a luckless man quacks like a duck. When friends and relatives depart, it's time to make a fresh start. A sick mind in a sound body is the worst form of agony for the enemy. Too lazy to want to live, yet too unwilling to want to die: best be eternally sick. Empty vessels make the most ground on water. If you walk a mile in someone else's shoes, you're likely to end up with athlete's foot. A samurai's sword writes only in red ink. Wild ideas fester in the coils of a turban: some lose their way in the labyrinth, others die inglorious deaths in the squiggly enmeshed strands. Wars are waged by nations in order to reduce the size of the populations during times of prosperity when men and women - young and old - concentrate their best efforts in the art and practice of reproduction at the expense of production for the care and protection of their children who are the haphazard products of their carelessness. God uses men to wage wars against one another in order to save Himself the bother of having to propagate Himself. Men use gods to wage wars in Their names in order to enhance the status of their own gods. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - VII Unquotable quotes - VII What comes in through one ear goes out through the rear. Give him a wench and, he'll want her to be French. Give him an inch and he'll take no small pinch. Better be swallowed by a whale than be torn to shreds by a shark of a girl in a gale. The praying mantis kills after she copulates in bliss; the predatory woman drills a hole in your bank account first before she kills for a thrill. The banana kills its bearer for the latter cannot bear another. Take the pillow but not the widow Marry her sister if she's fatter. Frogs in a well croak well in hell. A crab walking straight is out of gait. (continuing the series from UQ - VI) We are all sinners under bums. We are all looters under swarms. We are all marchers under drums. We are all dreamers under balms. We are all loafers under palms. We are all voters under domes. We are all soupers under poems. for Chrissie Morris-Brady If you call a spade a jade, you've got it made But if you call a maid a jade, you're likely to get laid Though if you call a maid in bed, you're going to get wed Yet if you call a maid to bed, you're sure to be up-fed. If you call a maid in a hurry, you're likely to be sorry Or if you call a maid in a lorry, you're bound to worry. If you called a lad dad, he'd likely not be glad Yet if you called the lad bad, he'd certainly be sad But if you called the lad mad, he's bound to think you a grad. If you called a nerd a turd, you could possibly get furred But if you thought a Lord bored, you probably will get bored Yet if you called a Lord a toad, he'll have you all towed. Then if you called a Knight tight, he'll challenge you to a fight. If you called a Baron daemon, he'll think you were a doorman. If you refer to Jude as a nude, you're likely to get screwed And refer to the nude as lewd, you're bound to get brewed And think of Dude as crude, there's bound to be a feud. If you called a squid a quid, it's bound to think like a Druid. If you call what you said dead, you'll never ever get read If you thought home food good, you must be a real hood And rely on your word two-third, you sure are a dud. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - VI Unquotable quotes - VI (Note: A good many of the « epigrams » in this sequence of quotes are a take off on other well-known short poems, proverbs, sayings or expressions faites, etc. The rest are my own epigrams.) All the world's a stooge. Paint the town red with blood. Swing low, Sweet chariot! Coming to carry me on throne! Turn the other back for a slap on the back. Can you turn your nose up while sitting on your high horse? Finders keepers, Minders weepers! Black holes also suck white souls. A bun in the womb is worth ten in the oven. Cleanliness is next to Godzillaness. Garbage cans are not rubbish bins. What goes up must bring Heaven down. We are all stinkers under the arms. We are all sewers under bums. We are all lovers under mums. We are all beggars under alms. We are all killers under arms. We are all believers under psalms. We are all thinkers under norms. We are all schemers under qualms. We are all bribers under palms. We are all runners under bombs. We are all rotters under worms. We are all liars under gums. We are all swimmers under foams. We are soldiers under uniforms. We are all writers under thumbs. One need hardly fear the extinction of Life on earth through environmental or climatic catastrophe: inter-religious contention will get the job done well before-hand. Cricketing jargon « Style mahu kala tida-apa! » (Doesn't matter if you're given out so long as you managed to play the right stroke!) This « tongue-in-cheek remark » in Malay pidgin is often used in Malaysia- Singapore to describe those batsmen who surrender their wickets in style, i.e., batsmen who are sticklers to the art of playing textbook strokes irrespective of whether the ball is engaged by the bat or not. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - V Unquotable quotes - V Constant dipping wears out the hardest bone. Out of sight, out of bind. Too many cooks spoil the school books. Be a cuckoo and lay your eggs at the cuckold's next door. When lightning strikes, the fire-brigade rides. Don't cry over spilt tears on a tilted table. Give a dope a long rope to escape prison and hang yourself. Till the cows come home lone and married. Do not teach a dog how not to bark. A shark's « fin » is the end of the film. A rhinoceros's horn makes the infidel a born again thorn. Early to bed, early to rise makes the wife stealthy, squelchy and clock-wise. A lawyer is a liar/Who rides a bicycle on a live wire/Smokes a salmon in her office oven/Slurps noodles with poor poodles/Makes fudges out of judges/Ends up selling divorced wives/On the internet stock archives. A two-timing two makes fools of fours on all fours. Go fly a kite when you're tight out of sight. When the garden warbler trills on oblivious, the magpies ensemble grumble. Patients can undo all the good doctors do. Even cars can become chronically ill. Children need not be seen so long as the noise they make reminds us of them. Authority always provides cover for cruelty. The nation is always worthy of the most scurrilous crimes. Religious service serves only the ritual's hollow promise. He serves God best who serves all creatures first. God cannot be in need of help. Nor does He need adulation. Is religion an attempt to bribe God? © T. Wignesan -Paris,2016 Villanelle: The Cricketers' Hakka: How's Zaat Villanelle: The Cricketer's Hakka: « How's Zaat! » Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen At bowler's end or square leg umpires stare stand « How's Zaat! » yell players game's holy silence broken Two umpires two batsmen players eleven All rivet eyes on five half ounzes ball leather bound Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen Main aim of the game ball must be struck by batsmen Who guard Holy Trinity wickets honour bound « How's Zaat! » yell players game's holy silence broken The idea's to score more runs to secure win Leg before wicket brings down batsmen standing grand Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen Matters not a whit if ball on pads make bails spin Mighty yell in unison must umpire confound « How's Zaat! » yell players game's holy silence broken Yell must at all costs contradict the truth even Force umpires to doubt their own judgement to withstand Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen « How's Zaat! » yell players game's holy silence broken Note: The batsman can be given out in various ways, but it's the umpire who decides whether the batsman's « out » in the following cases: « leg before wicket » (where the bowled ball is stopped from reaching the wickets by the batsman's pads) , ; « run out » (where the batsman during play stands with his bat outside the creases at the wickets) ; « caught » (where the ball bowled by the bowler is caught by any fielder after it ricochets either from the bat or the gloves) ; « no ball » (where the bowler delivers the ball while his foot is outside the crease at his end) , ; « hit wicket » (where the batsman even accidentally strikes the wickets with his bat) ; « wide » (where the bowled ball is reasonably out of reach of the batsman) ; « no ball or throw » (where the bowled ball is delivered while bending or hooking the elbow) . It is the custom - at least, in the old days - that whenever the abovementioned irregularities occur during a match, the players on the fielding side all in one voice yell: « How's Zaat! » (How's That!) and look at the umpire for his verdict in an attempt to intimidate him - just in case he was inattentive at the crucial moment. Likely as not, it is also the custom to yell out even if there was no case to be made out in their favour. (The wording is mine: the official description of the rules might differ from my definitions which are formulated from my own experience as a player.) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes: more cricketing jargon - IV Unquotable quotes (More Cricketing Jargon) - IV A « wide » is a ball aimed by the bowler at some absentminded fielder. The « silly-point » is the fielding position so close to the batsman that the captain forces his rival to occupy at the risk of receiving balls on the head, solar plexus and balls hit at over 300 m.p.h. An « inswinger » is a bowled ball which changes course in mid-air and gets round the batsman to nick the bails. An « outswinger » is a bowled ball which the batsman thought he connected for a six but which merely nicked his bat to reach the safe first-slip's hands. A « run-out » is given when batsmen running between wickets wish to get back to the pavillion in a hurry. To get « one's eyes in » is to see cricket balls the size of foot-balls. A « partnership » in batting occurs when one batsman does all the stroke-playing while the other hurls abuse and advise on him. The « night-watchmen » are batsmen sent in with blankets to keep the pitch warm at the end of the day. The « opening batsmen » always take their own sweet time between the pavillion until their crease rituals. The « one down » is the batsman who makes the ground look like an empty billiard table. The « top scorer » is not the cousin of the official scorer. « Clean bowled » happens when the batsman is looking at a blonde in the pavillion. « Hit wicket » usually occurs when tall batsmen choose long-handle bats for their centuries. « Leather-hunt » takes place when one ball takes to visiting all corners of the field in quick succession. A century or two could very well take just half-a-day these days. The « hat-trick » always occurs when the umpire is dozing after lunch. « Good shot » means no one has dared put a hand out to stop the ball. « Medium-paced bowlers » are fast bowlers who have been hit once too often out of the ground. The « leg pull » always catches the leg and mid-field talking to one another. The last batsman always takes a wild swing at the first ball in the hope that it would land on the captain's head. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - III Unquotable quotes - III When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the insane. A grenade a day keeps the refugee away. Cut your coat according to your girth. The kettle calling the pot back. Like father, like son; like mother, like neither. Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain. Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do the twist with fairies. A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with toddy. The sun also rises best in the West. Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the place and moment they beg. A white tiger abhors orange. A policeman's girl always wears handcuffs behind her back. A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid first. A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to a phrase. Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far. A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the laps. At the end of the day is when you make your greatest mistake - you go to sleep. Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd. Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on the wedding night. One swallow doesn't make a drunkard out of a teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer. Cricketing jargon The late-cut is the shave you missed out. The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut. The leg-pull is the batsman's bras de fer to the leg spinner. The long-stop is the twelth man on the field. The straight drive pierces the umpire's reverie. The full-toss is the fast bowler's slipped disc. The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up. The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat. Test matches end up in ditches for pitches. A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the batsman. A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker. Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders. Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins dropped by lawn-mowers. An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes II Unquotable quotes - II Spare the rod and knife the wife. Empty drums make the most deaf wise. Penny wise Pound English. The Polyester Stomper heals the vain woman's heel. Eat what you can but can what doctors ban. Let the water tap run but drain rain. The woman, the dog and the chestnut tree, the more you beat them the harder the bark. Let sleeping dogs neigh. It never rains but indoors. Honesty is the best example of idiocy. Two's company, three's a broad. Make hay while the son wines. There's no smoke without liars. Don't count plots before they are hatched. Preach not what you can enjoy in peace. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a truth. Parting makes much sweet sour. A round peg in a square soul. Rule Brittania, Britannia rules the knaves. Able was I as I saw(ed) Abel. It's a Rolling Stone that makes a fuss. Those who tighten belts don't wear sarongs. The high and mighty always suck with the flighty. What's good for Peter is good for the Church. The haiku is the silly bugger of the tanka. The baker's dozen helps keep the poor cousin. Cricketing jargon The no ball is the cricket's late call. The boundary is the sixer's mockery. The wicket keeper bails batsmen out. The googly makes batsmen squint through patchouli. A leg bye makes the batsman somewhat shy. The leg-before-wicket is when the batsman kicks-thebucket. The dropped-catch can be the slip's last match. The leg glance is a missed forward drive. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unmeant meanings Unmeant meanings Words keep watch their eyes in the empty spaces fingers feel their unformed faces Can words mean what they were not meant for all by theirnonselves even if they come clothed in nonentity cuneiforms hieroglyphics ideophonograms strokes signs signals sounds shapes silences squiggles squares squirms suctions squirts scuds screams squelches screeches screams or sickening sobs words sum up fix errant thoughts speak for all though in tongues without jousting knights errancy will not lead to errantry Only the blind conceive their shape form posture the staid but rumbunctious music of stilled hieroglyphs the pliability of ideograms caressed down rice paper their squiggly strands the self-effacing hand-and-foot maidens of matronly phrases some leaning awry the calligrapher's trembling hand all all straining upright the custodians of invested stock foot-stools of pouting poets the sum-total of coveted currencies exchanged stock variables Who would be hurt knifes himself with meaningless words who would laugh breaks out into song the sing-song stress and accent of vowels round and strong learns wayward steadfastness with his words with words with the word with the world of wonder in always willing and wilful words April 23,1997 From the privately-pub. coll. (re-worked 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 For those who go by his tentmaker's rope For those who go by his tentmaker's rope swing from one end to the other though neither low nor too high nothing will pass you by if you swing not to the end of your tether Let the tavern-keeper yell no legs past his dream threshold will wander before old Khayyam's knell accept at last your unwanted vow no damsel will crash into cleft-stick cuckold sweep away celibacy take your heart in tow Is there talk of yes who may be chosen what role could your pain fill in bold letters which you'd rather see in numbers broken Come away come away from all this quarrel Let those who wish to be weighed in gold make much of their worth par rapport à l'infidel June 5,1997 From the privately pub. coll. (rev.2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Stock Stock Lines derail trains made from stern stock shunting worsted words in wagons to and fro cabins depleted by looters piled on dock signals distressed faces not any more forefathers shape not their twisted progeny when foremothers shunt them out of agony the fear that might in the grain burst bunds resides unformed in unwilling face the dark inscrutable face of race blood thinning through bastardized sons forefathers shape not their twisted progeny when foremothers shunt them out of agony to guard the rhyme within the quatrain no end of artifice will make for sacrifice content lets form intertwine lines in vain clickety-clack of the train lulls us nice foremothers never think of their progeny when forefathers shunt them out of agony May 6,1997 From the privately pub. coll. (rev.2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Stateless Stateless …thatched houses catch fire sparrow tires from romping in the coned-flower chestnut tree alights on the road tires crunch macadam sparrow perches on live telegraph wires winds sweep the plains topple high-tweeting power poles sparrow haunts deserted godowns caterpillar cranes tear down loading wharves sparrow unloads wings on marshalling yard trains shuttle screeching now forth now back sparrow glides then tumbles in air-pockets temperature plummets snow flakes magpie in the châtaignier shrieks disgust to the skies melting snow runs down eaves air sizzles with imminent thunder Zhen of a sudden clapclaps righteous terror The Eldest Son of High Heaven has high business to supervise tapeworms bore deeper into the ground the cicada scarcely calls to mate wet hungry ruffled sparrow has no chestnut tree to go back to now home to transiting seagulls tries to alight on spring-green spare Pawlonia chockfull of crows averts the mulberry tree à la feuille de platane fishing gear lie splayed against the trunk the dense dripping prickly hibiscus hedge affixes house-full sparrow perches on the terrace rose pot the neighbour's Siamese cat's ears perk up sparrow rolls its eyes April 24,1997 From the privately-pub. coll. (rev.2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Who would milk the Tigress Who would milk the Tigress wears no armour gasmask pail within squat thighs nor bloodless forefinger and thumb Cows wear forlorn looks distressed mien trailing tarred roadmap streaks dry udder tears for lost stripes after mynas taken to the hills forever abandon torrid flatlands to the reverberating mockery of magpies splintered limbs split podiyal torn fiber ribs jut through mortar-upturned tarmac signposts to a lost bickering Peninsula and island children Adam's Bridge of Hanuman hordes loping to reclaim Sita ghost-towns where once-fenced-in palmleaf thatched huts in mud-caked villages husbanded grain the unswaying palmyra droops with juice heavy nongku the tiger cub teen thrust up in sepoy bayonet salutes thrusts her unsung virtue down blind plunge in backgarden well a warrior race of she-cats buried deep behind kitchen smoke Those who came to milk the cow and drink peace eat with hands besplurged with menstrual-blood Where has the milkmaid gone her pail half filled with her brother's blood The wombs of Purananuru mothers long dry bleed for their sons untethered tigers longgone from lairs their stripes for flags Is there a Mughal in Delhi fears a Sivaji in Jaffna or the ageing monarch in Colombo his Nizam-ul-mulk in Trincomalee who would have gladly traded his throne to an armourless English captain armed to The Buddha's Tooth Would a Muhammad Shah prepare for the coming of a Nadir Shah from the far fastnesses of The Middle Kingdom Whose no-man's-land would skirt the Tiger-lined jungle trails see stripes wavering at the cluck of each rubber fruit Who would then growl to remind us of thunder of righteous anger of wayward peoples trekking for elbow space under the hardy palmyra with only the nongku to slake sterile trampled soil miles and miles of heaving padi-fields wreathed in fatigues the lone lithe tigress licking her paw sweet Resources The historical references hark back to the events preceding the gradual rise under Jehangir's reign and final collapse of the great Mughal Empire: 1739-54 to 1858 in the Indo-Lanka context. Other references draw on the Sanskrit epic: Ramayana in the Indo-Lanka context. -From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked: 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Timed out Timed out …with what do you buy time in stockmarket time where would you store time who guards the stored stock time swishing past time would time bought be just as good/pleasant/weighty/drawn out come unstuck as hot noodles joyous/pervading/impalpable/harking back trillions upon trillions of light years unborn as ageing time aching in weary time stand time on its head and roll it forward into the future will it come back to ask for more time the shaman's gunig riding the dream tiger the tiger standing stock still amidst the dense Yijing yarrow stalks sixty-four times six lines for stripes the future filtering through the narrow centre of the coins flipping in the vitreous humour a nanosecond on the retina rolling back on the optic nerve to reform the hexagram fixed in perennial time if time would waste and wear you out and time and time again you're timed out stilled in torrid time moveable time unchimed time frozen time take time out to time time yes time is when you knew how to mind time now time twotimes you in what time do you wake up d'you sleep in borrowed time burrowed into time are you conscious of the time you were in heaven did the pleasure last till the end of time now time slithers on its belly when you keep time with your feet crushing its ribs in the beat 2-4-3-2-5 222 4 take the pulse of this time and hang it on the clothesline any time time its timeliness time disentangles dislocates deranges in extra-time on which time are you treading the time of your life the time you laid your life down timed out au-delà how many times is one and the only time can you time time parallel time synchronic time diachronic time successive times overtime blackholed time is Big-Bang the only time bomb is time spent backwarding time time lost wandering time time reduced to timelessness deadtime filtering through time gone forever time lost in a singularity infinite time without trace time assassinated by time time frst started in res media bent time lassoed by gravity turned back time lashing kicking snorting time dying to join its unbigbanged time time that kills kills time beyond time does the time you carry on you carry you do you occupy space or time do you take space with you when you're gone past time From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked: 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999,115p. © December 13,1995 T. Wignesan - Paris Naked death Naked death …the barred and sealed cattle wagons disgorge at the Konzentrazionslager the faux pas relief from urine mud faeces sweat and tears unkempt armpits buttocks best wear turned to damp rags reduced to moaning cattle nameless even the heifer wan straggly limp Alles! Raus! …the last quick dab of face powder the lipstick dried blood tan the felt hat lying soggy stained through bellowed haste on the mudcaked barrack floor the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform averting glances on sapped sagging busts shoulders hunched buckled in fingers reaching to scratch loins nostrils quivering whose the naughty stench then the trooped Indian file stray belongings dumped in a wasteproduct pile the once highheeled gait slumping to a side from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp prodding the miasmal mist the exposed varicose veins the knotty pubis the mons veneris the intimate warts and moles last year's Ceasarian stitches the rump twitched less the lack lustre sentry gazes the unmasked leer the disdainful pursed lips neither shame nor pudeur and then the last gangway to nowhere the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg a reprieve From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,1999/2016 Corpus Corpus in words designs coloured structures tones movements all the multifarious ways of being savvy earnest of show-looking in earnest of believing in earnestness of wanting to be thought of in earnest by being read thumbed scrutinised listened to in silence who shores up whose image « when the feeling comes, I feel the need to go » … Sekoto said looking into the guest with devouring Picasso eyes and yet his image bothered him his need to be felt useful needed to be thought of as in the know no background to lay the usual foundation Ecole des Beaux Arts Atelier in the Rue des Augustins no one to lean on to only the self-peddled jazz piano a lolling pittance and the loud lingering death at the Maison des Artistes canvasses stached away at some brocanteur's junkyard it matters to leave behind a corpus a bibliography firsthand original right from the tréfonds long before death the diurnal deaths felled by dizzy spells some ex-librarian's list of secondary source pieces articles talks opening-day speeches conferences radio-interviews tv declarations chapters-in-books edited revised --editions reviews biblios tertiary lists of critiques unsigned TLS reviews communications what the editor said in memoirs of his peers not to have said enough is not enough there will be those who will attribute what others have said to us we have made provision for that we told so and so what the others have taken from us with a word carefully placed in the leeward of the ear while sitting in the din of the rear seat words garbled gobbled by the exhaust beat to have left behind a load heavy with prizes pounds royalties titles by the dozens even scores definitive recapitulative editions in velours computerised translations transvesti(t) es through years of solitude sans sexe sans joie sans care may the publisher be forever loading to jettison the heavier the corpus the longer/longslower the worm rot in the mud catacombs of staring accusing skulls From the privately-pub. coll. (rev.2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. © T.Wignesan - Paris Fresnes, November 6,1994 By how many badbyes can you measure the length of your day by how many badbyes can you measure the length of your day first comes the time too fretful on your hands next the boredom of not knowing what to do with it all then the memory erasures the books underlined you thought you never read and wince at the pencilled comments on the sidelines friends you forgot you went to school with the children who'd pray you wouldn't turn up even à l'improviste on an urgent pretexting errand the flushed girlish faces that turn away your gaze in an alley way the tentative pace of your step losing grip on some junction the only safe direction is the shortest cut to your hideout hovel even those who need you prefer not to call on you the telephone will do you can insist on the shave much good it would do you to scorch your tortured grimace none note the difference only the sparse crop you patter come apart in a sudden gust clothes hug less and less the sagging frontal bulge bones that grate lock ligaments that tear on the stair the longing meniscus pain that refuses to part company during the prancing stride and the hours and hours you lay gazing at the ceiling recalling other inept throes muddled chances replaying in slowmotion what might have been if only you hadn't taken the hasty irate turning friends that one by one get ticked off most bundled through in dull hushed murmurs some big names sportsground high kickers get heard of their lean eager square-cut faces flashed on the 8 o'clock news others by dint of their stolid work-soaked contributions their theories discoveries conneries are sung of in obituaries but those you knew you cared for you shared moments long moments with on long rainy nights chewing the rag-end cud on the sofa you wonder where or what they could be like if they too had not gone too soon crushed under split tires skewered through contorted metal now the long vigil begins daily the diurnal chores of waking to your querulous pallid face mocking the vain ambitions festering under your lids each morning waking again after the thrall of mind-flushing siestas fresh as the first springday you went out to your first girl at the thronging choked spewing mouth disgorging the Underground the madness now brings alive in all her colours odours crinoline frills no thwarted thoughts linger only the regrets regret at not having done better regret at not having served her longer nor tasted the fun offering for as long as she bent to caress your face her tresses enveloping your cheeks your neck your ears your locked-in flesh by how many more badbyes may you count your days visits to the doctor the unpaid bills rain like the pathetically interminable urgent blood-on-your-hands requests demands for donations to succour Africa's dying masses Asia's flooding rivers & groundshattering scientific research arms for aids aids for arms alms for arms letters dwindle even from friends you thought were friendless you read the Monoprix's cutprice lists for the spring opening over and over again and eye the shining lasses in tartan skirts pink cheeks lean pinky thighs drawn up to the chins the dejectedly opened books you have not read and always wanted to read now that time is all yours seem so frivolous in your constricting space thoughts that nag at you from every turn in your tiny grubby flat from inside you walk out in your slippers in the dead of noon and pass stragglers lunching on mayonnaise-oozing leafy baguette- sandwiches without so much as a grumbled « salut » linger searching for an excuse to pass away yet another few minutes gazing at a municipal billboard staring blankly at the same old inane inept faces permanent lodgers at the Mairie under the sparse shade of an ant-lined silvery birch thoughts lost among throngs of gaily bickering garrulous sparrows screeching within well-coiffered leafless forsythia bushes the will moves on unwilled to there where a solitary mud-splashed park bench lies lame forlorn you crouch for an instant your lungs expunging your longfelt hurt your eyes blind to the couples stuck one-into-the-other on the muddy dog-dunged grounds you lay yourself back to expunge a long pent-up sigh was it the lit-long day or was it yesterday or was it…. June 16/17,1997 From the privately pub. coll. (rev.) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Soul Genocide Soul Genocide No less a word than the last for putting to rest the syllable for every man a creed a cult No final philosophy to last Who can tell when the world ends for the strong and the bold for those who stand all alone No better might their word lends The last wise man who stood apart for four noble truths in eight paths for what may he have gone away If prophets rain and never depart Every age brings new divinizing calls for saints bloodied in mad blabber for what may holy rites wash away If the world turns on mechanistic balls If every man sought the painful path for his depraved soul and the world's for the sake of every child's hunger Who may not reject nibbhana in wrath Right paths or wrong paths we decide for better or worse in this life for the children forced to survive Better hellfire than the souls' genocide From the privately pub. coll.: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999, 115p. © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 1999/2016 Poems: I didn't say Poem Poems (i didn't say ‘poem') … are as many as galactic swirling gnats multiplied by equal number though not as many in shape and size and weight as tough as feather-and-fly to middle-and-heavy in gait but never as punchdrunk as a Dylan Thomas dervish quake some like this tell you what to think and make a show of the tinker rather than the tank so take a cue and read no further than this unless you want to know what a poem is Poems are bundles which tie themselves up by just letting the words come together in the order in which unless you take it/them back and let them/it out according to whim not like presents with name and age and knot on the top all wrapped with care kowtow after sai kere feet to kiss serf to his Lord of the Manor with utmost respect and honour all for a piddling favour bundles then of meaningless signs in strings of letters synaesthetic strings of tactile gustatory olfactory auditive images held together by syntactic gum each bundle and there may be as many as you may want to or can see separately tied mixture of more or less of each synaesthetic string in a form on page (unless you give voice to them which is still a voicepage distinguishable by modulations of voice in the head) the evident content pushing the words in or out of line (you'll note you can't push it off the page like this unless you reduce the size of the teeth of words till they cannot be read...) bundles then within bundles Russian peasant wooden dolls within dolls magic Chinese surprise boxes a bundle by any other name is still a bungle without a bunghole unless you tie their toes up only the sinusal knot which instructs its time its beat and rhythm is not so easy to find where there are no rhymes and steady fixed wellworn structures unless the poems come wrapped in multi-coloured papers with do-it-yourself kits who-dunnit maps teach-yourself diagrams they may be that is their insides on the outside as you're quite right in thinking or simply somewhere in one place in the inside where you can't get your hands in/onto it even with an angiopathic catheter as easily as a Cronenberg character digging his hand into his belly and drawing a pistolhand so appropriate it's like Lynch saying where do you put the eye of the duck not on the bill ‘If it was sitting on the middle of the body, it will get lost...It has to be placed in the head, it's the most detailed.' yes that's where you'll find it but remember you can't untie it yourself it'll untie itself when you still your senses your thoughts your feelings and your sense of importance of your self that is when you want to know what you do not know ‘There's nothing more exciting than something you don't know about.' [Eric Mottram a poet délaissé by the mighty who make and break poets but can they break a poem like him] so depending on how you go about it some bundles may open others not yet others may stay open and you may not know how to profit from their guilelessness while your thoughts and sensations take flight in other directions thinking of yourself and how you might have done better the content of some bundles may mix with the opened overspill and you may not know which bundle came first to mean what but the main thing is to let the bundle(s) open even all together at once only then you may swing on the strings only then you may see the trees from the underbrush jingly-jangly jungle noise of course not all poems are bundles of bundles those that narrate an event a story a heroic tale of yore those that through unwideopen mythic mouth speak of holy lore those that paint a picture so lovely you'd forget you're looking at a natural Matisse colour print those that cry raucously for the assumption of some material power the castecraze of mythic mind-muddling mantras those that confess some tale of personal tragedy and woeful dismay and those in fact like this dictate define try to instruct make much of its dialectics the rest are they the only poems bundles of synaesthetic strings bundles of flights of fancy and fantasy not so magical realities bundles blasting through meaningfully-sewed and bound spacetime curves bursting in the silencing din of mental short breath budding colours of unknowable scents the touch of taste the flavour of an emotion so intense you'd want to die says the lady watching a tearjerker choking from empathic self-immolation or while riding in an open motortaxi the swirling dustfumes' apnées in a Chennai heure du point sit suddenly back in unbelief at the power of some black empty signs on clear woodmade ground the heedless joyous cries of dustclad children shut in a pavement poem From the privately pub. Coll. (revised) : longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. © T.Wignesan April 28,1997 Paris Parallel Lives parallel lives fleeting neutrinos electrons photons gravitons... turn on the light turn up the volume rouse the thought bolster the idea flash the dream are those dreams do dreams undream pages inscribing words accounts balancing sums illogically unbalanced words that mean a little less than non-sense in the waking state does the brain trip up the mind the thinking I where do other unbendable rules apply other norms other ends for simple adding acts or does the brain permit the flush in its routine memory cleansing jettisoning words on the palpable page fleshed out words upright print countable sums on balanced sheets and the rhythm that distends then breaks with the imperfect rhyme who sings in the quiet of the grey matter folds mermaids stroking sleek streaming hair over hived clacking scales what deep jungle tom-toms call to the air with verve no human pulse can endure where the quantum speed of arrangement rain poems on an invisible time-curved screen no hand writes no I thinks no bodyprint survives the speaking flirtatious crinkly crusty page only the tangle of the doubt was it you who wrote/spoke that which you cannot recall in full how many the querulous whos roaming lost in the outworn labyrinths of your sleep coursing with neurons trapped in synapses swinging the trapezes of the sternum the antebellum blackholing reservoirs the gateway divide into other dimensions or is it all just a mangled bungle of the hazy muddled consciousness seen through twisted cataract prisms taking lackadaisical stock of yet another straightened-jacket ironcast day From the coll. longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999. © Re-worked 2016: T.Wignesan - Paris, August 2,1997 Villanelle: No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law Villanelle: No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law Inhabit the corridors of authority Must of needs lay lives down their peoples to succour Makes no difference whether tyrant emperor Or those who sneak in barely in democracy No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law Falter even once nay their lives forfeit before This the rule must be for those in authority Must of needs lay lives down their peoples to succour The judge who takes sides for the favours of a whore The prince consort who soils queen's bed with germs mighty No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law President who risks State secrets with paramour Minister who fills own pockets with rigged treaty Must of needs lay lives down their peoples to succour Qian holds Heaven where must reside nothing impure Lest the downpour soak toiling souls' immunity No lives are theirs those who embody rule of law Must of needs lay lives down their peoples to succour © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Brahman Nemesis Brahman Nemesis 22 But to those who adore me with a pure oneness of soul, to those who are ever in harmony, I increase what they have and I give them what they have not. 23 Even those who in faith worship other gods, because of their love they worship me, although not in the right way. 24 For I accept every sacrifice, and I am their Lord supreme. But they know not my pure Being, and because of this they fall. THE BHAGAVAD GITA: 9, transl. Juan Mascaro (London: Penguins) ,1962 the puja never ends the sound of conche-shells rush up from starved caving lungs the fire still burns ditheringly in tiered brass oil-lamps the sanctum sanctorum still resounds to the same old Vedic mantras their walls pitch-tarred by centuries of sacrificial smoke the naked granite Amman's torso and limbs sunk in massive mountainous pitchblack porous rock bathed in milk and coconut-oil jasmine petals vibhuthi the ritual never varied nor the droned sanskrit rocambolesques phonemes learned by rote and remembered since a toddling three or four through chanting playfully all-day-long in unison within bare highstone-walls amidst the making-of-faces to the bare-chested fair-complexioned eternal cousins in drawn-up and tucked-in dhotis their long-flowing gingerly-oiled sheetblack hair tied-up in a cone and sagging over the forehead these the keepers of the « I » who wants and Oh needs worship You the Brahmins claim picked from Your head Your chosen You who gave us the intelligence to question Doubt and despite our conditioned voice our dissent Now threaten us with holy fire the right path mistaken O Allah-uh-Akbar O the King of Kings Give us this day Your comforting bread now the days are almost over when Your chosen few strutted about Your smokeand- incense-filled courtyard barechested lest their twice-born ethereal insignia misses the masses clanging bells yelling orders in mantric spells making as though You resided in them nay You were them they were You their minds wrought by the belief that work was for the menial castes all untouchables all fools all filthy their breath impure Your chosen children's food pure sanctified daily by Your inner eye their genes their blood pouring from one tumbler into another and back into their veins like the hot tea drawn in an arc between arm-length held tumblers their vedas the only vedas their language Your language a prayer in any other language gets channelled to Your if we are to believe them sworn enemy the stoker of the fiery dungeons there was a time there were millenia those who issued from Your arms thighs feet and the néant below and beyond all all untouchables of course gave in sacrifice to You what was demanded by Your chosen lot how you cared for your few ordained representatives on this infinitesimal speck in your sweeping vastnesses but now the time is drawing to a close the pujas the marriages the deaths the astrological charts net in hardly the sums needed to keep Your valiant few intact their voice tremble now their chants in Your name growing meeker and meeker through commonlaw marriages selflit pyres computerized astro-charts and prayers offered in Your name while speeding in petrol-driven carts who would you elect again as Your spokesmen Whitehall White House the Kremlin the Imperial Palace or the Elysée Palace who would speak for You represent You sing Your praises keep Your house in order here on earth and drive terror into those who would suspect a ruse now that the prideless old but still plump priest with six unmarried daughters begs with outstretched hand at the temple portals vying with the maimed untouchable in shredded trailing rags his wide bright doleful eyes a telltale warning to your indifference one to keep his pure-bred lasses within unpryable walls the other to keep hunger from shrivelling up his balls the ultimate sacrifice 1 the brahmin conducted mass in the sanctum sanctorum as the intermediary between Brahman (the God-Head) and the other castes, the latter paying for it in cash or in kind 2 the Hindu Goddess Parvati; also a suffix to names of deities signifying malevolence. 3 powdered ash of cow-dung, used by Hindus on their forehead, arms and torso as an insignia of their religiosity. From the sequence: « Words for a Lost Sub-Continent » in the privately published collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) , Paris: 1999,115p. ISBN 2-904428-14-3 May 24-25,1997 Villanelle: Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day Villanelle: Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day As if those words gouged out paper or tape Words distilled from a lifetime's work and play Write only what you think is what you say And what you think never other lives rape Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day Write not to beg for praise or prize or pay What you write must not want to prate agape Words distilled from a lifetime's work and play Write like wordsmiths who worked for Old Vic play El Manco of Lepanto fate escape Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day Write Dostoevsky's death on pardoned day To sink Underground swoon writhe out of shape Words distilled from a lifetime's work and play Ugly Beauty makes Art loudly pray For poets who blindly abuse Muse's shape Write only as if this were your last deathbreath day Words distilled from a lifetime's work and play © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Unquotable quotes - I Unquotable quotes - I A friend in need is the goon who stokes your greed. A journey of a thousand miles ends with the last broken step. Don't kill the brother-in-law until the sister is dead. Butter your toast on either side to lick hands. Hang not the hangman with noose: you'll lose booze. Half a loaf is better than no love. Even a blind cat can smell a rat that bells the cat. Take care of the pounds and the wife will pound you. Take the load off your own fat. Shoot to kill only if you can't stand still. Slow and steady are two legs in a sack race. A marksman is the marked man's also-ran. A blacklisted writer is on every publisher's reading list. A dime a dozen is no denizen. He who cries thief knows no mischief. Turn coat and capsize boat. A snake in the grass may miss Mass but is full of grace. Early to bed catches the worm. All that glitters cannot be sold. Immolate yourself to moult your soul. Even if you're forced to burn your boats, fly by air. Where there's a will, there's no giving way. Run also with the hares and the hounds will eat you. A little knowledge makes the master grin. Birds of a feather share the same tailor. Don't judge a woman with a book by its covers. If you kick a can down the street, empty it first. What burns up and out is the gas in the gut. A stitch in time saves kith but not kin. Forewarned is foredamned. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, just lay them. If the hens begin to crow, the cocks will lie low. If you pour oil on troubled waters, Mid-East will dry up. Still waters run in sleep. Parallel lives never meet or greet. © T. Wignesan - Pris,2016 Tribute to The Day before You Came by Bjorn Ulvaeus in the first 1982 ABBA version Tribute to " The Day Before You Came" * by Bjorn in the first 1982 ABBA version The day before yesterday You came together to play To lift our hearts in joy Belting out in convoy The day after he came We celebrate whose fame You wailed through self-pity But ne'er called it Beauty ‘Infinite suffering thing' Would that Eliot could sing Pre-dramatic event Your breaking-up you meant " Pretty sure it must have rained" " …rattling on the roof" hearts stained The day after he came Most songs seem sound the same " Knowing you Knowing me" Never meant to be free " …my life…its usual frame" " …sense of living without aim" Yes " Some one is crying" No some one's conniving At noon must have left for lunch " …usual place…usual bunch" The sad journey on rails Must break hearts crammed in jails Due at eight in the morn Back at eight all forlorn " And turning out the light" Curled safe in bed at night For the day after he came My life burned on a flame The paradox of joy Is that it makes one cry ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow' Better still safe routine in tow " …I hid a part of me…" " …in heaps of papers" for fee And let the world pass by Not knowing what is joy Is joy carpe diem Was day before he came Now my life's over due I've met my Waterloo The train's an ugly monster Dragging its hind legs after Frida's howl pack of hounds Benny's sound track train pounds Anna's swan tones lament Bjorn's lines uptight breasts rent Beauty's not only content It's also the way you vent Conceit's the ermine cloak Rattling skeletons croak Bjorn's true lines exquisite poem Sung in sweet pain What's its name Notes Words within inverted commas are from the song. Single quotes indicate other well-known words. *Rhyme scheme: 4 stanzas (3 of ten lines with concluding quatrain) in rhymed couplets of varying syllabic count. 1st stanza: aabbccde ff 2nd stanza: aagghhii ff 3rd stanza: ddggiijj ff 4th stanza: kk ff Not all in perfect rhyme: rain/came (for instance) The syllabic count (more or less) : 14 (with the exception of the 4th line at 18 and eighth (exception: 1st stanza at 10) and tenth at 6. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 64 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 64 Cogito ergo sum: I LIE therefore I AM Even if I lie Nothing's more certain than Death Not Birth Not Life Nor this Multi-Verse logjam Does not violence invoke much pain loss all damn Intended or not openly or in lethal stealth Cogito ergo sum: I LIE therefore I AM Is not violence the excess worlds condemn And which by default attains the body's health Not Birth Not Life Nor this Multi-Verse logjam Any movement in any direction breaks dam Can Qian rape Kun to make for eternal Death Cogito ergo sum: I LIE therefore I AM Is Death the Tao of non-action in I AM No change without movement antithetic Death Not Birth Not Life Nor this Multi-Verse logjam Can the human mind find stillness in space maelstrom Wish for NOTHING wholly want but Ultimate Death Cogito ergo sum: I LIE therefore I AM Not Birth Not Life Nor this Multi-Verse logjam © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 63 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 63 The mystery of Birth holds no great secret Poïetics the creative process neither Can Death twin sister of Birth nothing beget Who has returned to re-possess carcass to let If ever one there was what does he remember The mystery of Birth holds no great secret Which Pharoah still sails to lands unknown in debt Which Zhong Guo Emperor led clay armies conquer Can Death twin sister of Birth nothing beget Yi Jing puts most of it down to whims of climate The old lay their weary bones down by winter The mystery of Birth holds no great secret To kill no one first needs bury the hatchet No Marquis de Sade roughride Justine either Can Death twin sister of Birth nothing beget Does Death disintegrate essence ultimate Cult of the Unknown Fear of the Nether The mystery of Birth holds no great secret Can Death twin sister of Birth nothing beget © T. Wignesan - Paris,2016 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 62 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 62 Everything's encased in square 8 by 8* Each family member plays with 7 Now this now that the future turns out late This villanelle's 6 + 2 = 8 Day 1 Month 1 in Year (2016) * 7 Everything's encased in square 8 by 8 1 is the number this one first took freight Met one 8 which - 1 gives 7 Now this now that the future turns out late Change is the mode for life to complicate Change comes round when the number makes 7 Everything's encased in square 8 by 8 GOU Hexagram 4 + 4 = 8 Hell awaits on 06 06 66 + 1* Now this now that the future turns out late Everything begins again 8 times 8* This sequence must end at 9 x 7* Everything's encased in square 8 by 8 Now this now that the future turns out late * 64 hexagrams * 2016 (9 - 2) = 7 * 06061966 = 16 = 7 * Hexagram 64: Weiji (Ferrying incomplete) * Hexagram 63: Jiji (Ferrying complete) Transliteration from Richard John Lynn's translation: The Classic of Changes (1994) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 61 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 61 Evil-doers at heart are the worst cowards Since the war-path pullulates in their numbers They conceal their greed in faces turned backwards The Yi Jing's strategy compels turning inwards Do big power foreign policies discount dollars Aren't evil-doers at heart the worst cowards To seek peace in one's well-being needs no words Must countries sans big wing span claim to be powers They conceal their greed in faces turned backwards Turn not inwards for fear of others making inroads Can what applies to countries fall on wax-clogged ears Evil-doers at heart are the worst cowards Yin left to itself cannot but collapse inwards Retreat into the safety of the self indoors They conceal their greed in faces turned backwards The cavernous mouth sucks on its own innards Shun the cannibal who feeds on his own neighbours Evil-doers at heart are the worst cowards They conceal their greed in faces turned backwards © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 60 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 60 Interplay of positive-negative current How Nature alternates through light and darkness Three hundred and eighty-four times made recurrent All symbols of family diverse in content Father Mother Three Brothers Three Sisters in harness Interplay of positive-negative current Lunar year split into two neither non-violent Both sparking each other from out of loneliness Three hundred and eighty-four times made recurrent In sixty-four general images latent Interpersonal relations contorted mess Interplay of positive-negative current Myriad chess-board movements create more content From dark swirling wild quark masses sparking brightness Three hundred and eighty-four times made recurrent Yi Jing charts infinite conflicts' criss-cross current Shows the right path out of shut dangerous darkness Interplay of positive-negative current Three hundred and eighty-four times made recurrent © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 59 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 59 Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish In all probability by set built-in laws Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish Will good works against Nature's grain admonish Can living beings alter the Big Plan strict laws Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish Should Nature keep house for the tenant in anguish About who's the owner of the wind that blows Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish Nor for those who refuse house rules to distinguish Turn not fire down let hot water run indoors Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish Or when the owner's preparing to cook hashish The tenant goes out to dine dance with rich in-laws Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish Nature sets the rules of the game in his hospice The guest who knocks late from revelries stays outdoors Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 58 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 58 No way must such protective force serve politics Nor ally dictator army criminal police None might weigh on Nature to impose its ethics No exceptions tolerate no geopolitics No super power excuse to fiddle with peace No way must such protective force serve politics No edifice stands aloft loose in building bricks No Zapata fights for latifundio prize fees None might weigh on Nature to impose its ethics Dare not wanton call Nature's course fiddlesticks Even if life you lay down for cause in sacrifice No way must such protective force serve politics Can one forfeit life placate people's economics Mahatma Gandhi saw life's work torn piece by piece None might weigh on Nature to impose its ethics Only the chieftain who bears with peoples' conflicts Can lead them along the road to Nature's hospice No way must such protective force serve politics None might weigh on Nature to impose its ethics © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 57 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 57 The use of force to protect the weak the hungry A Zapata whose righteous anger boils bounds To set right an injustice the peasant to free Is that violence that must be put under key Whose anger Madero's peaceable laws confounds The use of force to protect the weak the hungry Had not Steinbeck's Wrath in the Land of Plenty Set free Mao and Castro's masses from their hounds To set right an injustice the peasant to free Who came to Kazan's rescue Mice and Men stand free Hang honour Hang power Hang the world out of bounds The use of force to protect the weak the hungry In Steinbeck's words Can a man whose thoughts born angry Bring peace to a world where laws of peace obey hounds To set right an injustice the peasant to free Who kills not to feed whose young who cry when hungry Yet Krishna urged Arjuna take battle field grounds The use of force to protect the weak the hungry To set right an injustice the peasant to free © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 56 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 56 To what extent can there be room for free will If what governs is the Principle Yang-Yin Since the future can largely be told at will Since the Yi Jing permits karma to fulfil Good works compensate pitfalls one stumbles in To what extent can there be room for free will For the Principle to work there must be Evil In living things with will embedded in the gene Since the future can largely be told at will At what stage can karma begin the peril Quadrupeds sans will or when bipeds sin To what extent can there be room for free will Does karmic balance-sheet deduct influence ill Parents environs victims of upbringing Since the future can largely be told at will None can be guilty as the mythic Devil The game's over what pardon when neither win To what extent can there be room for free will Since the future can largely be told at will © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 55 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 55 What the human mind can conceive calculate See beyond sight recall aeons lost in time Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate How the human brain can even brains create Short-circuit evolution collapsing time What the human mind can conceive calculate Pack thunder and lightning in capsules of hate Harness hidden quark energies for a rhyme Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate Earth's environs run in quantum leaps of late Take pulsar quasar pulse long dead in lost clime What the human mind can conceive calculate Sound the molten hard heart of globe inchoate Find untrodden paths along arcs of space-time Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate Let some men through cunning minds subjugate For country conscience caprice incite to crime What the human mind can conceive calculate Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 54 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 54 Must Nature fulfil its terminal plans The question is Are we in its primal aims Can Man be content with what he understands Does Nature kill for fun or to teach lessons Are we central to the Multi-Verse's claims Must Nature fulfil its terminal plans Does the Tao inform Siva's dream drunk dance Or is some standstill boredom reason for games Can Man be content with what he understands Is so much lightning-thunder mere flash in pans So many players in outfields lost without names Must Nature fulfil its terminal plans Must Nature destroy what IT creates in trance Life and Death the Known and Unknown whom one blames Can Man be content with what he understands Is the idea Maya a contresens Who would create to destroy what he proclaims Must Nature fulfil its terminal plans Can Man be content with what he understands © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 53 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 53 Must appearance differ from reality In as much as front and back of the same body To negate existence in non-duality Being the non-existence of duality Existence displaces both in one body Must appearance differ from reality Either and neither one incongruity Make both come alive in one busy-body To negate existence in non-duality Everything comes from nothing logicality Open your eyes you're the Purusha body Must appearance differ from reality Every time you conceive the entirety You affirm existence in your own body To negate existence in non-duality Time's the hand draws curtain of eternity Past nor future exists in any body Must appearance differ from reality To negate existence in non-duality © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 52 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 52 We still hear see Big Bang's greatest ever show Pushing the known borders into the Unknown Fist-tight Multi-Verse(s) unfurled aeons ago What we see a mere back curtain peep but know Dark matter dark energy late un-be-known We still hear see Big Bang's greatest ever show Solar system's a mere speck hardly aglow Lost in galaxies countless billions alone Fist-tight Multi-Verse(s) unfurled aeons ago Does Nature display what Big Bang before bore Brahman Night followed by born Brahman Day dawn We still hear see Big Bang's greatest ever show Can such Nature shape the human will to know All that there is has been and future unknown Fist-tight Multi-Verse(s) unfurled aeons ago Make the Dark Continent cull the World from snow Only to shun skin one another over skin tone We still hear see Big Bang's greatest ever show Fist-tight Multi-Verse(s) unfurled aeons ago © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 51 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 51 Brand not NATURE God word fallen in misuse As if it were an all-pervading spirit Principle rules laws all physical in use NATURE eludes all mental means to confuse IT stands not still for anyone to pin IT Brand not NATURE God word fallen in misuse Ignore the myths the holy words made obtuse The mystery's in the vastness made to fit Principle rules laws all physical in use IT rules supreme and has no use for our Muse Nor for the genuflections of our spirit Brand not NATURE God word fallen in misuse IT takes life at will though one suspects a ruse Is life ours to dispose as we wish it Principle rules laws all physical in use We have but this life no home in Multi-Verse We can take nothing with us when forced to quit Brand not NATURE God word fallen in misuse Principle rules laws all physical in use © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 50 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 50 Each gets to keeping own while making up whole No one need sacrifice distinct difference Yet the total's not a square peg kicked in goal The idea's the centrifugal force control Not to impose by force piercing self-defence Each gets to keeping own while making up whole No Security Council veto steam-roll Each nation's voice strong and pure over fence Yet the total's not a square peg kicked in goal No fear genes be altered by remote control Nor in vitrio robots spell impotence Each gets to keeping own while making up whole Collective will subsumes democratic role To serve the total without interference Yet the total's not a square peg kicked in goal Contradictions are not ingrained in the soul Rather in the way bodies subvert common sense Each gets to keeping own while making up whole Yet the total's not a square peg kicked in goal © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - Part III - 49 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - Part III - 49 The ONLY god there is Is there in your eyes Close your eyes at sundown Who awaits at dawn Infinite grandiose Multi-Verse never dies Physico-chemical bio-logicalize Infinitesimal these laws never born The ONLY god there is Is there in your eyes Are not players in the field fire and ice Trillion thunder blasts gouge out space new-born Infinite grandiose Multi-Verse never dies The principle's Yang/Yin or love turned to lies If each living thing does not obey command The ONLY god there is Is there in your eyes Be not so vain as to think your god's more wise Just watch the Heavens toil and churn every dawn Infinite grandiose Multi-Verse never dies Nature has no need for mythic petty lies Nothing humans cook up reflects Nature's lawn The ONLY god there is Is there in your eyes Infinite grandiose Multi-Verse never dies © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 48 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 48 Prod not the elements fierce dragons can wake Tsunamis El Ninos smog haze acid rains Anger of the Heavens lightning thunder quake Qian the Father Kun the Mother did hands shake But Eldest Son Zhen can put mankind in chains Prod not the elements fierce dragons can wake Final signs there to see which we still forsake Can World War scenarios depict real pains Anger of the Heavens lightning thunder quake Class race religion which can most money make What takes over countries do it for its gains Prod not the elements fierce dragons can wake Mythic gods we concoct for our ego's sake Have not they all harmed us more than mindless brains Anger of the Heavens lightning thunder quake Nation States make fated World we must un-make The single choice One Race One World or HELL reigns Prod not the elements fierce dragons can wake Anger of the Heavens lightning thunder quake -End of Part Two © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 47 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 47 Hail! The Historic Document! Heil! Furies! Hardly a week gone leaders put us to sleep The Debate's back to more cannons for countries Can ISIS kill more than three 4C degrees All that bluff about 1.5 makes skin creep Hail! The Historic Document! Heil! Furies! Build Great Walls to keep out killers refugees Can walls hold back tides that swell from oceans deep The Debate's back to more cannons for countries How sweet the Commander-in-Chief's qualities Poor peoples adore applaud cherish worship Hail! The Historic Document! Heil! Furies! Cannons ablaze keep up smoke from foundaries Daze the peoples under haze in tight whip grip The Debate's back to more cannons for countries Let leaders bask with two lines in histories Will you let them dump lush Earth on rubbish heap Hail! The Historic Document! Heil! Furies! The Debate's back to more cannons for countries © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 46 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 46 Will COP leaders be around in five years nine Their great careers made Their statues unveiled To what future Super Men our backs supine Apparatchiks clubby diplomatic kind Allegiance to rival parties well-coiled Will COP leaders be around in five years nine Spying on one another to undermine Using public forces to keep peoples embroiled To what future Super Men our backs supine Stock-piling nuclear arsenals to churn brine While oceans lash out the people will be boiled Will COP leaders be around in five years nine Mighty men who pat each other to outshine One another in local Catch-rings all coiled To what future Super Men our backs supine To what then duped masses owe their fated grind If not to nymphomaniac egos well-guiled Will COP leaders be around in five years nine To what future Super Men our backs supine © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 45 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 45 Sound the gongs Blow the trumpets Let pigeons soar The most well-kept secret's about to be sawn At last Great Leaders can reveal the true Law Who makes worlds go round and round like swinging door Who turns on firmament lights like on home lawn Sound the gongs Blow the trumpets Let pigeons soar Who drew Andromeda into Milky Way's maw Who raised Wall of Galaxies as tennis lawn At last Great Leaders can reveal the true Law Who made glacial periods run like mad wild boar Who swung meteorites like golf balls every dawn Sound the gongs Blow the trumpets Let pigeons soar Truth ricochets like Le Bourget planes roar The secret's hidden from us poor folks ill-born At last Great Leaders can reveal the true Law Thanks to COP21 we now know much more NATURE is the plaything of those who use brawn Sound the gongs Blow the trumpets Let pigeons soar At last Great Leaders can reveal the true LAW © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 44 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 44 Billions of years to make one of trillion planets Whose - dare you guess - already sinking in drink Men of little vision dicing for nuggets World transformed by Einsteins Nobel laureates Poised by Dark Ages men on abysmal brink Billions of years to make one of trillion planets Party-mad men serve their term without regrets Yes make improvements cut ribbons dine toast drink Men of little vision dicing for nuggets Parties win with funds from business pockets High finance pollutes parties leaders hoodwink Billions of years to make one of trillion planets Blame it on industry on progress rockets Not on men whose greed drags us down the stink sink Men of little vision dicing for nuggets Plimsoll Line at two degrees' Russian roulettes Not to abstain NOW means aims aren't worth the think Billions of years to make one of trillion planets Men of little vision dicing for nuggets © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 43 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 43 Cuck-uk ruck-cuckoo Paloma on the wing Who gets to curry pot with 100Bn The Eagle or the Cock gets to down bird with sling Are the waters receding while we loud sing Who brought us to high point at 2015 Cuck-uk ruck-cuckoo Paloma on the wing Ere the ink is hardly dry El Ninos swing How many wars will be wrought now in between The Eagle or the Cock gets to down bird with sling Will the Good Lord re-freeze melting ice crackling From mouths of Seine Thames or Hudson here eighteen Cuck-uk ruck-cuckoo Paloma on the wing Nuclear tests in Pacific still in ears ring How many more lush love green isles sunk in sin The Eagle or the Cock gets to down bird with sling Cheer one hundred ninety-seven hands signing On waters lapping on heels under heat-lid bin Cuck-uk ruck-cuckoo Paloma on the wing The Eagle or the Cock gets to down bird with sling © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 42 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 42 Wrap the self in fear for the dark cloaks the beast Shut the door on vile thoughts no fear will wild knock Does Death need an invitation for fun feast Zhen the Eldest Son will pound the skies in jest Ephemeral beings all will link arms lock Wrap the self in fear for the dark cloaks the beast Kan the Middle Son will come flooding through mist Ephemeral beings all will cower in dock Does Death need an invitation for fun feast Gen the Youngest Son will cough fire at best Ephemeral beings all will turn to rock Wrap the self in fear for the dark cloaks the beast Sun the Eldest Daughter will puff past the least Ephemeral beings all will shudder shock Does Death need an invitation for fun feast Bright Li and Joyous Tui will sing dance the beat Ephemeral beings all won't this rhyme mock Wrap the self in fear for the dark cloaks the beast Does Death need an invitation for fun feast © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 41 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 41 More the imagination more damnation Where would Earth be without Galileo's lens The Truth dares us in the face - condemnation Ancient Greeks refined the mind spirit nation And yet let their gods abuse their common sense More the imagination more damnation All roads led to Rome and the Inquisition El Hidalgo de la Mancha's comeuppance The Truth dares us in the face - condemnation Quixotic souls in windmills seek ruination Who made Socrates take hemlock in Athens More the imagination more damnation Which mundane god revealed depths of Creation Which holy tract mysteries of Existence The Truth dares us in the face - condemnation Hermeneutics - art of deviation How we love to split mythic hairs with incense More the imagination more damnation The Truth dares us in the face - condemnation © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 40 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 40 All Man and man-made things given time perish Nations religions empires loghead gods Not the Universe though in splendour relish Would that Man saw fit to live free of fetish He could free himself from the need to cross swords All Man and man-made things given time perish When Man gives birth to gods he's more than selfish Thinks he could earn the favours of grateful gods Not the Universe though in splendour relish Not one god we create respect we their wish Those who engender them wish to end up gods All Man and man-made things given time perish What the Buddha wished we may still accomplish Make not human suffering the burden of gods Not the Universe though in splendour relish Pull that arrow from bleeding breast in anguish Attend to your gaping wounds not those of gods All Man and man-made things given time perish Not the Universe though in splendour relish © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 39 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 39 Carbon molecules woken up by thunder Is violence life-wire of existence Can God come into being beyond Nature Violence in warp and woof of our nature Can one avoid being part of violence Carbon molecules woken up by thunder Who put Arjuna on guard against anger The cause of the Great War was not in suspense Can God come into being beyond Nature Arrogate violence and commit blunder Can one take life and affirm his existence Carbon molecules woken up by thunder Taoists live life in accord with Nature The seasons come and go in munificence Can God come into being beyond Nature Make not god to quibble about his Father No god re-appears like this Grand Existence Carbon molecules woken up by thunder Can GOD come into being beyond Nature © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 38 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent- 38 More the man-made gods the more the quarrel Who wants to pray in a private night-club Each faithful thinks his god's beyond riddle Where faithfuls gather their gods aren't idle Rather would they arm theirs to teeth with club More the man-made gods the more the quarrel Strange each nation sports some god from cradle Nations want exclusive membership club Each faithful thinks his god's beyond riddle All nations dream holding World by bridle So they give their gods the fossil fumes rub More the man-made gods the more the quarrel When words from gods one another needle Do they hesitate to reach for the club Each faithful thinks his god's beyond riddle Now that gods got our Earth in a throttle Will ONLY GOD intervene: that's the rub More the man-made gods the more the quarrel Each faithful thinks his god's beyond riddle © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 37 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 36 All day long we kill to keep the home clean Insecticides aerosols rat poison The killer instinct makes us bold and mean Down by the pond mosquitoes wake and preen Time to send fighter jets by the dozen All day long we kill to keep the house clean Peeled apples for veg flies succulent wean We spend week-ends choking every last one The killer instinct makes us bold and mean Kids we love but not the kind who boil spleen So we sock the wife more than hard in the bun All day long we kill to keep the home clean At Antipodes some guys flex muscles lean Call that homefront affront to smite them down The killer instinct makes us bold and mean What counts home comfort by all overseen Secure society to foist nation All day long we kill to keep the house clean The killer instinct makes us bold and mean © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 36 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 36 Blame not the man whose mind is not his own From birth to death he'll do what he's told Must he not those who're not his kind disown Does the killer kill what to him is unknown When does he decide when When he makes bold Blame not the man whose mind is not his own Do those who are killed kill in the Unknown Killer who killed Who cast him in mind mould Must he not those who're not his kind disown Who does the killer kill if not his own Who's the real killer Can it be told Blame not the man whose mind is not his own The mind that's massaged from birth makes no moan Neither those who kill by proxy for gold Must he not those who're not his kind disown When each god must swallow words not his own How might those bred into belief take hold Blame not the man whose mind is not his own Must he not those who're not his kind disown © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 35 Who'd watch tele if it showed Promised Kingdom When breaking news takes us through hard day's sour sweat Does blood-blast Yin-Yang tussle stay gut boredom Broken bones shattered glass Doom's Day sunset bomb Pan-flutes nectar river angels who don't sweat Who'd watch tele if it showed Promised Kingdom Piped South-Sea strains virgin damsels frolicsome Singing psalms all day long on banks Euphrates Does blood-blast Yin-Yang tussle stay gut boredom Who'd want crystal-clear streams under palm Nubile damsels gambolling sans due regret Who'd watch tele if it showed Promised Kingdom World pre-ordained or Yin-Yang clash at random The Magic-Lantern show spinning wild inter-net Does blood-blast Yin-Yang tussle stay gut boredom Does Supra-Intelligence conduct Kingdom While physical laws here on Earth operate Who'd watch tele if it showed Promised Kingdom Does blood-blast Yin-Yang tussle stay gut boredom © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 34 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 34 If only the tired masses had time to think If only they knew leaders were prisoners too Would not security forces with us link The rocks some throw will into proper heads sink Even leaders will no longer be taboo If only the tired masses had time to think The real Enemy makes money to clink In the ears of leaders who'll join their ranks too Would not then security forces with us link Though this less-than-one-per-cent makes the World drink Dance drunk much material progress to woo If only the tired masses had time to think Masses choose leaders who need moneyed-class wink These mafia-made leaders dupe masses even more If only security forces would with us link In the end little use if masses could think What leaders want more of is the vote or two If only the tired masses had time to think Would not security forces with us link © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 33 Yesterday colonial century ago China Brazil India fed not masses Today whose rate of growth cannot stop but grow Rich and mighty nations always wanted more Invested in ammunition to cut losses Yesterday colonial century ago Yesterday poor nations gasped for breath to sow Who doled out guns made from lethal gases Today whose rate of growth cannot stop but grow Yesterday nomads roamed deserts without dough Till from under their soles spurt oil and gases Yesterday colonial century ago Tomorrow rich nations will trillions borrow Mass unrest will choke more than greenhouse gases Today whose rate of growth cannot stop but grow Day after tomorrow will expose vain Ego Will national leaders all betray masses Yesterday colonial century ago Today whose rate of growth cannot stop but grow © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 32 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 32 Ask them who brought this World to the brink of doom Why what they say now they didn't at COP1 Ask them if they can really reverse tides that loom Ask them why on elections' eve they turn new broom Do leaders come of age at fresh twenty-one Ask them who brought this World to the brink of doom Ask them why farewell speeches seem studied gloom Who put in relief the joke on succession Ask them if they can really reverse tides that loom Ask them why campaign speeches bloom way from home What if the next leader's gun-oil Republican Ask them who brought this World to the brink of doom Then ask yourself why some need others to groom Need other leaders to prove they are Number One Ask them if they can really reverse tides that loom Ask them clean energy spells doom for whom Who stands to gain what greenhouse gases consume Ask them who brought this World to the brink of doom Ask them if they can really reverse tides that loom © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 31 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 31 Pious promises roll not smog from dulled eyes Once again Great Leaders refuse to be bound The disease that blinds men ripe greed wrapped in lies Those who keep Congress in their pockets to melt ice Till Manhattan feet dig Arctic ice underground Pious promises roll not smog from dulled eyes Greenhouse gases spout from fat COP hot-air mice Who will for polar bear cubs build igloo round The disease that blinds men ripe greed wrapped in lies The East must the West overtake in all vice But drive masses hop along with feet still bound Pious promises roll not smog from dulled eyes Look not far to see where the fault really lies Leaders must simply make nations' health look sound The disease that blinds men ripe greed wrapped in lies Once again they'll hug kiss part with tears in eyes While we'll be lulled to think World safe and sound Pious promises roll not smog from dulled eyes The disease that blinds men ripe GREED wrapped in lies © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 30 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 30 Who would soil the bed in which he dreams with pride Which guest will light the fuse to blow up shelter No violence more pitiful than suicide None other than humans bent on matricide Soil not the bed on which you found sleep better Who would soil the bed in which he dreams with pride Unless the Master of the House whips his hide Did not trillions warm the same bed: Donnerwetter! No violence more pitiful than suicide Let not the next occupant feel left outside Leave the welcome mat clean or even cleaner Who would soil the bed in which he dreams with pride No nation owns this Earth cooled out of the Void Not even Super-Man Land finger on trigger No violence more pitiful than suicide Nations in rat-race claim progress with false pride Number One status serves none in the hereafter Who would soil the bed in which he dreams with pride No violence more pitiful than suicide © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 29 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 29 At last O Children of the Mother Contrées* Roll out the red carpets for High Potentates The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées Cry not from Eiffel Tower 2C degrés Temperature rises end of century, Mates At last O Children of the Mother Contrées Streak frowning skies in red white and blue display Let pent-up champagne pop through foie-gras plates The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées Limousines line up for haute couture soirées Blue-ribonned chefs dress-up spruced-up back-door dates At last O Children of the Mother Contrées Tri-colour ice cream on rhino-horn purées See not hear not how iceberg disintegrates The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées Chefs d'Etat promise profit for protégés While oceans swamp islands rivers city-states At last O Children of the Mother Contrées The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées •The final " s" in French is silent © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 28 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent- 28 These vain Little Men who strut on the World Stage Come together again the twenty-first time Can this polluted earth be saved at this stage The World is yours mine must not be held hostage By men who pout vapid irate words as mime These vain Little Men who strut on the World Stage Far more than kami-kaze terror carnage Melting ice-cap Poles promise Fire Next Time Can this polluted earth be saved at this stage Watch how for profit wild fires worldwide rage While leaders read ghosted-scripts to waste our time These Little Men who strut on the World Stage Earth's shield pierced by lethal Sun's rays wreak damage Mutate living organisms make rot clime Can this polluted earth be saved at this stage Would such men who care only for polls image Remember mighty empires last not a rhyme These vain Little Men who strut on the World Stage Can this polluted earth be saved at this stage © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 27 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 27 Pounce not like Tiger on lone backwoods fields Never know who'd be chasing balls fall into holes Balls roll back to earth from smooth Elysian fields Stuff the coffin with hot golf balls till it yields Watch that swing cuff not some angel's soft turf curls Pounce not like Tiger on lone backwoods fields Learn to swing the club of all sizes and wields Too late when on Heaven's downy udders' twirls Balls roll back to earth from smooth Elysian fields Train that eye to watch how balls shoot through cloud shields For once on that turf sound of choir psalms rolls Pounce not like Tiger on lone backwoods fields Swing that club while you can on mad muddy fields Till muscle bone and nerve combine swing as bowls Balls roll back to earth from smooth Elysian fields What particles swing through which magnetic fields To shape humans who roll (like) golf balls into holes Pounce not like Tiger on lone backwoods fields Balls roll back to earth from smooth Elysian fields © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - Part Two Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - Part Two Fail not to get your passports all in order Make sure the belt around your breast's not too thick The security check's stringent at Death's door Do secret services stack agents au-delà Moss-Add in Sea Eye Ache Am I 5 or sick? Fail not to get your passports all in order Putt-Inn Quai Bee Jees F(W) rench in the Works galore All zero-ing in from satellites swirling blick The security check's stringent at Death's door Diplomatic passports with laissez-passer Not quite sure if Death'll fall for the bloody trick Fail not to get your passports all in order Heads of State bank presidents monarchs mullah Not quite sure if air-spaces' reserved for their ilk The security check's stringent at Death's door Rely not on agents with chicks and coffer In the hope Death'll try deadly earth chick lick Fail not to get your passports all in order The security check's stringent at Death's door © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 25 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 25 Followers are made from day one in the womb Not gods but by men in the full-length skirt Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb Do not men in frocks drive terror promise doom Those who heed not words they stuff into gods first Followers are made from day one in the womb Can honourable men raise gods from the tomb Invite them back to earth slake believers' thirst Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb Who split their gods' words plunge followers in gloom Make dissenters fight staunch believers first Followers are made from day one in the womb Sexless men tear each other under own dome Then order robot men to give up the ghost Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb Who forbids men from praying under one dome Don't middle-men stoked by sybarite Sophist Followers are made from day one in the womb Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb -End of Part One - © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 24 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 24 Shout it hoarse on mountains how gods stand for peace And in private plot the ruin spurn another's faith Do all voices hark to one and same mouth-piece Zoroastrians Zen-Buddhists Jains Taoists Do they seek to adorn other faiths in wreath Shout it hoarse on mountains how gods stand for peace Declare there's just ONE GOD when put in tight squeeze Why then cling on for life on one's own blind faith Do all voices hark to one and same mouth-piece No believer conditioned by birth will release Supremacy of his another's not to loath Shout it hoarse on mountains how gods stand for peace Look How religions flourish in locked inland seas Once kings renounce or conquerors ram down faith Do all voices hark to one and same mouth-piece And think why the ONLY GOD does not want peace The Creator sets the ground rules in good faith Shout it hoarse on mountains how gods stand for peace Do all voices hark to one and same mouth-piece © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 23 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 23 We make gods and to protect resort to arms Do gods call upon men to save their honour The more we cherish them quick the call to arms Are gods so helpless as to be without qualms Are not true gods invincible with valour We make gods and to protect resort to arms If gods are Gods Almighty full of charms Could not they simply make this Life disappear The more we cherish them quick the call to arms There's no business like the call for holy alms Care may the poor sick spastics die of hunger We make gods and to protect resort to arms No god we ever raised left us his own psalms So we split his word to kill brother doubter The more we cherish them quick the call to arms If gods could wage wars would they need human arms Could not they through skies rage and storm with thunder We make gods and to protect resort to arms The more we cherish them quick the call to arms © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 22 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 22 Does the fault lie in us or in warring gods Paragon Bard of Avon beg pardon Do stars exert a force not owned by bards Do stars grow heads of State to confuse gods The trust we hoist high on flags flapless groan Does the fault lie in us or in warring gods He who blows horn for his god usurps his Lord's The Enlightened One begged us leave Him alone Do stars exert a force not owned by bards How many who blast themselves for their gods Their holy books' basic tenets condone Does the fault lie in us or in warring gods Let not religions parade on public roads Prayer in the soul's a private union Do stars exert a force not owned by bards Teach infants at school all about the gods Till parents all know truth about religion Does the fault lie in us or in warring gods Do stars exert a force not owned by bards © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 21 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 21 Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva's* will Who's show is this: Puppeteer or puppet's Kali-Yuga* dragging hind legs to standstill Callow kids spray lead to warn not infidel For what glory of own faith's idle pets Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva's will What kills: finger on trigger or divine will ISIS hand or lead Kalashnikov jets Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill Piecemeal World War III Papal wisdom mill Did not racial hatred collide with tenets Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva's will Some people seek to dress world in their frill Are Crusaders fratricidal Semites Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill Andromeda clash through Milky Way spill Lest ISIS pound Kali-Yuga with jets Would Hindus see in Paris kill Siva's will Kali-Yuga dragging hind legs to standstill •Siva: Hindu Trinity of the Godhead Brahman composed of Brahma (Creator) , Vishnu (Preserver) And Siva (Destroyer) •Kali-Yuga: According to Hindus, the " Iron Age" (the last phase of human existence) , having commenced with the Mahabharatha (the Great War on February 18,3102 B.C.E.) will come to an end in less than 430000 years. - time enough to shoot the Milky Way to pulp. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 20 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 20 To what extent violent thoughts can be crimes Is there one person who's not guilty by thought The Real in the Apparent see you rhymes With what reason Raskolnikov murder rhymes Does Nietsche see in him the greatness of thought To what extent violent thoughts can be crimes Can the rogue State justify wanton war crimes Nor the Police non-citizen rights stamp out The Real in the Apparent see you rhymes Who tolls the church bells controls also the chimes He who can think must also control the thought To what extent violent thoughts can be crimes Wanton acts of violence breed in all climes Kubla Khan repeats the way Ghengis Khan fought The Real in the Apparent see you rhymes Does not Death commit unjust ultimate crimes Who returns from the au-dela knows true nought To what extent violent thoughts can be crimes The Real in the Apparent see you rhymes © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 19 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 19 Eat no life you cut open first to let blood flow Bird on wing fish that swim crawls slithers all on fours Dare you stare down the dilemma watch trees sole grow Must you resist to save your life from luckless blow Watch your wife and children beg for life on all fours Eat no life you cut open first to let blood flow The green dress our earth dons pump all lungs to glow The milk that babies suck flows from grass-fed udders Dare you stare down the dilemma watch trees sole grow Even trees do ooze with sap pretend not to know Oblivious the falling tree on insect throes Eat no life you cut open first to let blood flow All that stirs all that stands still must pain undergo Astral bodies all keep moving on first set course Dare you stare down the dilemma watch trees sole grow No Jain who tramples on acariens* must rue The day he was born on this earth rife with woes Eat no life you cut open first to let blood flow Dare you stare down the dilemma watch trees sole grow * French for house dust mites © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 18 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 18 World in which is ingrained innate violence Where nation-States all hell-bent on blitz wars He who abstains from doing harm commits offence Is branded traitor parasite perched on fence On conscientious objector shine no stars World in which is ingrained innate violence Even cowards by nature obtain licence To kill at will armed to the teeth in holy wars He who abstains from doing harm commits offence The non-violent sport no medals bright dense Nor do they rape their loved ones inflicting scars World in which is ingrained innate violence Boosting ego is the craft of violence Insecure feelings drive muscle-man jaws He who abstains from doing harm commits offence Do no harm and attain pure inner silence Resort to arms let rage Raskolnikov indoors World in which is ingrained innate violence He who abstains from doing harm commits offence © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 17 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 17 Real power lies not in the ranks of the parties Nor in heads of governments parties elect Puppet-strings in hands of secret societies Those whose claws pierce guts through nationalities The bankers investors owners who select Real power lies not in the ranks of parties But in hereditary lords ethnic cronies Those who speak for gods with violent effect Puppet-strings in hands of secret societies Those who allegiance owe through club affinities Across borders oceans or lands derelict Real power lies not in the ranks of parties In lodges temples private media companies Bound by rituals rites oaths sworn dead secret Puppet-strings in hands of secret societies For whom even to write quote such verities Clamour of rage pounces on the hapless poet Real power lies not in the ranks of parties Puppet-strings in the hands of secret societies © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 16 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 16 Covert modern State wiles mock Greek democracy Must People cast votes to elect block Parties Athenians all took part in vox populi Founding Fathers of Great America Party Chief Washington revolution guaranties Covert modern State wiles mock Greek democracy Corsican blood runs blue in French royalty Scottish rites oath govern secret warranties Athenians all took part in vox populi Politicos Police legal fraternity Avarice cruelty sexualities Covert modern State wiles mock Greek democracy No vote counts for individuality All is grist to Big Money incongruities Athenians all took part in vox populi Will Grand Architect of Universality Show his true face from behind inanities Covert modern State wiles mock Greek democracy Athenians all took part in vox populi © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 15 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 15 The Republic's an headless Monster to let Power mad individuals pay to rent head The State's enmeshed in the Admin's red-tape net The Administration cannot think nor beget Must obey or its heads will be under-fed The Republic's an headless Monster to let National forces keep borders tightly knit Secret Police shut People well under lead The State's enmeshed in the Admin's red-tape net The threat of force often makes the People fret The use of force comes from the political head The Republic's an headless Monster to let People in modern States have cause to regret Ritually replacing the Monster's head The State's enmeshed in the Admin's red-tape net Cut the head off the Monster replace State to let In time to come with selfless Robot at the head The Republic's an headless Monster to let The State's enmeshed in the Admin's red-tape net © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 14 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 14 Who's guilty for some good States can't help but sow All All who despise those on the other side All All who bleed their hearts' beliefs parties mow All All who toil helpless and let their blood go All All men of worth who keep going with tide Who's guilty for some good States can't help but sow Monster changes heads but can't stop body grow The Republic merely pits side against side All All who bleed their hearts' beliefs parties mow The Monster's nightmare the day when heads must go Let litter gather for the next divorced bride Who's guilty for some good States can't help but sow Who pays for the stroke that cripples the State more Than the dead People who make up either side All All who bleed their hearts' beliefs parties mow Men of not much worth who stoke the psychic maw Hold to ransom the fate of peoples worldwide Who's guilty for some good States can't help but sow All All who bleed their hearts' beliefs parties mow © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 13 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 13 The State's then some kind of delirious Monster Heartless It changes its head from time to time Ultimate machine waging wars forever Emits bizarre noises most smooth or clever Through mouth-pieces that spin words sans sense nor rhyme The State's then some kind of delirious Monster Drops never to sleep for fear of the neighbour Has its eyes and ears peeled open all the time Ultimate machine waging wars forever Devoirs people kept under threat of hunger Deprives them of human rights and over-time The State's then some kind of delirious Monster Drives the sick into secret service gutter Who then justify wars and villainous crime Ultimate machine waging wars forever Loves to strut on World Stage bonhomie player While backstage lights the fuse Guy Fawkes failed to prime The State's then some kind of delirious Monster Ultimate machine waging wars forever © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 12 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 12 Rule-bound hemmed-in nobody's free in this world Everybody must live in fear of the other The civilized way calls for control steam-rolled All through gestation trapped in lunging pubic mould Squeezed out mid cries of joyful gasping terror Rule-bound hemmed-in nobody's free in this world Do's and don't's drive us to assume face made bold Do unto us as we unto the other The civilized way calls for control steam-rolled Step in then those who cannot but take firm hold Those who must be seen as the holy do-gooder Rule-bound hemmed-in nobody's free in this world As power accumulates in hands Pharoah The few who believe in being ordained seer The civilized way calls for control steam-rolled The few delegate power but not their role Use abuse their handymen drilled to order Rule-bound hemmed-in nobody's free in this world The civilized way calls for control steam-rolled © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 11 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 11 How might one batter to death rogue Nation State Much less Institutions Parties Power Groups Motherland religion Peoples' opiate Kings tyrants prophets may under-estimate The will of the People to upset their hopes How might one batter to death rogue Nation State Around rulers sycophants proliferate Brahmins Mullahs Rabbis Mahatheros Popes Motherland religion Peoples' opiate Intrigue owe allegiance inordinate Find forgiveness for evil deeds lethal troops How might one batter to death rogue Nation State Rulers shared power with sp'ritual Prelate Don't religions all jockey like power groups Motherland religion Peoples' opiate When the individual's battered by the State Turn not to Justice rather see dashed your hopes How might one batter to death rogue Nation State Motherland religion Peoples' opiate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 10 Villanelle: : The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 10 Wild elephants rage through lush reveries teem Prides of hungry lions stalk the stray by night The herd posts no sentinel - confident team The mightiest nations victims of own dream The herd instinct subject to divisive right Wild elephants rage through lush reveries teem No rogue elephant stands to gain from team If the path it rages through grows yet upright The herd posts no sentinel - confident team Tusks trunks impenetrable mail-chain skin seem Like all the darkest ages stand stoic might Wild elephants rage through lush reveries teem Small people raise great empires sans esteem All on rapacious claws high swooping delight The herd posts no sentinel - confident team Do elephants trample the pelandok* dream To sing the praises of their founders by right Wild elephants rage through lush reveries teem The herd posts no sentinel - confident team * pelandok: Malay for " mouse deer" © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 9 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 9 Turn the other cheek kneel while kith and kin wail Would that faithful followers step in between Resort to arms in months when Yin blazes trail Whose advice the Essene monk took in travail Whose voice the Consul heard to nail the Essene Turn the other cheek kneel while kith and kin wail How easy the truth in search of the Holy Grail Whispered under the pipal tree's leafy sheen Resort to arms in months when Yin blazes trail The elephant flaps its ears trumpeting flail The charge comes to a halt before enemy mean Turn the cheek kneel while kith and kin wail The Yin yearns to hook the Yang without whom frail Engage not the enemy when out to bait lean Resort to arms in months when Yin blazes trail Risk not the lot of what virtues earn entail On the chance encounter demolishing Yin Turn the other cheek kneel while kith and kin wail Resort to arms in months when Yin blazes trail © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 8 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 8 The pain that M'm'selle inflicts on her toes Twists itches in bums and bosoms of hope Each in his own way straps on strappados Mascaraed serene face trots on stilettos Embryos oblivious violent lope The pain that M'm'selle inflicts on her toes Paths to pleasure lead through stabbing throes Sadistic brutes loved more than sweet husband dope Each in his own way straps on strappados Tigress nape stung deep in tiger-tooth jaws Thumped fury of loins turns mother salope The pain that M'm'selle inflicts on her toes The sacred act of making one life's woes Born of the terra moto gasping breath grope Each in his own way straps on strappados Still the Big-Bang whistles tinnitus mementoes Is the Universe the result of wanton rape The pain that M'm'selle inflicts on her toes Each in his own way straps on strappados © T. Wignesan - Pars,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 7 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 7 Who has not wished somebody battered to death The janitor one's lawyer an ex-bed fellow Feel in dark recesses mocking monkey breath Who has not shoved the blame for one's set-back birth Neighbour wife having a ball daily down below Who has not wished somebody battered to death Who has not tossed and turned on how to cheat Death The junkie the usurer Santa Claus on furlough Feel in the dark recesses mocking monkey breath Feel the heart tighten thoughts of those under wreath Those who toiled luckless never to see theirs grow Who has not wished somebody battered to death Find after all wierd monsters deep in one's depth Break out some smooth summer's day dark as glow Feel in dark recesses mocking monkey breath Some Gandhi hounded by lust reduced to wraith Invite violence into one's own sleepy hollow Who has not wished somebody battered to death Feel in dark recesses mocking monkey breath © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 6 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 6 Should the State legitimate entity be To make the use of force It generates valid True father protects for life his progeny Change helmsmen and change its personality The State's a will o' the wisp under tight lid Should the State legitimate entity be The State is as human as errors can be Should It excuse seek or new elections bid True father protects for life his progeny No citizen conscription thwarts and breathes free Abjure violence to be made invalid Should the State legitimate entity be Since consensus derives from majority Who made the individual a Candide True father protects for life his progeny Overlook crush even one nonentity What right have men to govern any breed Should the State legitimate entity be True father protects for life his progeny © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 5 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 5 Kings Prophets alike the Democratic State Do/can/may use force on people they enslave And individual rights incriminate Oppressed peoples' rights remain inanimate Until some Garibaldi wields the glaive Kings Prophets alike the Democratic State The art of government's how to amputate The will of the people own voice to save And individual rights incriminate The Administration's the stooge incarnate Festers in bosom the Secret Police knave Kings Prophets alike the Democratic State Who by Divine Right rule in the Police State Muzzling media voice their power to save And individual rights incriminate Till all factions through coercion emulate Tyrants who use violence and manic rave Kings Prophets alike the Democratic State Do individual rights incriminate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent -4 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 4 Test not people of a violent nature The choice is not that simple: run if you can The situation calls for plans more mature Yijing's ‘Withdraw into your own armature' May not the violent deter nor you ban Test not people of a violent nature Like as not more cunning than immature Your lofty thoughts and plans put under scan The situation calls for plans more mature Not everyone can alter Laws of Nature Yet it's everyone's duty to make a stand Test not a people of a violent nature If you let grow your own virtue in stature The seasons will follow through according to plan The situation needs no plans more mature Can evil people cloaked rude in ill-nature Succeed where violence breeds not in Man Test not people of a violent nature The situation calls for plans more mature © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: If only the World were such as to be just - 1 Villanelle: If only the World were such as to be just - 1 If only the World were such as to be just Then all girls would be born all all beautiful And men would be the lame laid sex without lust If only the girls were all all free as dust And men could pick and choose and ditch them sackful If only the World were such as to be just If only in test-tubes girls their eggs entrust Then men would much work find their clawing hands full Would then men be the lame laid sex without lust If only lifelong hour-glass shape girls love must Through whirls twists and twirls be not at all bashful If only the World were such as to be just If only the girls in their joints did not rust While men could lay themselves down just wonderful Would then men be the lame laid sex without lust Would men then cheat on spouses neglect thwart trust And at every swaying dame steal an eyeful If only the World were such as to be just Would men then be the lame laid sex without lust © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 3 Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent - 3 Politics' the art of decrying nations The national art's how to prostitute Mother Arming nations need no justifications The People's Ego broadens shores of nations Which provokes invasions by the Other Politics' the art of decrying nations Tongking's engulfed behind United Nations You know whom strangled by the likes of Hitler Arming nations need no justifications Victim stones make no dent on pretensions Vietnamese mothers bear with stoic laughter Politics' the art of decrying nations Resist and invite self-mortifications Retaliate and be dubbed mortal sinner Arming nations need no justifications Hug the Nation during incinerations Pride will stand us good stead in Life hereafter Politics' the art of decrying nations Arming nations need no justifications © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The dilemma of the non-violent - 2 Villanelle: The dilemma of the non-violent - 2 Villanelle: The dilemma of the non-violent - 2 The formal war according to ancient rules The pitted hosts convened on common ground Till the last man drops or takes to his heels Pandavas* Kauravas* on Kurukshetra fields Victim serfs spiral eddy underground The formal war according to ancient rules Ceasar's murder avenged on Philippi hills Who but Anthony would wear Brutus' crown Till the last man drops or takes to his heels Would Krishna's advice suit glorious fools Where would todays's Police victims lone stand The formal war according to ancient rules Raison d'Etat sprouts spikes on Police bulls Would Matador face dead toro rule-bound Till the last man drops or takes to his heels When cowards anonymous cloak their jowls Under Ku Klux Klan racist Police command The formal war according to ancient rules Till the last man drops or takes to his heels °Pandavas and Kauravas: opposing forces in the Hindu epic Mahabharatha (Great War) , related by blood and fighting for the anomaly of succession to the same throne. The Bhagavad Gita (Song of God) is part of this epic poem, the longest to date. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: The dilemma of the non-violent - Part One Villanelle: The dilemma of the non-violent - Part One The dilemma of the non-violent How best to withstand the misuse of force The nonchalant imbued with mal-intent Be it your neighbour or your own parent The country cult sect religion or race The dilemma of the non-violent The more you bear in silence your tyrant The more he'll rally his rights to enforce The nonchalant imbued with mal-intent And if you so much as by instinct relent Fail own family to protect perforce The dilemma of the non-violent Krishna to Arjuna: non-attachment* Panacea for all abuse of force The nonchalant imbued with mal-intent Either way done for in this firmament Victim or oppressor without remorse The dilemma of the non-violent The nonchalant imbued with mal-intent •The philosophy of the Bhagavad Gita (Song of God) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick crochetes: Once Warrior Fifteen from down under Limerick crochetés: Once Warrior Fifteen from down under Once Warrior Fifteen from down under Trained so hard Hakka to outclap thunder Scared s..t off rivals To reach the Finals At Twitch-in-Ham where Prince roared like Pauper Anthems sweet lulled the cheery spectator World hushed to watch Black Hakka Warrior Earth shook hearts thumped shrieked gulls Petrified spell-bound rivals Warrior lungs burst Cup won by neither Big-money football magnates cheered together At last World will look up to footballer American rivals Or Pelé-fan Bra-zil's Hakka now sole weapon of US soldier © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe Dedicated to the great French actor, Off Course! French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe Must you invite high breeds to the Hebrides To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you! Starved Loch Ness Monster kept well out of view For this Gourmet eats even monster breeds French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe Medieval monarchs gulped innerns - rest threw To the serfs lords ladies dogs and hybrids To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you! French Gourmand let Scots talk their tartans through Venison loins he carved out for his needs French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe Goths Visigoths Vikings Normans or Dieu* Falstaff nose and paunch hide much actor's deeds To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you! Eiffel Tower Louvre Versailles nothing new Mountain Man kept apart Scylla Charibdis French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you! •Dieu: God, but French pronunciation, please! He might take exception. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick crochetes: Our great uhr-Father from Africa Limerick cochetés: Our great uhr-Father from Africa Our great uhr-Father from Africa Hallowed be Thy fame in high Valhalla The Asian walk-about Down backbone coccyx snout Who didst Thou mate in Peninsula Malaya To produce orangutan Malaysia Did our great uhr-cousin Gorilla Chimpanzee when in doubt Precede Thy walk-about Swinging from tree to tree to Australia To judge by great life in Southeast Asia Smoke-filled lungs from HAZE in Sumatra Death penalty for tout With drugs- Hell for khalwat* Is there doubt who preceded whom from Africa •khalwat: (a Muslim - all Malays - religious law) According to which, no Malay may marry a non-Muslim nor be found in close proximity giving rise to suspicion of promiscuousness, law enforceable by religious courts whose officials are empowered to spy on offenders and report their activities to the relevant authorities © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 A ZEN Sonnet: Everything comes from Nothing which is Something A ZEN Sonnet: Everything comes from Nothing which is Something Everything comes from Nothing which is Something Something comes from Nothing which is Everything Everything comes from Nothing which is No-Thing No-Thing comes from Some-Thing which is Any-Thing Everything's both Something just as well Nothing Nothing can never be No-Thing and Nothing Take No-Thing from Some-Thing and you get Nothing Take Nothing from Something and get Everything In the end does it matter if there's Nothing Only to your aunt who hasn't seen Any-Thing And what if you said you must have Everything You can't have it all even if there's No-Thing Do we go through lives already have-been lived How else can some tell in detail Life un-lived © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Sonnet: Nothing feeds on itself like violence Sonnet: Nothing feeds on itself like violence Nothing feeds on itself like violence The more it self-destructs the more its might Goya geek - padi eaten by its own fence* The dog that swallows its own tail in fright Yet nothing changes fast as when throttled Takes the weight of one's whole life to wake up Many the night Dopplegänger dreams rattled Will the hand that wields the chopper back up To see the other severed from body Since violence begins in thoughts at will Who can hold it back once in thoughts born free The root cause of violence springs despite will Envy and hatred begin in the eyes And stick in the head right until one dies •Pagar makan padi: Malay for: The fence eats the padi/rice; meaning, treachery (where trust is betrayed) . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick crochetes: Once Angela signed pact with Doctor Jeckel Limerick crochetés: Once Angela signed pact with Doctor Jeckel Once Angela signed pact with Doctor Jeckel Needed urgent help her kitchen all pell-mell In far-off torn country People turned refugee By turnip-head Mephistopheles in Hell Angela's wise friend Faust told her to toll bell To tell the world how much her heart bled with knell She'll take in all who flee Bitten by bee or flea Life-jackets galore Mephisto jumped to sell In Mid-Land-Sea punctured floats jackets did spell Drowned refugee yells worse than arrows Will' Tell Angie slurped sea-green tea With Jeckel invitee While survivors charged through blockades raising Hell If Angela dug an underground Chunnel From her kitchen to Mephisto-lands un-well Käse-Kuchen* Mummy Made by hands refugee To boost her economy - Angela! Hail! *Käse-Kuchen: German for cheese cake © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 The ZEN KOAN as Poem - Same Question - Part One The ZEN KOAN as poem - Same Question - Part One The Master said: " How do you stop Time from running? " Said Monk-Disciple 1: " By running backwards against Time.' Said Monk-Disciple 2: " By running backwards facing Time." Said Monk-Disciple 3: " By running backwards and looking over the shoulder at Time." Said Monk-Disciple 4: " By running backwards alongside Time." Said Monk-Disciple 5: " By running backwards hugging Time." Said Monk-Disciple 6: " By running backwards over Time." Said Monk-Disciple 7: " By running backwards behind Time." Said Monk-Disciple 8: " By running backwards faster than Time." Said Monk-Disciple 9: " By running backwards outside Time." Said Monk-Disciple 10: " By running backwards in time with Time. Or in Time with time." And the Master said: " What is Time's ………...? " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune Villanelle: Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune Does he who strums vocal chords show them the ropes Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune The sergeant-major pulls rank when opportune Though captains and majors aren't exactly dopes Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune To the Western ear the Eastern's mono-tune Do harps and harpsichords belong in same groups Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune Do the Police join the band to play to tribune Or just one or two here and there simply mopes Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune Blame must fall if blame at all on top dog goon The mess people in power make envelopes Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune The blame for this world the way it has been sewn Goes for whatever makes possible human dopes Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick crochetes: Once a shy lost lass so-called Orga-San Limericak crochetés: Once a shy lost lass so-called Orga-San Once a shy lost lass so-called Orga-San Had much difficulty getting what you can Heard of fly-catcher Good at swatting lair Gave him a lift bare-back over Japan Trouble he wouldn't get off Mama-San She went without doing what on bed-pan Right over Fuji Yama Leap-frogged like No-diva Earth sudden shook Tsunami filled her pan. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Villanelle: Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Love us as much as we whose steps in vain grace Why make us defile the holy womb of birth Who wouldn't find us such a mawkish source of mirth Our entry into world blessed with slime on face Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Should not some other means have been found for birth Than the bang-bang thrust in lice filthy disgrace Why make us defile the holy womb of birth That pleasure be sought in and around the girth And to make things worse drag down the beauteous face Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Unless the lesson's to rise above and loath The fiend in thirsty loins contumacious Why make us defile the holy womb of birth Could our true fate be to disown very earth Not knowing why we came in the first place Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth Why make us defile the holy womb of birth © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit's the Country Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit's the Country What do you do if the Culprit's the Country Will the Head of State turn against the Police Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal* tree Which country faults on its own territory When It cracks down citizens or migrant mice What do you do if the Culprit's the Country Take the oath if it bolsters the Enemy No pious paean will wash sins away, please Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree Your life's not yours to take if not for Patrie* Ribbons and medals on chest consecrate vice* What do you do if the Culprit's the Country O! for the belles bells tolling the reverie Look! My Country's crown towers above cloud's fleece Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree No country's worth the life of one family If the force that protects corrupts the Police What do you do if the Culprit's the Country Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree •pipal: since the pipal tree has no prop roots, at least, in death you can serve to prop it up •Patrie: French for Mother Country •vice: French pronunciation, please! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Is there ever a moment when reason reigns Villanelle: Is there ever a moment when reason reigns Is there ever a moment when reason reigns " Never! Ever! " - cry the forsaken by Life " Friends depart, Enemies approach, " Yi Jing ordains Hold not to friends and think you can sever chains Even to raise children you must beg the wife Is there ever a moment when reason reigns Friends are also humans the other self disdains Like as not the same humans bind you in strife " Friends depart, Enemies approach, " Yi Jing ordains Stand alone and your World will collapse in ruins But what a lovely fight you got out of Life! Is there ever a moment when reason reigns You can spurn the mean the blackguard: " Filthy swine's! " Turn back on hypocrites retreat into self " Friends deoart, Enemies approach, " Yi Jing ordains The same humans who to you cause all the pains To some others serve as saviours in strife Is there ever a moment when reason reigns: " Friends depart, Enemies approach, " Yi Jing ordains! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick Crochetes: Once Fukushima Lady Uranium Limerick crochetés: Once Fukushima Lady Uranium Once Fukushima Lady Uranium Madly in love with Hanford Plutonium Sent him hot-kissed missile Twice Hiroshima smile: " R.S.V.P. Pluto to Uranus in mime! " Missile misfired detoured Koreanium O'er Kamchatka harassed by Putt-Inn-ium Security Council Issued stark Codicil " Pacific love letters: ‘Putt-Inn-Bin, Hmh! ' " Then lovesick Mamasan Uranium Stole Crime-ian Green Card made in Elysium KGB stamp fossil Put Putt-Inn behind grill So cut through Alaska helped by Pale-Inn-Yum! At last Mamasan came close to Plutonium At Hanford received no hugs in delirium Sat by waste river spill Her heart sank without thrill Till Pluto-Uranus sang the Union Hymn! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Whose condition is the worst everyone asks Villanelle: Whose condition is the worst everyone asks Whose condition is the worst everyone asks " Mine! " " Mine! " " Mine! " - everyone's desperate cry Why the powers that decide wear such sharp tusks Look at the basking billions enjoyng tasks Then watch the hare-lipped cock-eyed shrivelled wretch sigh Whose condition is the worst everyone asks Gypsy dejection makes outcaste maniacs Black film difference opportunities buy Why the powers that decide wear such sharp tusks Must everyone's fate be owed to dead crime larks Birth time and place do not the living defy Whose condition is the worst everyone asks Who asked to be born let him rip open masks Post-Big Bang soup stray elements unify Why the powers that decide wear such sharp tusks High and low meek and strong beg for the same marks Nothing's neither here nor there after we die Whose condition is the worst everyone asks Why the powers that decide wear such sharp tusks © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 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 Little the doubt in the worth of our world Little the doubt in the worth of our world Little the doubt in the worth of our world Lost in the coils of drifting galactic swirls Little the men of high disposition bold Lost in the ooze of sticky carnal love twirls Bold enough to look the sun burn in the eyes Farther yet stare quasars rip space out of sky Bold enough to scale Wall of Galaxies' ties Farther yet than light may travel and not die Make meaning out of phonemes in wild man screams Drown dreams of sense in the making of the arts Make meaning of signs and signals in our dreams Drown dreams in particle theory and such parts So much brain founders in such make-believe life Each people caste class and nation clasping knife. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 To what profound penance owe you this boon, O YashOthA To what profound penance owe you this boon, O! Yashotha! Translation of Oothukkadu Venkata Subbha Iyer's enna thavam seithanai - yashOthA by T. Wignesan To what profound penance owe you this boon, O! YashOthA! ® That He - the ParaBrahmman - who bestrides the Universe Should call you " Mother! " To what profound penance owe you this boon, O! YashOthA! He who created the two times seven worlds Whom you may lift up breast-feed and cradle in your arms Such as to drive even Brahmman and Indhiran to stark envy (Yes) He whom you tied to the large stone mortar Muffled and reduced to utter beggary, O! Mother! To what profound penance owe you this boon, O! YashOthA! What Sanakkadi Saints attained through self-mortifying Endurance You obtained that purity with ease just by being made His Mother! To what profound penance owe you this boon, O! YashOthA! Transliteration enna thavam seithanai - YashOthA (Refrain) enkum nirai parabrahmman amma enralaikka enna thavam seithanai - YashOthA IrElu pUvanangkal padaitthavanai Kaiyil Enthi cIr Addi pAlUddi talAdda brahmmanum inthirannum manathil porAmai kola uralil kaddi vAy potthik kenja vaitthAy tAyE enna thaval seithanai - yashOthA sanakkAthiyarthavayOkam seithu varunthi sAthitthadai punitha mAthE eluthil pera enna thavam seithanai - yashOthA Resources We are back again to celebrate Krishna in the words of the poet, and thus to evoke the penchant for « playfulness » in the Hindu mind which cannot be dissociated from the profoundly respectful pre-occupation with anything religious whenever Krishna, the avatar/ embodiment of Vishnu, the Preserver in the Hindu Trinity, is the subject of one's thoughts. The Hindu Pantheon is filled with some 33 million « gods », by some counts, but Krishna outshines them all. In the Hindu religious tradition, the real and the mythological confound themselves, or rather the poet enhances the real through his imagination, with the result we are made to believe that the Supreme Being has a worldly life in which his worshippers may interact with Him. This poem is yet another example. YashOthA of the herdsman caste is entrusted with the infant Krishna, and as His fostermother, she is the object of envy even by gods. The poem has been set to music in the Carnatic mode (with ragas and thalas) and sung by several able exponents of the art. Check out versions by Sudha Ragunathan or by Karthik and a good many others on the Internet (Abirami) . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015. Limerick crochetes: Once Japanese Robot lied about its age Limerick: Once Japanese Robot lied about its age Once Japanese Robot lied about its age To an American Robot under age At marriage registry Paid haemophrodite fee That night in shed they locked jaws in mad glad rage. One said: " If only I knew your true old age I would not have stooped so low to engage You in pédophilie Despite the reduced fee! " Said the other: " Shut your trap. Open your cage! " All night they toiled without oil or French vintage Pungent fumes coursed through finely wired visage Love counter showed much glee -Unusual degree- Neither side of Pacific need take umbrage. Hiroshima Nagasaki sheer mirage Robot lingo spout like Zen-type soul adage Nuts bolts screws a-plenty War rights out of country Robots join dumb Robots in Atomic Age! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Villanelle: Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Who for pittance sake serve up cheap labour Which Master cleans not house with migrant hands Who must be seen giving with open hands Let them oust enemies without bother Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Did not caravans snake through Wild West lands Nor mountain lions snarl at brave Quaker Which Master cleans not house with migrant hands Who seeks to cow the Tyrant with commands While stoking ego with canon fodder Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Then sack put to wrack big beauteous lands Make no amends tear down stars stripes' grandeur Which Master cleans not house with migrant hands Would that migrants learn not to bite soft hands That feed them at their door barbed by rigour Should not Masters be They who cut through lands Which Master cleans not house with migrant hands © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick: An invasion by the Maimed, Tamed and the Lame Limerick: An Invasion by the Maimed, Tamed and the Lame An invasion by the Maimed, Tamed and the Lame Is still an invasion by any other name " She stoops to conquer! " Hearths freeze in fire Better life for theirs is the name of the game. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick: Once a born blind man was promised full sight Limerick: Once a born blind man was promised full sight Once a born blind man was promised full sight By an ophthalmologist fully tight Two slits and dabs all told Saw in wonderful world - Beauty Contest: gouged his own eyes outright. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Do States the raison d'Etat circumvent Villanelle: Do States the raison d'Etat circumvent Do States the raison d'Etat* circumvent The collective will Has it a single soul Should not the force publique* State crimes prevent Who but a few stand for the State's content The armed forces stifle in strait camisole* Do States the raison d'Etat circumvent Yet the elected crew behave innocent The people's will blocked by the party's role Should not the force publique State crimes prevent The democratic way Does it not relent Let parties alternate with no eye on goal Do States the raison d'Etat circumvent Entrenched forces damn all as of no moment In the name of the People abuse their role Should not the force publique State crimes prevent Lives lie blunt forlorn twisted stymied rent By mud-caked oath-swearing secret ritual Do States the raison d'Etat circumvent Should not the force publique State crimes prevent •raison d'Etat: reason of State •force publique: the Police •camisole de force: strait jacket © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle Ask not What the Devil's the Devil Villanelle: Ask not What the Devil's the Devil! Ask not What the Devil's the Devil Back to back with the Holy Being When Good snakes what leads not to Evil God! Why can't the doG be forged on anvil Black sparks from Whitesmiths black doG yelling Ask not What the Devil's the Devil Einsteins Heisenbergs delved atom's navel Yet true Truman dropped bombs without trying* When Good snakes what leads not to Evil Ask not why go(o) d GOD won't quell Evil Nor why BAD dab at GO(o) D reigning Ask not What the Devil's the Devil Good needs Evil much as God the Devil Watch male-fe-male in abject writhing When Good snakes what leads not to Evil Only Time makes not the picture stand still The end of Day lets drop the ceiling Ask not What the Devil's the Devil When Good snakes what leads not to Evil * He could have dropped them on some deserted Pacific atoll first to warn the Enemy. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Bharathidasan's Pulikku nAy enta mUlai, Translated by T Wignesan Bharathidasan's " Pulikku nay enta muulai" (To the Tiger, the Dog knows no safe dwelling!) translated by T. Wignesan Bharathidasan (1891-1964) was a self-proclaimed disciple of the eminent Brahmin poet: Cuppiramania Bharathiyar (cf. two poems of his already posted) . Born in Pondicherry - a French enclave in Tamil Nadu - he solded a lasting friendship with Bharathiyar during the 1910s when the latter sought refuge there from the British Adminstration as a political agitator. For more details, check my article at http: //www.stateless.freehosting.net/BHARATHIDASAN.htm For Tamils, Tamil is their mother-tongue, we said For Tamils, Tamilakam is their motherland, we said In Tamil Nadu what might the stranger yet seek to wreak? From the pouncing tiger where might the dog refuge seek? Drowsily withering subjection Tamils have known - enmity Won't it be reduced to nought the day they wake up? The ill-intentions of those in the North, their bones Might crushed be given the might of the Tamil people. Let each in his own land freely make his home - let The coveting of another's land be crushed with force! Let a carefree existence the whole world envelope! Raised hands should good works accomplish before rest! There was a time the world cowed to the Tamil people - then Did the Tamils think of setting up their own colonial rule? Arrogate the right to property over other peoples's goods Were there those amongst us who wrought thus back then Transliteration Pulikku nAy enta mUlai! tamilarkkut tamilE tAymoli enrOm tamilakam tamilarkkut tayakam enrOm tamil nAttil ayalark kini enna vElai? tAvum pulikkoru nAy enta mUlai? tUnkiya tuntu tamilarkal munpu - pakai tulakum anrO elunta pinpu? tinku purikinra vatakkarin enpu sitaintitac ceytitum tamilarin vanpu avanavan nAttil avanavan vAlka - mar rayal nAttaic curantutal atiyOtu vilka! tuvalata vAlkkai ulakellam sulka! tUkkiya kaikal aramnokkit tAlka! tamilanuk kulakam nAtunkiyatuntu - ankut tannatci niruvita enniyatunta? tamatE enru pirar porul kontu tamvala enniyOr enkular pantu! Some reflections (abridged here) on the above poem with respect to the Tamil classical literary corpus: Classical Tamil literature of the Cankam period, around the 2nd to the 5th century A.D., and the post-Cankam epic and religious compositions up to about the 10th century or so is handed down to us in strict prosodical structures and clothed in literary conventions whose canon was already laid down in the ancient treatise on linguistics, prosody, and poetics: Tolkappiyam, according to conservative estimations, as early as the 3rd century B.C. The reason for this is evident. Until the printing press was implanted at Tranquebar, a little to the south of Pondicherry, when Father Beschi, an Italian Catholic missionary who wrote and translated from the Tamil into Latin, in the early 17th century, all of Tamil literature was written down and preserved in perishable palm-leaf manuscripts whose longevity was limited to between two to three hundred years, depending on the quality of their conservation. As such, almost all of prenineteenth century Tamil writing was committed to memory, and learning by rote constituted the essential mental exercise for the very young in age. The colonial European " enemy" of the past set aside, he then takes on, in the following quatrain, the indigenous northern Indian Aryan as the " enemy" who may be construed as forming part of the Brahmin minority - though infinitely powerful caste - in Tamil Nadu. The final quatrain then holds up the Tamil glorious mediaeval past as an example of conquerors who were unwilling to play the colonial master. Paratitasan, of course, is here refering to the great Tamil Cola kings: Rajaraja I (985-v.1014) and his son, Rajendra I (1012 - 1044) , and Rajendra Kulottunga Cola I (v.1070-1120) , whose army and naval forces conquered Sri Lanka, Southeast Asia, and the lands leading up to the Ganges River at Benares from the Southern Peninsula and the Deccan, after having defeated the Calukyas of the northwestern Deccan with their army of nine-hundred thousand soldiers and followers.[Sastri: 1984,140- 341] …………………. Let us next look at the prosodic organization of the poem. At first glance, the rhyme scheme: end-rhymes or iyaipu, is as follows: aa bb cddd efff ghii. If we put aside the taniccol or separate word common in Tamil prosody in c, e, and g, there is only h which detracts from the almost perfect scheme of rhymes. But then, in actual fact, barring the taniccol, all the end rhymes are perfect: aa bb cccc dddd eeee (cf. the transliteration) . The only ending, in the fourteenth line, which appears to deviate from the norm is actually made up of tuntu and a, the latter being an interrogative particle. Further, excluding the first couplet which is a mere statement of fact preceding the body of the poem, somewhat like an epigrammatic quotation, the three quatrains with the second couplet placed at the end could make for a Shakespearean sonnet. Tamil poetry still places much store by alliteration or monai, a poetical device which enjoyed much appreciation in all forms of mediaeval poetry. The first three words of the first two lines, the first two of the fifth, the first and third of the ninth - are all appropriate examples. Another basic requirement of Tamil prosody is the initial rhyme or etukai which falls on the second syllable of the first word, repeated in successive words or lines. The first couplet is a perfect example of initial rhymes. Others may be found in the last two lines, and so forth. The above excerpts are taken from a chapter in my book on Tamils and their literary achievements. T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008,750p.. Limerick: The chief cause of all personal problems Limerick: The chief cause of all personal problems The chief cause of all personal problems Some* women need daily orgasms Build them hot dream box Which jerks farts and rocks Made to fit all sizes ‘n' perversions. •I hesitate/vacillate between " some" and " most" . Would some kind soul enlighten me! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick: A hundred years ago, nay, fifty Limerick: A hundred years ago, nay, fifty A hundred years ago, nay, fifty Who dared prod the female anatomy Now men ride rough shod On toll-free wide road Ere steam-roller dries tar in a jiffy! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Translation of Cuppiramania Bharathiyar's poem: Kannamma, My Love by T Wignesan Translation of Cuppiramania Bharathiyar's poem: Kannamma, My Love! (Kannamma En Kaathali) by T. Wignesan Yet another poem by the most famous modern Tamil poet, written a century ago - despite the commonplace imagery - follows in the original very complex classical Tamil prosodic rules in the execution of initial and end-rhymes, alliteration in each line and in the immediate and successive lines as a whole, the inner rhymes of assonance and consonance notwithstanding. The non-Tamil can best savour these poetic and/or musical qualities by listening to the version of the poem set to music, and here sung by Mahathi: YouTubeFR: Aasai Mugam Jukebox - Songs of Bharathiyar - Tamil Patriotic Songs (It's the 4th song down on the left column) Does not the endearing warmth of our mutual gaze - Kannamma Reflect the light of the sun and moon alike? Does not the precious circular eye - Kannamma Dispel the darkness of the skies? Dressed in deep blue-black silk - the sari Inlaid with choice diamonds While in the core of pitch darkness - glitter The scintillating stars - Dear-Girlie! Does not the blossoming grove fade - lit by your Illuminating smile? Even as blue-tinted sea waves -your Breast heaves in unison - Girlie-Dear! Just as the enticing cuckoo call - your Sweet dulcet tones invade, My Dear! O! You unspoilt young maiden! - Kannamma! The bridal feast* has yoked my heart, alas! You speak of comparing birth-charts* - Kannamma What avails such astrological omens? For those who can hardly repress yearning - Kannamma Might the stars forebode greater bliss? If our elders will bestow approval - nuptial Arrangements we will later formalize Will I be waiting for you, My Dear - to seal Our vows - plant I this kiss on your cheek! Notes •According to Hindu custom, the brides's family has to offer a sumptuous dinner to the formally-invited bride-groom. •Hindu marriages are often contracted after verification of birth-charts, drawn up by astrologers, to ascertain the compatibility of the bride to the bride-groom. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Limerick She blew topless on Sea Anne Anne Limerick: She blew topless on Sea Anne-Anne She blew topless on Sea Anne-Anne When her anchor sank in hurry-can(e) Then quaked Nepal earth No way to hide girth Since wears smile and lets down her man(e) . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Teach not a dog how not to bark Villanelle: Teach not a dog how not to bark (This dog the mawkish villanelle baulks) Teach not a dog how not to bark Dogs bark for a lark in the dark When Masters mawkish dreams embark Do dogs bark to ape human talk Or wake Masters to take side-walk Teach not a dog how not to bark Each dog howls up some Jack's Bean Stalk For the wolf in the dog must stalk When Masters mawkish dreams embark Do dogs bark to make the dingo baulk At some sick Master's leash-end talk Teach not a dog how not to bark Each dog lifts its leg at some bark Don't preachers too leak after dark When Masters mawkish dreams embark Every dog knows it must bark Every dog knows its own bark Teach not a dog how not to bark When Masters mawkish dreams embark © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Translation of Oothukkadu Venkata Subba Iyer's poem Thaye Yashoda by T Wignesan Translation of Oothukkadu Venkata Subba Iyer (circa 1700-1765) 's « THAYE YASHODA » by T. Wignesan This devotional song and poem in Tamil (the principal Dravidian language which has spawned over twenty languages in the southern Indian sub-continent) is -unlike Western poetical traditions - strictly composed to accord with set musical rules and conventions, melodies and rhythms/beats (ragas and taalams) , much as Tamil poems are required to adhere to complex and elaborate classical Tamil prosody and conventions (ethugai and monai, initial rhymes and alliteration) . This poem is a plaint by Gopi cowherdesses who are « molested » by the mischievous Krishna. The Tamil language which has a continuous and prolific literary corpus on record dating from centuries before our common era is - on a par with Sanskrit - an officially-recognised classical language of India. The transliteration cannot however convey to the non-Tamil ear the euphonic qualities of the poem, so I give here a link to a rendition of the song/poem by Sudha Ragunathan for those who may be interested - the Carnatic ensemble here being made up of the mridangam (drum) , the tambura (stringed-instrument which keeps time in the background) , the flutes (both in bamboo and brass) . http: //www.tamiltunes.com/alaipayuthae-kanna-sudha-ragunathan.html There are, of course, many notable versions of this song, such as, by Karthik or by K. S. Chitra, among others, but, I'm sure, none will grudge Sudha Ragunathan her very inspiring execution, sustained by the faithful mridangist. From a Hindu-and-Tamil point of view, the Brahmin poet here (born at Needamangalam, near Mathurai, the ancient cultural centre of Tamil culture) cannot easily be excelled by any of his compatriots, even after three centuries. Pallavi (refrain) : O! Mother Yashoda*! - in whose cowherd caste Mayan* GopalaKrishnan* incarnates Listen to this plaint of pranks he plays (repeat) Anupallavi (refrain) : Oye! the novelty! O! Mother! What ethereal goings-on! Listen! No child - ammamma*! like yours in this wide world Have I ever laid eyes on! (repeat) Caranam (stanza) One: Anklets jingling - bangles clinking - pearl necklaces rustling He descended on the street entrance Heavenly bodies rejoicing - Earthly beings eulogising Feet and hands rhythmically moving to the beat He, the blue-hued Kannan*, He came dancing* entranced « Balan* » I called leaping to welcome Him - O! Yashoda! (And) taking me for the host who garlanded Him Planted He a kiss on my lips Is not He? Krishnan*? who plays these many pranks Your son? Even in the presence of four eavesdroppers O! what shyness overwhelms me! while this plaint I lisp Caranam (stanza) Seven: As dusk fell the day before yesterday feigning familiarity He came close and performed many magical feats Even if the butter were a mere glob in size, says He would leave If I could let him have it (then) He touched my frontal knot (Or sari's end-knot) and undid it - defiant in spirits Yes, that indeed was the Vasudevan*! O! Yashoda! Yet mistaking Him for a human child I cradled Him in my lap, there to nurse (And) while watching bewitched His glorious face He revealed to me in his mouth all the vastness* of the Universe! (refrain) Notes * « Yashoda »: the baby Krishna's foster-mother, belonging to the cowherders' caste. * « Mayan »: another word for God * »GopalaKrishnan »: Krishna's full-name, the most adored deity in the Hindu pantheon.. * « Krishna »: supposed to be the eighth Avatar of Vishnu, the preserver of the Universe in the Hindu Trinity of the Godhead Brahma. * »ammamma »: « amma » is the formal address by children to their mother, but, here, the repetition can invoke both astonishment and disbelief. * « Kannan »: the familiar pet-name for Krishna. * « Balan »: yet another pet-name for Krishna. * « narttya »: the art of classical dance, referring most probably to the southern Indian style, known as Bharatha Natyam, in which Krishna is featured dancing with his wives Radha and Rukmini, according to legend, of course.. * « Vasudevan »: another name for Krishna. * 'vastness': by this one word I have tried to convey what in Tamil is an elaborate image of 'God (Indra) having created the two-times-seven worlds' Beloved Face, Translation of Bharathiyar's poem Asai Mugam by T Wignesan Translation of Mahakavi Bharathiyar's poem: " Asai Mugam" or " Beloved Face" By T. Wignesan Out of mind that beloved face has gone - this Tragedy who can I confess it to - My Dear The chest never voids feelings of love - yet Can the memory of His face be lost forever? Even as it appears in the mind's eye - there Kannan's* true image does not appear complete: Even if His beauteous face manifests itself - that Choice blossoming smile conceals itself replete. He who toils not knowing any respite - He Whose Self works selflessly in aim altruist: Even as you espy His mouth enunciate - that Illustrious burgeoning form's between and betwixt. The pity eyes may not comprehend - in life Kannan's real form cannot be erased: As if in the bosom of mature women - alas Might one naïve*for once be recognised. The bee that's made to forget honey - glowing Fullsome in blossom yet oblivious the flower: The paddy that forgets the nourishing sky - such In this entire world can never be true, My Dear. If one cannot at will recall Kannan's face - these Two eyes would they be of any use staying open? Since paintings of Him cannot be seen - verily How might this life serve any purpose, Companion? *Kannan: the endearing Tamil sobriquet for Krishna, supposedly the Eighth Avatar of Vishnu, one of the trinity of gods of the God- Head Brahman. *PEthai: also means a simple-minded woman; a girl from five to seven years old; or a haemophrodite. (from the sequence: " Kannan - My Lover (2) " in Bharathiyar Kavithaigal. Chennai: Kavitha Publications,2006, pp.273-274.) TRANSLITERATION Asai mukam maranthu pOccE rAgam: PILAHARI Asai mukam maranthu pOccE - ithai yAriDam solvEnaDi thOzhi? (Refrain) nEsam marakkavillai nenjam - enil ninaivu mukam-marakkalAmO? (Ref: Asai) kaNNil theriyuthoru thOTram - athil kaNNanazhagu muzhuthillai? naNNu muka vaDivu kANil - antha nalla malar chirippai kANOm? (Ref: Asai) Oivu mozhithalum illAmal - avan uruvai ninaittirukkum uLLam? vAyu-muraippathuNDu kaNDAi - anda mAyan pugazhinaiyai pOthum? (Ref: Asai) kaNkaL purinthu viTTa pAvam - uyir kaNNan uru marakkalAccu? peNgaLinattilithu pOlE - oru pEthaiyai munbu kaNDathuNDO? (Ref: Asai) thEnai maranthirukkum vaNDum - oLi chirappai maranthu viTTa pUvum? vAnai maranthu irukkum payirum - intha vaiyya muzhuthum illai - thOzhi? (Ref: Asai) kaNNan mukam maranthu pOnAl - intha kaNgaL irinthu payan uNDO? vaNNa paDammum illai kaNDAi - ini vAzhum vazhi yennaDi thOzhi? (Ref: Asai) Paratiar Chuppiramaniam (Bharathiyar Subrahmaniayam) - 1882-1921 (Abridged version) Chuppiramaniyam who distinguished himself with his compositions at the early age of eleven was conferred the title of « Bharathiyar » by the King of Ettayapuram though he later moved away from his court to become a teacher in Madurai and a journalist in Madras (Chennai) . Having lost his mother at five and his father at sixteen, he was married at fourteen to Sellamma, and yet he found time to work for the Indian Independence Movement: he was present at the Congress in Calcutta where he met the old guard under Swami Vivekananda, and later at Rajagopalachariyar's place in Chennai, he met Mahatma Gandhi. He had had to escape British colonial disapproval for his activities by finding refuge in Pondicherry under French connivance from 1911 to 1918. He wasn't quite happy there either, so on his re-appearance in Tamil Nadu (Madras Presidency) , he was arrested and remanded for a month. He continued to write and publish, and, in 1917, his most popular collection: Kannan Pattu was released. In 1921, he was badly mauled by the temple elephant at ThiruvallikkENi, and he passed away - due to stomach complications - on September the 12th., at the age of 39. Bharathiyar or « Mahakavi » (Great Poet) belongs in a long and reverred line of « saintly » poets, beginning in the sixth century with the ALVARS, and who closely resembled the Sufi poets and thinkers of the later centuries. Though born into the Brahmin caste, he disavowed all forms of social and racial discrimination and forsook the intervention of the priestly caste's rites and ceremonies (chants and mantras) to reach out to God through direct exhortations, a form of devotion which has universally characterised the poetical effusions of these adherents throughout centuries. One might even say that when the Nobel Committee conferred its literary prize on Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali, the Swedish Academy was indirectly honouring innumerable collections in all the vernaculars in the sub-continent. This poem has been widely set to music, from the eminently classical renderings of Mahathi and Karthik to the jazzed-up versions by Shankar Tucker, the latter an American clarinettist from Massachusetts making inroads into Carnatic music traditions by introducing Western classical harmony and counterpoint. The moving version by Suchitra Karthik whose voice sustains the tense and solemn mood of the poem is - sadly - drowned by the orchestra's insensitivity (the ghatam's painful clock-work beat) to her rôle as the principal performer. All the Carnatic classic versions are commendable even if some (Karthik's) tend to become exercises in restraint in a low key mode. The Iyer Sisters Vidya and Vandana's version is certainly most captivatingly nuanced, but one wishes their soothing voices would take off now and then into the release of energy the poem's spiritual fire commands. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: Think of the trillions who have gone unsung before us Villanelle: Think of the trillions who have gone away unsung before us Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us Think what they have left us without staking any claim Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us Those who used this world for their own petty purposes Those who abused mankind to hoist their peoples' name Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us Think of the common grammars that underlie languages Think of the basic numbers logic's foundations contain Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us Think of hieroglyphs cuneiforms carved into papyruses Think of the ideo-phonograms that alphabets disdain Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us Think on all ancient thinkers from King Wen to Socrates Then think on what has been proclaimed in God's name Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us Think on what makes particular faiths amenable to races And wonder if all Life's simply not Somebody's idle game Think of trillions who have gone away unsung before us Yet the prophets we recall have all been thrust upon us © T. Wignesan - Paris,2015 Villanelle: One or the other has to give in a tug of war Villanelle: One or the other has to give in a tug of war One or the other has to give in a tug of war If for altruistic reasons you invite the foreigner In order to accommodate the guest from afar You cannot make him feel welcome if you bar His goat his god his concubine from your door One or the other has to give in a tug of war Some men cannot move without saddling altar On their backs even if you protest as a martyr In order to accommodate the guest from afar The guest might share your bed with daughter Though not the status his god reigns superior One or the other has to give in a tug of war He could barter his tongue for your own by law But never the way he prays nor his women's wear In order to accommodate the guest from afar The host not the guest has to give in a tug of war If he knew the guest had come to stay forever One or the other has to give in a tug of war In order to accommodate the guest from afar © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Second Quiz with even broader hints for blind poets Second Quiz with even broader hints for blind poets The Princess Anna stood arms half-akimbo at the scrawny edge of the receding bank her Polonaise pollarded down to her exposed tarsus heels A wilting comb of fern and shrivelled grass still clinging to her rump mud trailing in crusty clumps around the soles half exposed at the base of the trunk A soft curling gust about her waist shook the panticles of her bells light translucent purple corolla peeling tinnitus at her lobes out of the gathering Siberian clouds sounded like her father calling: " Pavlovnia! Pavlovnia! My Darling! Shake! Shake! Your ample locks! And let your capsicles pop and drop Your myriad minute pods Wafting towards Tsarist towers Tintinnabulating on troikas and travois! " " Hélas! Hélas! My Royal Pa! I'm wed for life to nether water-logged land See how the wind furrows the leathery waters Licking and tickling my bared soles! Here with one sawn shoulder and one twisted arm My hip sags with each dastardly axe-raised slap Leaning onto the other talus's side They say it's for my own own good My head was severed at the start My heart-shaped tresses thick in the heat Now float on the faint muddy bank tide! I dream of the day My Phoenix tubers will climb And seek the sunrise over the Eastern divide In lands where the waters drain Whole crowns of dark-green broccoli buds Before the sun goes down in the Taiga! " " O! I'll tell your whey-faced mother, My Dear! Her eyes look long past the Western Gate! Till your timbers all grow strong with sheen And we'll look for a handsome Prince, My Dear! Sturdy as oak-bound sails on brine! O! We'll cut and soothe the grainy boards Till the dressing-chest's adorned With trefoil liana round mirrors and knobs On the day of your dowry's prize For you! For you alone! My Dear! Down in the lowlands shut in fear! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown Villanelle: Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown How many would give their lives young to be acclaimed Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown Burn Rome to the tune of fires surging from a lyre lone How many Caesars seek Cleopatra's arms to be proclaimed Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown Remember Kennedys risk turns with a beauty home-grown To recall a king forfeit his throne for a woman twice-maimed Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown Yearn for a name to keep from gnawing marrow-less bone Seek solace striving to escape the stifling that's ordained Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown While others don thick-skinned masks in search of renown Contort their insecure senses in complexes unrestrained Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown Who among the living can claim to have produced the clone Genji Monogatari Monkey Quijote among authors maimed Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives Villanelle: To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives To free their peoples from the oppressors' superior mores Only to find after they're gone no true local legacy survives To what great good Mexican peasants seized land archives When President Zapata refused to administer hard-won laws To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives To what great good Mahatma Gandhi's fasting skill revives The age-old Hindu-Muslim mistrust and Brahmin maws Only to find after they're gone no true local legacy survives To what great good faithful Castro's will still contrives strives To keep his Marxist revolution going in open American jaws To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives To what great good nations boxed in by their leaders' drives Go through deprivation depression desolation for saviours Only to find after they're gone no true local legacy survives To cap it all each nation favours some god with inane lies An excuse to sanctify the nation's man-made partisan laws To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives Only to find after they're gone no true local legacy survives © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Nations barely survive the turbulence of international events Villanelle: Nations barely survive the turbulence of international events Nations barely survive the turbulence of international events Yet end up like interpersonal relations with other nations Nations rise and fall yet some hardly ever merit compliments What great Luxuor grandeur falls now to Egyptian peasants The glory of five thousand years broken by Arab civilisations Nations barely survive the turbulence of international évents What great good from just Asoka's illustrious achievements Held Hindu sub-continent together through Muslim invasions Nations rise and fall yet some hardly ever merit compliments What great Aristotelian tutorship of Alexander's managments Kept the shores of Peloponnese free of Xerxes's Zoroastrians Nations barely survive the turbulence of international events What great King Wen's hexagrams and King Wu's comments Inform the sacrifices of Mao's Long March peregrinations Nations rise and fall yet some hardly ever merit compliments Do nations come together only to blow asunder fundaments Nations apart every life deserves equal rights and conditions Nations barely survive the turbulence of international events Nations rise and fall yet some hardly ever merit compliments © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil Villanelle: Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil Knows not Yang in Yin's tai chi arms gets kicked out of bed The fight's then over better still forfeit all moral wherewithal The Good by nature will not stir to quell the scheming Devil Post-coitus female praying mantis munches the male's head Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil If you do nothing at all everything will turn to rot or swill The sink will reek with stink and leeching bed-bugs are bred The fight's then over better still forfeit all moral wherewithal Then even the police and security forces will outright kill Seize by force the rightful hard-earned virtue of the Good Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil The relativity principle wants that both abide in goodwill Be that so who lets the Evil get the upper-hand and go ahead The fight's then over better still forfeit all moral wherewithal Hound rape denounce torture deprive confound steal kill All thoughtless actions which in the heartless are self-bred Whosoever's inveigled by the general theory of Good in Evil The fight's then over better still forfeit all moral wherewithal © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide Villanelle: When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide Proclaim citizens who kill under the patrie's pennant heros Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride Killing for your god even to ward off a remark thought snide Fellow believers'll enshrine your name in martyrs pantheons When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide Leaders lie cheat slander even - forbid - commit fratricide Citizens shrug shoulders and pass it all off as political woes Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride Sick secret service scions see to it their victims all slide Down the slippery slope of unaccountable anonymous blows When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide And yet leaders and preachers claim peace for all with pride Their individual charters and scriptures back sinister goals Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride Why then history relegates the greatest actions taken at tide To memory's junk pile where fester countries and their heros When countries slaughter maim who brands that homicide Permissible by far all things done to boost national pride © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent Villanelle: Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent Likely as not the country will be run by interlopers Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement The first signs crop up when lax morals make him relent Shuts an eye to alien antics on his wife and his daughters Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent When foie gras vacation rather than who runs government Or the long weekend pont makes the migrant caretakers Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement Fanatics from dictatorships money-minters from the Levant Drugsters* outsourced from banana republics' carpetbaggers Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent And lo! Ere the cock crows every face in the pram's sun-burnt In one generation one-third pray through tongue-twisters Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement In two generations three-fourths take over government Pimps drug-addicts loafers wage war with spiritual gangsters Wander not into a land where the indigene's indolent Open-heartedness is often a cover for self-bemusement * drug-pushers, drug-dealers, drug-addicts and their bankers © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate Villanelle: No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate There where you first blink your own coffin you have to nail The exiled wander aimless in the throes of never-relenting fate Hounded by carnal goals and bound fast by your fate innate The hammer that pounds the nails in your blood without fail No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate The long arm of fate can reach you through the friendly state The Wanderer has no place he calls home but the un-walled jail The exiled wander aimless in the throes of never-relenting fate Neither lust nor love can spare the place's trap or fumigate The quick flaming grass that traps you on the mountain trail No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate You may nurse the cow in you be not gruff never joke nor prate Nor vie with otherland hosts where other unjust ways prevail The exiled wander aimless in the throes of never-relenting fate Nor claim the imported god incarnates the only Law in the State Sack burn pillage and plunder the recumbent host's Holy Grail No curse worse than the place and name you inherit to hate The exiled wander aimless in the throes of never-relenting fate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Villanelle: Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Words which sound to native English speakers as gibberish Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices' ear The poet hears a voice probably his own loud and clear As he scribbles words English dictionaries list and cherish Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Can the fine feel of a language's rhythms and cadences cohere In the non-native speaker's bookish learning albeit feverish Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices' ear When a Malaysian-Chinese poet whispers into his dear's ear Lines he has learned for exams from native speakers of English Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Post-colonial poets simulate voices buried in psyche's rear Words they utter in tutored voices under authority of the English Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices' ear To whom does this poem belong if it stirs not far from here The voices that bred these words all swirling around dervish Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices' ear © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art As the craft not art of constructing poetry for expediency Does the poet's art lie in not collocating words set apart Isn't each word a brick a stone a rock in the poet's craft That simple folk through the ages filed sans hypocrisy Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art What representation of experience can by craft be wrought To distill meanings imbricated in sensuous mosaic artistry Does the poet's art lie in not collocating words set apart Do English words sound the same in a loud Indlish mart Or evoke the connotations of a Shakespearean century Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art A South Asian voice reading Pope must sound like fart* To a Dryden stunned by a Malawian's Jacobean poesy Does the poet's art lie in not collocating words set apart The sense of sound divides Indlish poems from English craft As galactic spaces loom in between Indlish pen and literacy Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art Does the poet's art lie in not collocating words set apart * A reference to Eric Mottram's comment on hearing Dom Moraes reading his poems on the BBC's Third Programme in the fifties, characterised as an imitation of an Oxford don farting…. Cf. Alive in Parts of this Century: Eric Mottram at 70. Twickenham & Wakefield: North and South,1994, p.17. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy Villanelle: The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy Who'll stoop to any level to scuttle the imagined rival Smiles drawn tight on faces sullen with conspiracy Yin's motivating force lies in usurping Yang's glory Drives it to ape and rob the Yang for supposed survival The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy In scarce genuine values world the spurious spawn many Few who strive for what endures bypass not the ephemeral Smiles drawn tight on faces sullen with conspiracy Cryptomaniacs control art subsumed into personality Accidental uses of material rate neither as error nor trial The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy The Spurious clamour with the public for easy bounty Even time-tested concepts and ideas hardly prove original Smiles drawn tight on faces sullen with conspiracy Envy turns the sprocket chains of fortune for the many Who just skip and dance and hoot till the final upheaval The Fake or the Phoney thrive only on blatant envy Smiles drawn tight on faces sullen with conspiracy © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: O What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be Villanelle: O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could be O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be If only humans were not subject to envy nor jealousy Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee Our primate brother carries on his butt his Wounded Knee We by contrast drape our tender unders in frills of Paris O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be The garbage man carts away our rotten odours with glee While we look on in disgust the irrepressible onset of palsy Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee Brothers mount thrones on humped backs in every dynasty And slice the throats of those they love by gouging gentry O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be The primate flees from human greed into his community While humans stoke fires to roast their brothers up the tree Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee Birthplace pride makes man a hunted primate un-free And envy turns the key in livid eyes to seething jealousy O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanele: Everyone's life is really one and the same role Villanelle: Everyone's life is really one and the same role For Lyric Man, in compensation for the last villanelle Everyone's life is really one and the same role Some write the script and others mime the words The scene never really ever changes on the whole Everything takes place so far away can't see a soul No use wondering who's there riding the comet's roads Everyone's life is really one and the same role Don't bother looking for the reasons or the goal Everything's hurtling away from one another's loads The scene never really ever changes on the whole No one ever asked to be made such scapegoat toll Yet seek we not in pain to confer meaning on our modes Everyone's life is really one and the same role All writhing bodies squashing the other down sink hole Just to suck on the sun's ego-boosting legacy of golds The scene never really ever changes on the whole Only he who can say he never ever tortured a soul Need ever look back in fear when his own story unfolds Everyone's life is really one and the same role The scene never really ever changes on the whole © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: The only game solution to the human condition Villanelle: The only game solution to the human condition The only game solution to the human condition " Don't nobody move a muscle" and hold your breath Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion In a billion years men will pass babies with their motion And suffragettes will be the toothless kind with bad breath The only game solution to the human condition Our girls will all live up to receive the Nobel unction While our boys will all learn to shoot crap in stealth Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion Lao Tse said " Reduce the size of the State and the population" Border guards made him cough up The Way in lieu of wealth The only game solution to the human condition Time somebody put an end to this unfair competition Girls have only from fourteen to barren fortieth Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion Naked porn-stars roam Holy Woods far cry from titillation Chain-saw massacres take us beyond deep-freeze death The only game solution to the human condition Stop having sex with the opposite sex in motion © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Villanelle: Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Which mortal mammal's primal address the rapists desecrate Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel Seeds of life ever come tumbling from out the sacred temple There to greet in meiosis and in secret reverence gestate Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Do heathen women toiling in the dark draw the blinds on hell And Gorgon heads of demons deep in them shudder vibrate Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel Yet deafening tunnel shrieks of the human species' s carousel Re-winds obsessive tinnitus ear-pounding thuds to celebrate Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Who keeps the sanctum sanctorum well-cleansed spiritual But the defiant procreator linga tireless distending inebriate Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel He who bestial disembowels the temple in a frenzied spell His own mother disowns and hysteric squats on life's dictates Dare you stain the portals of your deity's sacrosanct citadel Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel © T. Wignesan - Pars,2014 Villanelle: Stringent laws only serve to constrict our hearts to hate Villanelle: Stringent laws only serve to constrict the heart to hate For all Eric Garners who went down breathless Stringent laws only serve to constrict our hearts to hate " Nur wenn das Herz erschlossen Dann ist die Erde schön" Put the blame on Bushmen genes which wandering mutate Yea put the blame on the Maker too for making world rotate Way we're all made contend we not for the one an' same bone Stringent laws only serve to constrict our hearts to hate Some people who on this earth set foot much too late Still hope to displace take and hold on to what others earn Put the blame on Bushmen genes which wandering mutate Those who love to lick the chokehold sweat mostly gravitate To the force that arms preserve till eternity burns in urn Stringent laws only serve to constrict our hearts to hate All that happens be it not the changes wrought by climate If the winds just blew one single way will none ever moan Put the blame on Bushmen genes which wandering mutate Everything happens way it does to keep from kicking planet Sans white or black beauty nor butt we'll all die of boredom Stringent laws only serve to constrict our hearts to hate Put the blame on Bushmen genes which wandering mutate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face Villanelle: The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face What were once cherished hopes serve only to nag The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace All that one once fought for family position place Lie now trodden by the wayside no sweat nor brag The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face The once fine psittacine nose at parties shone with grace Now hangs pudgy a curlicue strawberry smudge a snag The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace The ego shifts about the hidden interstices of the maze Fears of the embattled siege in the psyche's empty bag The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face Sudden moments of anger take all spouse job and lace Ego stomps out of the house grimacing grudge vowing no lag The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace Deserted one sits unwashed on the pavements in disgrace Eyes avert insatiable molly-coddled egos which drag gag The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs Villanelle: Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs We drag our ego thrones saddled on stooping lean backs Fiendish liege Lords' furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks None can bear the thought shrunken image left on dry docks Unconsoled by doctoral degrees or skills won on bent backs Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs The terrifying shame of being left to rot on torrid tarmacs The will to keep going in the face of spites and silly smacks Fiendish liege Lords' furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks Les mille vices and pin-pricks we put up with as decoy ducks While His Majesty Liege Ego rides in pomp pitfalls on tracks Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs All mere paying passengers grovelling on groaning stomachs No tenant fit to reign in his own fiefdom his baggage unpacks Fiendish liege Lords' furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks He who runs not with hares but howls with hounding packs Is he content to walk straight smile strung on lips and locks Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs Fiendish liege Lords' furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes Villanelle: Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes A stranger to your stricken selves a tenant in your body Disown not the erred life battered by the body's quakes The life you can have is not the life no one else makes The tortoise shell you unwanted haul a life-long threnody Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes Child of wanton self-boosting lust the pounding of stakes Lost in the blind rubbing spasms slime of airs bloody Disown not the erred life battered by the body's quakes Time enough to turn the leaf over sleepless in bleach wakes A thousand regrets come thousand morrows heal nobody Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes Let pity not spew and drivel at the sight of lascivious rakes You are not the Guardian of the errant world's sorry body Disown not the erred life battered by the body's quakes Unscathed lives live imagined only in the minds of fakes Life scars with bloody blisters the undersides in everybody Live with the borrowed lives made by your own mistakes Disown not the erred life battered by the body's quakes © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death Villanelle: For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death for Greg Paul For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death For each mistake a new life blooms on the Tree of Life Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath If the original course of the first life makes a bee-line to death Then each mistaken life takes off at an angle in equal strife For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death Now each individual's life line criss-crosses the other's birth Who's watching whom in Prentententoonstellung alive Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath Spinning shafts of light fissioning out of revolving depth Dense nuclear porcupine quills jutting out on the axis of hive For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death Pairs of eyes stare at image in revolving mirrors out of breath Sandwiched between endless mirrors broken lives connive Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath Till the day the one life that never a mistake made myth Will never his image in the mirrors reflected be alone alive For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture Villanelle: Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture No eagle first takes the plunge without daring demon death Yet mindless mistakes make us the picture of caricature Make just one mistake a day in the year and collect torture Shut the day out alone in shell and court worsening health Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture Could the straying baby elephant avoid instant capture From the pride of lions stalking in frenzied stealth Yet mindless mistakes make us the picture of caricature What original sin smacks not of the mistake of rapture Where the hapless heart flounders in Adam's gasping breath Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture Were not the juicy fruits Eve bore the objects of rapture What did she promise more than the pulpiness of wealth Yet mindless mistakes make us the picture of caricature Human error tosses our lives into the churning of culture Err not and the lives we lead lead us into the noose's wreath Even childhood teenage nurture stops not the rupture Yet mindless mistakes make us the picture of caricature © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Trust no one even wife-husband with personal secrets Villanelle: Trust no one even wife/husband with personal secrets Trust no one even wife/husband with personal secrets Some day shame will stalk as flames at villain stake A reticent tongue policy ensures a pact of no regrets Today's bosom pal is tomorrow's cause for threats Even pillow indiscretions can put one's life at stake Trust no one even wife/husband with personal secrets Fly with the heron hoards and watch out for the egrets Closeness of the species call not home the same lake A reticent tongue policy ensures a pact of no regrets Yet he who holds his lolling tongue well often regrets Another's running commentary on lives on the make Trust no one even wife/husband with personal secrets When the moment comes as it must in joined couplets Consonance will with assonance dissonance make A reticent tongue policy ensures a pact of no regrets Even Allied Nations covet one another's vile secrets As Top Dog power struggles scramble what's at stake Trust no one even wife/husband with personal secrets A reticent tongue policy ensures a pact of no regrets © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Quizz with broad hints for blind poets Quizz with broad hints for poets the nose bridge an ear sans fold kneeling on a slab (sometimes an upward curling lobe) two upper ears sans lobes both folded into each other two narrow noses meeting isosceles arms one leg crossed on the right arm flat down an upside down mirror-image interrogating sans point an upright eye with fish tail tuft left shoulder and loosely-dangling arm upper and lower lips intertwined upright knee-cap over bow leg vertebral column sliding into hole © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace A few sail through cushioned from the rigours of hate Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace Would that it were nobler to suffer confined in space Than be thought brave to overcome the fear of fate All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace Fear of the Unknown plunges us all in utter disgrace Though desperados fail not to open the ultimate gate Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace Most sport excuses to want to stay in this only place Family mate duty cause unfinished work started late All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace Yet others pray for the day of deliverance to save face Wait in patience for the scythe to sweep clean the slate Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace Don't we look around and wonder at this endless place We call a living-space hoping for more on our plate All are prisoners locked in the prism of timespace Yet none may opt out never losing the favours of grace © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Bequeath not an image which isn't wholly your own Villanelle: Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own No not all the tasters of Isphaha can patch it back whole Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan Poetasters all to echolalia Babel be haunted gone Where words will sour and curdle in a soup bowl Bequeath not an image which isn't wholly your own No patchy poet's torn image can verily be sewn Whose poems cannot own up to an innate soul Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan Who says poets are not to the calling be yet re-born Which mewling mumbler hacked his way to the goal Bequeath not an image which isn't wholly your own The easiest persona is still the begetter of the poem Words strung in any old order fit well into any old hole Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan No treasure equal to a people's spirit anyone disown The fearless voices of a people's pain the world console Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far Villanelle: Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far All things cling together only to tear one another apart Yet nothing's so complex as to appear so dissimilar So does any age beset by gnawing fratricidal war When humans use words to confuse every thought Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far Seasons come and go as the watchful evening star Nothing about roaring Nature reflects the human part Yet nothing's so complex as to appear so dissimilar Lives are merely words forged in the nuclear star They bubble and gurgle then blow themselves apart Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far Mountains speak to rivers and rivers the oceans scar As every word starlings twirl into ritualistic art Yet nothing's so complex as to appear so dissimilar Each human's a replica of a blind and drifting star Though Heaven and Hell be not so darned far apart Everything's just much too much and fudge far too far Yet nothing's so complex as to appear so dissimilar © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars Villanelle: Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars Nor of how déchets comets shunted life to arid earth What's our life worth if we live in mangers as bores Wildly lashing oceans marked the limits of our maws When travel slithered on foot mountains did us girth Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars How many the astral bodies how shiny the lights of yores Would clog up the firmament to keep us from eternal truth What's our life worth if we live in mangers as bores Flights of human minds forged in the blasts of quasars Can in no way enlighten the frigidity of the hearth Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars Even if life down hère could have evolved brazen bizarres Pluck not excuses from the skies aloof to comfort us in mirth What's our life worth if we live in mangers as bores Much rather stop this brilliant race from owning stars Than believe in the sacrosanct rule of space by earth Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars Will life be chaste if we stoke more monstrous maws © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Doer does: Yes, he does The Doer does: Yes, he does The doer never says what he does He does Nor what he's going to do He simply does Fears not the consequences Of what he does If by the hoi polloi right He does In accord with vox populi He does Even what the lambda citizen spurns He does Fears not what history books record He does What he's compelled to do Only just does Takes only tentative steps Never really does Even when lame-ducked He does His heart's not in it A contrecoeur does Puts not the blame on the other side For what he does Nor the lambda hoi polloi for the mess He does Wags not the flag of executive terror And what it does If he fears not his own vested power Aught he does Even if only one people remain un-free Nought he does Depletes not his side's chances With what he does If he takes time out to shore up his side Will forget about what he does Should he think only of what he could do Will wonder about what he does Will re-double his appearances To talk about what he does And the other side'll take the advantage Not because of what he does Yet because of what he does So he does Yes he does Yet he does Yea he does What He does! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Quail not at Death's door if you wrought no wilful harm Quail not at Death's door if you wrought no wilful harm Quail not at Death's door if you wrought no wilful harm Should turning back in vengeance be the Dead Man's qualm Though even as the end nears the comfort of proffered pardon Will in no way replace the sacrifices to expunge the burden Sure everyone wreaks harm by chance or through ignorance During those moments when control depends on circumstance The way the chips fall is not a matter for individual call Is not that the way centillions of quarks knock into it all Do the Dead turn back to set right their splintered houses Or do the worlds keep spinning guided by original causes Tell not the man whose wits desert him what's really wrong The punishment the Dead incur is a judgement well foregone He who turns self-righteously around to avenge or to meddle To set right the world's injustices in the Manichean treadle Might earn himself a life's sentence to roam all over again Dead people walking numb through friendless terrain All they may be able to do is to warn you of a fiddle Of some danger sapping your strength the key to a riddle Even if friends and relatives who betrayed your confidence Will cling to spurious justifications ever through repentance Think not of the lives milling lost in the neck of your clouds Is there no end to ramifications vilifications in livelihoods Do the Dead take along with them the history of their lives And in which distant sibling planet are they stored in archives If only it were as easy as to look up and wish them all away What good can this earth be with us all dead in it anyway Bickering for pieces of molten land pieces of names in decay Metals and rock on fire hurtling down minuscule Milky Way What need has the Maker for such a vast and roving Empire Even children give up playing with trains and coaches on fire Do the Dead renew passports before entering galactic spaces Or do they coddle up in comfort in inalienable birth-places Wouldn't our world be some thing else but for this baffling secret The foregone fate of earth-born gods if it weren't for this regret. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Do the Dead see with their own eyes Do the Dead see with their own eyes for Thadchayani, my poetry-loving doctor sister: 28/08/1929 - 26/10/2014 -the « only » child of father's begotten seven - The Dead do not see with their own eyes They shed their bodies back in old lives Neither time nor place makes for barriers Nor for holding back tears for their dears Three or four days before bones they abandon Grow cold underground or hot to the touch in oven All the hurts and slights and the sordid details That the unconscious buried under knotted pigtails The world is theirs and all the rabid secrets They who have a long long way to cover with regrets Might they reveal what lies beyond our sights The curtain abruptly drops behind to hasten their flights None may turn back or cast a longing cowed look At those they may have wronged or for profit forsook Unless they take the oath of incurred punishment Should they exceed the courtesy of just one moment When they may arrest the attention of a loved one Who instead of taking fright condones the unknown The shared oneness of having been in the same womb The frangipani freshness invading from au delà the tomb Don't they know everything and with what insistence They mock at the folly of our measely existence We who must soon join their other-worldly ranks Where all is nothing and nothing's so many pranks They must play without ever disclosing their hand For the bubble once pricked cannot be second-hand In the silence of your thoughts and transporting reveries A window opens into the turmoil of disrupting miseries While you toil wrapped in the quiet of monotoned cobblers The scent of cured leather singeing velvet antlers The sudden wind rustling through an open paper basket The crockery shifting positions beside the crooked casket The book you're reading tumbling out of your hands Swarms of autumnal gnats electing to circle inlands And without looking up you know you are the object Of attention from an erstwhile être stopping by to check Yet none may be so certain as to call it by name The art of staying dead is the name of the game. (I feel I should add the following piece of information, for it might be of some interest or use to some should they be confronted by a similar predicament. The untoward happenings I described or hinted at in the poem, I must say, at first, rather « intrigued' me, and I was not quite sure how I should have reacted in the circumstances. I wished for a more concrete form of « manifestation » before I could have participated in the obvious « call to communication » with « whoever' it was who was wanting to « speak » to me during the four to five days before the Sunday, the day my sister expired. On that day, she was with me most of the morning and part of the afternoon and made her « presence' felt, first at my place when I was still in bed, and later in my car when I went out shopping. I'm not going to impart in any way what she actually said or did for such information must forcibly remain private. The very next day, I received an email message that my sister had passed away in Adelaide, Australia, and that she had been in a « coma' for two weeks prior to that Sunday. She had already been to see someone 'very close' to me before coming my way. From that Sunday onwards, I have had no further « visits' from her.) July 20, 2019, Paris, France. © T. Wignesan - Paris, November 3,2014 Una or Death, Life: 43, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie: 43 by T Wignesan Una or Death, Life: 43, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie: 43 by T. Wignesan As they used to say and keep saying still Nobody ever takes poetry seriously They would like to say that after a long life You have provided us always with verse so pretty Others laugh in the deep of their caverns While he's outside knowing well that in broad daylight The most beautiful songs are of no importance Simple and massive like an air-vent on the horizon Blue over blue (not to see this colour play of the blind) He cultivates his solitude in the midst Of that crowd and of which he's a part detaching himself Like a mountain through which the surrounding lowlands breathe. * According to Anne-Sophie Constant, Una ou la mort, la vie (first book in Livre de l'homme et de la femme, just as the other two books in the trilogy: Duel and L'Autre, all in twelve lines) , the poems are untitled, but numbered. (Una ou la mort, la vie, O. C. t. II, p.754) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Una or Death, Life: 42, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie: 1 by T Wignesan Una or Death, Life: 42, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie: 42 by T. Wignesan To love words is to love life itself As early as when he could speak, he understood this Each vowel took on the form of a fruit And he a little peasant from his days at school What he learned was how to savour their meanings He recalls the taste of grey figs Milk curds smelling sweet, the whirl Of Latin words enveloped by pebbly voices Poetry (as they used to say) that he recited At the age of seven with catechistic fervour His heart swollen with love ever since he started breathing The rhythm of men even higher than the mountains. * According to Anne-Sophie Constant, Una ou la mort, la vie (first book in Livre de l'homme et de la femme, just as the other two books in the trilogy: Duel and L'Autre, all in twelve lines) , the poems are untitled, but numbered. (Una ou la mort, la vie, O. C. t. II, p.753) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Una or Death, Life: 1, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie: 1 by T Wignesan Una or Death, Life: 1, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Una ou la mort, la vie by T. Wignesan Sometimes he wonders what good a poem can be Of course in his case doubting is blasphemy An absurd benumbing of life In truth, what good can a poem serve Where all the overpopulated deaf people despite noises Make believe that they listen in to him The only thing which matters is the heart beating against The ear-drums and becomes the organ of hearing The heart which spreads in a stellar network The beat maintained in the finest capillaries Infinitely infinitesimally The ubiquitous unit of life: Poetry. * According to Anne-Sophie Constant, Una ou la mort, la vie (first book in Livre de l'homme et de la femme, just as the other two books in the trilogy: Duel and L'Autre, all in twelve lines) , the poems are untitled, but numbered. (Una ou la mort, la vie, O. C. t. II, p.733) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Achab, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Achab by T Wignesan Achab*, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Achab by T. Wignesan One man alone stands erect before the king, and speaks A man Alone The king is not accustomed to being confronted face to face He reigns over heads bent. He prohibits their looking at him The eyes of men. He has nothing but idols In front of him.* His looks and those of the others Stare into the void The majesty. The king is not accustomed to being addressed. Words only serve as air to fan him. The empty mask does not listen In the same way as his eyes stare into the void. This muteness represents the idol That each supplicates. He pretends not to exist Faced by the void His majesty. The king is not accustomed to being human. Being appears to him a promiscuous entity. This livestock's the leather Produced by thunders. He remains the imperturbed idol A nimbus of lightnings. His glory resides in his power to kill: Void the earth, His majesty. The king is not accustomed to being drawn into discussion Think what one may, his power enables him to shed blood. Whether one dies or survives He should defer to the monarch And make believe the king's the idol Whether dew drops or rain pours. Everything should find its place In his vacant looks In majesty. One man alone stands erect before the king And speaks. Between the king and him there's no level ground. Neither For the moment, between this man and the mass. Such a man Is not to be led some day by the flock. The king limits the grazing grounds of the masses Whose far to high foreheads he'll mark and relegate them to the slaughter-house It's our species which is uneasy at being erect Our fear of being able to think for ourselves being sanctioned by law Commonplace couch grass being nibbled at on this flat earth. That's in no way the man. Who is the man? Question Void like the Void up above which answers him. The irruption of evidence in a man Who's absolutely certain that he can do anything he says he can Absolutely certain of the Speech in him. A man alone, who deliberately blows through This painted idol in the void. This blasphemy Which imitates here below the empty Glory in the heavenly sphères. One act of courage detaches itself from the crowd And speaks for the army of ages and says: I As if all the kings were so many skulls Weightless sleigh bells in the glorious void Only one says I because he's certain of existing Having dedicated his life to serving the only Living Being. He's the man: his entire being is made up of the word Received, given. He knows what power resides in him The Void has emptied him of everything but his Reign And his own name serves as a gage. « As true as the Living Being is the Living Being And I in his service There'll not be during these years Neither dew drops nor downpours Only my word » Says Elie. *Achab, son of Amri and King of Israel (either 918-897 BCE or 875-854 BCE) . Married Jezebel. Allied with Josaphat, King of Juda, against Syria. Killed by arrow during war to conquer Ramoth Galaad. * Queen Jezebel, Princess of Sidonia, led Achab into idolatry, according to Catholic Encyclopaedia (Tu, O.C. t. II, p.592) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Drogman, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Drogman by T Wignesan Drogman*, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Drogman by T. Wignesan My mother, illustrious in the kingdoms of the Orient Is seated surrounded by water The water forms a belt around her, a boat. This's the threshold of infancy The step which leads into the past Is filled up by the sea. You're accoutred as a very old princess In dire age-old poverty A sack tied to the small of your back An ashen camisole. The odour of the humus in autumn Tames me into accepting your disappearance. Your face is the wind that blows on me Another wind blows past the back of my eyes. Since you are now eternally Impenetrable and black Impenetrable and black. Even with stars twinkling from time to time The way out was impossible. Now that you are dead some twenty years I understand that my dreams Speak in your voice. My premonitions indicate to what extent I loved you I who was ashamed Of your derangement. Heavy are the tears of love flowing in me Huge and tenderly And it's like a change in the seasons The change in reason All that was atrocious and absurd to me Makes some sense to me now. Mother, you wished that your son Became a drogman in the kingdoms of the Orient In order to be able to explain your plight. Today as a sleeper I return To the brink of an infancy Which is my death Perhaps I assume this truth. My dreams form the crest of your discourse Their coherence is their ocean Your shadow, lonely seagull and savage Is my spirit •Don't quite know what this word means, unless its etymological origins are to be found in the Arabic « tarjuman », meaning « translator ». (Tu, O.C. t. II, p.531) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani by T Wignesan God! God! Why have you forsaken me! Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani by T. Wignesan Opening the eyes requires such an immense effort As if the entire sky were their eyelids And the forehead how to hold it up raise the earth To stare wide-eyed the space between the sticky eyebrows In order to be able to see All of a sudden the neatness of the slashes Of black and white during the afternoon's storm A world of sharp detached angles The exact banality of the tiniest things All for nothing So therefore it's really for nothing he was going to die On this stump of a cross his ankles frozen By your atrocious coming and going to the beat of the lapping Inundating the cramped sinister woods O! the Crowd! If the gallows were the Tree in the Garden Indeed it has changed since Adam enjoyed its shade So vast and dark in waves of palms towering high The taste of these nocturnal waters rendered them insipid The sky Adam concentrated on the fruit and in the fruit the night His eye was the ultimate star the most solitary Someone wanted to destroy himself screaming into it The hand already held the fruit. Of a sudden the anguish Abated Now the Tree is extirpated from all space Its sap is concentrated in one monstruous fruit This body where God is shrivelled up this Face Of the Person in the désert of an over-populated world This is the Man God! God! Why have you forsaken me! The Christ as pulp bruised empties itself in the depths of the void The entire spirit is drawn upwards by the cry But the taciturn echo awaits that it enters into him The Yes This Yes that Adam has refused him in the Garden Adam Christ uttered it out loud to sum up his tortures Necessary that the act of abandonment be out of proportion And the cross the supreme echo of divine Names. (La nouvelle naissance, O. C. t. I, p.1088) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 First Day of the Year, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Premier de l'an by T Wignesan First Day of the Year, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Premier de l'an by T. Wignesan Each moment of waking up is an act of giving birth I use the iron tools myself on the mother To death Myself: Who is this myself? Am I somebody else other than the weight I bear Who resists who clings refuses To be born? This weight deliberately reinforces itself Through its heaviness It wouldn't want ever to be anything but matter Half-conscious half in a state of stupor Root before being stem Seed which pushes upwards through the ground Without being pulled out Meanwhile it fathoms its false state of sleepiness its burrow (And) in delving into it it expels proportionately All its skin goose-pimply to the touch Hairiness of anguish enormous world She kneads it more and more into the narrow passage Her own abdomen compresses in vain his anguish Towards the interior and the exterior at the same time An every day happening that's always impossible The act of giving birth This first day of the year nineteen seventy-three Aged fifty-six years and eight months Once again after twenty-thousand times more I knew I have to be born I do not want to. I cry out to Someone who is stronger than me That he might pull me out of my old fears originating from my mother* That they put me on this earth So that I might walk towards my end once and for all in my stride With my dead elder-sister for company On this earth of living beings Someone who is I right at the end of the route Up above Puts aside with might the thin-lined horizon So that I might be born One day the more. •See his poem: « Now to be flesh of a man and a woman » (Sophia, O.C., t. II, p.416) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Verbum Caro, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Verbum Caro by T Wignesan Verbum Caro, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Verbum Caro by T. Wignesan Glory to the resuscitated Lord Incarnate cry of the Flesh becoming Verb The body is not the place of death Where the soul feels alright despite revulsion He who holds his nose While passing his house full of droppings Whatever be said: My flesh my pigsty It is he the tomb requiring cleansing A body all armed comes out of me From the invincible nakedness Fomenting peace in the midst of war He's of an innocent cast of mind As virile as the sun His worth illuminating the earth The world is set on his head The man straightens up It is midday (from Les Jours de la Passion, first published by the Abbaye de la Pierre-qui- Vire by the Editions diu Zodiaque,1962) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Passing of the Lord, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's La Mort du Seigneur by T Wignesan The Passing of the Lord, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's La Mort du Seigneur by T. Wignesan Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying I count the flogging blows I rain upon you And despair at being exhausted trying I re-open and again open the mortal wound In order that I become the wound inflicted upon you Here's the opening where all mankind is bound On their God who died to be reborn Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying I do repent me who in a while am going To nail my brother on the same gallows I'm going to let spill his blood right up to his heart At the point where his suffering stifles my cruelty Both of us slaking our thirst from the source of pains Your saintly face and our identity Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying Yet I speak not the truth like water seeping through sand I am nothing I have neither features nor substance All the mud in me mounts up to my face My blurred eyes bog down your pardon Thus every man when he fathoms your grace Avoids it to return to his silt Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying At such a moment when every man all of Man Falls into mud you alone are reborn At such a moment when God ceases to be man Which leaves you bloodless and the Verb hollow At such a moment the void overcomes you And both man and God having abandoned you Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying You are my thirst me the mud which sucks The bitter universe pressing upon your lips Your cross in vain elevates my nature It's on my mud your lever finds a fulcrum And when your body falls like a ripe fruit My mud doesn't change when everything's accomplished Lord! I'm unable to think of your passing without crying Your perfect affirmation underwrites all of history Suffering to death without in any way being bothered Yes, to the mud which mocks your victory Where Man's reborn though not having been changed Yes, to this God who extends not his hands to receive His only Son and total stranger (from Les Jours de la Passion, pub. July 2011) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Passage through the Sea, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Passage de la mer by T Wignesan The Passage through the Sea, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Passage de la mer by T. Wignesan It's not enough to be torn apart from the night The night must be made to give birth. Now this earth's a sealed-off orbit This sea an abdomen without lips. When the ground and the sky are not but one wall When water flowing into water becomes totally welded Death appears hermetically maternal At the moment when one should be saved. How many times Oh! How many times Fetus expelled without the feeling of your being born Would you want to be re-engendered before being expelled? You despair always you hope Until the Day of all Days. Here between Migdol and the sea You said: « Was there not in Egypt Enough graves for us to be buried in? » You wanted to return to Misraïm To consume your last piece of bread In front of your burial pit. You know of the anguish the death Of the infant who has to be born. For him in that mortal matrix If he showed more resistance He would want to be born contrary to nature He suffers the horrible imminence of the Wind The space beyond space itself. Here at least forever in an embryonic state Without being born he is. But the Wind endows you through all the fibers He is of your fiber He praises adoring blessed glorified He forces the lips of the sea through your lips In order to be pushed outside by your scream You are born here. It's not enough to be pulled out of Egypt It was necessary to pave your entry into the desert Exaggerate the aridness as the promised land In such a way that your breath surging up to the heavens Forms with its dust a column of fire Which never-ending Going through him Conducts. (Tu, O.C. t. II, p.549) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 20,2014 The Way barred, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le sens clos by T Wignesan The Way barred, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le sens clos by T. Wignesan Every man has to confront his own night If he wants to continue on his journey. But Death takes it upon itself to meet him At the hour and the place it chooses (The moment when sometimes this man's most at peace Making him forget the profoundness of being at ease.) There's this look which suddenly arrests him This wall against which he collides headlong. There's this arrow-like fixedness focussing ahead Visible in his pupils. There's this stiffness Of the nape through which the soul is reached. There's this man's expression of utter surrender Yet he takes the step into the impenetrable void. Yet this obscure hardness is an invitation To force the impenetrable door through dire anxiety. It being convenient to defer to terror The way one dons a wedding dress. As long as God Does not imbue with madness those who love Him He's not loved as He would have wished. Just the way the Patriarchs the Prophets Train their sights towards this wine. And the face Gaping at the first to arrive on the road To take him back home. Someone fills it up Like one does a cup: this passer-by becomes Jacob Unable to control God in his veins, And the over-abundance frothing in his eyes. He who assails the invisible (perhaps you) Little does it matter if he's petrified Or if his limbs flail in the emptiness. He equally Experiences the misery of such venerable persons Who mask their vacant selves with such gestures Their atrocious trances with such stillness. If every man must on his own open the door of his night That's just so as to reveal what's meant for all mankind. No Jacob will ever stop clasping at God Nor await Abraham's Justice Nor keep silent under Isaac's knife. Nor for the Adam in every one of us to provoke The echo of the void at the portals of paradise. (Jacob, O.C. t. II, p.147) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 19,2014 Hostages, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Otages by T Wignesan Hostages, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Otages* by T. Wignesan This blood will never dry up on our land and those felled will lie there exposed. We'll keep grinding our teeth for fear of blurting out we'll not cry over these crosses upturned. But we'll remember these laid low devoid of memory we'll keep count of our dead as hours were numbered. They who weigh heavy as a scourge upon history tomorrow one'll spurn them low will they be surprised. And those who kept quiet for fear of being caught their silence too will not be pardoned. Those who stood up to argue and to pretend even the less pious will have them condemned. These deaths these wanton deaths are all our heritage their poor bleeding bodies will not be separated. We will not let our recall of their faces lie fallow orchards will bloom on meadows lush green covered. May they lie exposed naked under the sky like our land and may their blood be mixed with our origins cherishcd. The wild rose bush will cover them with the roses of ire with their blood fierce spring seasons will be enlivened. May these spring seasons be so cool beyond all words songs of birds and children trundling paths be they filled. And like a forest surrounding them heaves a sigh a great people pray in subdued tones with arms raised. Rhyme scheme of the original quatrains: abab, cbcb, dbdb, ebeb, abab, fgfg (La liberté guide nos pas, O.C., t. I, p.420) *First published in the review Traits, in January 1942, and again in L'Honneur des poètes, in 1943. According to Anne-Sophie CONSTANT, the editor of Anthologie Poétique, « Hostages » evokes the execution of hostages in the Chateaubriant Camp on October 22,1941. © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 18,2014 Seven years Rachel, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Sept ans Rachel by T Wignesan Seven Years Rachel*, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Sept ans Rachel by T. Wignesan For seven years Rachel remains sealed By the kiss she received from Jacob For seven years she keeps her eyelashes lowered Under the impact of their unique encounter. When he saw her on that one occasion He was reduced to tears, So very much of her sweetness was revealed to him The blue tint of the nocturnal sunset Reminiscent of God. There's no love without nostalgia When will I seize what has gotten hold of me? You're as beautiful as the fleecy Rachel When the immense army comes together. You shine on up there like a moon-like pebble At the bottom of a well. You are unreachable further than the stars An a priori hint of Him. From the moment your gaze comes to rest on me It lights up the fires of Bethel.* I have seen God enthroned in your pupils And all the exit paths in the world Converge upon you. The désert which has pursued me close upon the heels Hardened roused till it reaches you Until my return to the fold That was a spiraling tearing apart of the fire Hatched from beneath my entrails. O ladder which consumes me O flame The dwelling by whom my insides burn You are the native home of the soul You are the mother's smile come to rest on the child Yours is the infancy of God over this world Virgin speech like God's own gaze The unruly smoothness of fire. (from Jacob, O.C. t. II, p.62) *The poem alludes, draws and constructs itself on the imagery relating to the « legend » of the biblical Jacob's dream and the ladder, recorded in Genesis, key symbols in the interpretations of Judeo-Christian and Islamic religious concepts and history. •Bethel: (Lit.) « House of God » © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 17,2014 Follow me, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Suis-moi by T Wignesan Follow me, Translation of Piere Emmanuel's Suis-moi by T. Wignesan Everything begins on a morning like just another but which becomes its own following day. The next day of a common event of which in an instant nothing will be left. But for the moment it's still yesterday and each individual attends to his everyday tasks The fishermen are on their fishing boats and the énarques* go about fulfilling their important duties. This happens to be a working day and not a holiday nobody can spare the time even if out there somewhere there's the sky (But nobody either wants to take it for a Sunday so long as the idea drags him down in the dumps.) The way things are ordered by right is fine but to entertain doubts about it all leads to losing one's place Nothing therefore must ever transpire here but that which must allow business to take place as usual. Now, it's always on such a morning whether intentionally or not Jesus decided to go Meeting Phillip on the way he said to him: Follow me! and Phillip obeyed him at once Leaving behind the police and the banks and the Industry and the National Education Ministry And watching tv in the evenings in the bosom of the family inculcates in us social wisdom. Right at the moment they set off they caused the the Great Big Shop to tumble down Where at every moment things are bought and sold but not Life nor the eternal Next Day. These things are devoid of commercial value and therefore without price because they make a present of themselves And it's just then that one realises that in the Shopping Mall there's absolutely no one about. For a long time perhaps imprisoned in this Void one has looked for the exit. It's also possible that one loses hope in this stasis and in this frenetic state. Yet without a lull dispelling the buffeting caused by the hungry crowd by itself In the distance close by mounting and somber the call of this irresistible and absurd: Follow-me! If need be I'll come out like a fetus! the first born head first! The voice tugs at me in spite of myself that I may be certain is my only prayer Just as Jesus long before seeing Phillip saw Nathaniel under the fig tree He looks at me this tomorrow all of a sudden yesterday has ceased becoming endless. Tomorrow arrives while my head is beyond all stuck while I am still Sniffing the humid night with stars I strain towards my daybreak May this morning just like any other be the definitive Today May the dawn slice the Eastern Sky like one does with the abdomen and may it cut open the flesh of the dead to the Quick. * énarques: A graduate of the elite higher education school in Paris, National School for Administration (Ecole nationale d'administration) which supplies candidates for the top administrative posts in government. (Tu, O.C. t. II, p.627) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 16,2014 Me the infant, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's L'Enfant moi by T Wignesan Me the infant, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's L'Enfant moi by T. Wignesan The infant a stranger to me who grew up poet You whom he missed even in his sleep He who had to disinter himself upon waking Every day in his quest with increasing effort He who had not known your breast nor lap Manically he sought your odour in bed clothes Sniffed under the covers your sphinge haïr And searched every bush for your mystic antrum In vain forgot blackness of breasts in death More avidly survives the memory of your milk Longer I live more the haunting infant pleases me When the eternel Night projects her by the threshold At death the infant's visited by the maternal shadow Dissociated as two blue perfect globular moons Note: Original rhyme schème of sonnet: abba cddc effe gh) (from Sophia, O.C. t. II, p.348) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 15,2014 Well, to be born, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Or d'etre ne by T Wignesan Well, to be born…Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Or d'etre ne… by T. Wignesan Now to be flesh of a man and a woman All my life I will long for that Without any hope of being re-born, being born Of an absent father and a demented mother Both the names continue to elude my quest Come together one day by chance to beget me And dead some day without ever having my authors be Yet these two inexistant beings are my father and mother I love them in this corner of my memory gone dim Where as a young couple they posed at the portals Of a town hall or of a church in a village After which without me they vanished into thin air. Note: Both the poet's parents left him when he was barely three weeks old to be brought up by a paternal uncle in Lyon and emigrated to the States. (from L'Autre, o.c. t. II, p.970) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 14,2014 Barabas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Barabas by T Wignesan Barabas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Barabas by T. Wignesan This insignia that Barabas be Seditious and murderous None so worthy as he can be Bartered body for Jesus Criminal right down to genes To our father of all is he son For assassinating crowd he stands Which acquits and absolves him Just as it should be the crime Paid for by a price equal deem Be that the blood of his victim Serve Barabas to redeem (from Pierre Emmanuel's « Les Jours de la Passion », pub. July 2011) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 13,2014) Kiss of Judas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le Baiser de Judas by T Wignesan Kiss of Judas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le Baiser de Judas by T. Wignesan In our century where one sells father and mother Husband his wife and wife her husband And who doesn't with ease dispose the only brother Gives up yet two scorched by blade and fire Of course breath comes hard to him who thus Horribly heartless sacrifices his friend But efforts turn to Nought before man comes of age Who without remorse at first is forced to vomit Disembowelled in one's own mummified body No one's spared by the multitude Which draws us into it all like an epidemic Each is smothered in the crowd as in the prison cell All become lambs: who's to be betrayed first Under constant surveillance yet others to victimise Each spies within the circle surrounding him His soul lives stuck to the peephole And if while in their midst they catch him in the act To punish him they give him up to the Law Thus every man in the steps of an apostle Seeking to be approved worships the Law The great one-eyed lady The arrogant goddess Whoever stands for such justice demeans his spirit And creates in us a vile and villainous heart In the name of the men of law and the public force All functionaries like you and I In this Darkness where Emptiness reigns supreme I mete justice out to Judas What he did he did for me So that I might in turn do the same Kissing the forehead in good faith To such as he all over the earth Every day umpteen times I vow The mecanical anger Of the labourers of the Law (from Pierre Emmanuel's Les Jours de la Passion) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 11,2014 I wash my hands of it all, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Je m'en lave les mains by T Wignesan I was my hands of it all, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Je m'en lave les mains by T. Wignesan And what could we have done in his place Who in this century would dare to judge him he belongs to you and you are me-myself A tiny cogwheel An average individual Someone responsible neither for evil nor for good Who merely transmits For others to execute I am not to blame Even if these things are not the makings of anyone in particular they just happen When such things happen I'm never around It always takes place elsewhere It's not my fault I'm just a soldier They'll tell me Yes you're not to blame A command is a command I am a soldier I obey orders I‘m given I merely pass them down the ranks It's not my duty to be concerned I wash my hands of it all All this then just drains through my fingers There are other hands to own up to all this Replete with a hangman who's one of them More cowardly than Ponce-Pilate Who at least kept saying I wield power Who did everything thought he could really do anything Excepting the impossible and hence did nothing To save him And Jesus said You wouldn't have had this authority if it weren't handed down from up on high Everyone of us is a grain out of the stock Each is stymied by all One's implacable spineless There's nothing I can do, I'm helpless This's the unending wail rising from humanity He who alone agrees to bear the burden Of all the others which none can bear alone Is capable of the impossible (from Piere Emmanuel's " Les Jours de la Passion" , July 2011) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 10,2014 The Stomach-Depths of the Eye, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le ventre de l'oeil by T Wignesan The Stomach/Depths of the Eye, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Le ventre de l'oeil by T. Wignesan Neither hither nor thither nor space nor time neither height nor depth Nothing Nothing without recoiling fold nothing unheard of primordial Ahan* in a static state Abyss resounding in silence Where without echo Alpha's latent in Omega Where? Where the open mouth's stuffed without roof a hole Without walls nor borders nor substance a gaping hole Identity without Self no Eye without pupil Immense Void un-divided neither All nor One Wind which knows not itself breath not having yet been born The Self constricted upon (it) self its entrails spiraling Blindness of space in no way palpable * Ahan: no one-to-one equivalent in English; etymologically an ancient French word with several connotations, such as, labour; unbearable pain; cultivable land; harvest, etc. Here, the possible usage could be the intense energy deployed to engender the contrary of a state of nothingness. (from Anthologie poétique, p.32; Sophia, O.C. t. II, p.195) © T. Wignesan - Pais, October 9,2014 Orphic consecration, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Dedicade d'Orphee by T Wignesan Orphic consecration, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Dédicade d'Orphée by T. Wignesan Here am I back from the other dubious bank where Orpheus's abandonned lyre laments the wind down there fills my veins dizzy drunk and my redoubled hangover numbs my senses. After having used up my human resemblance mauve moons of Hell have gotten me in a spin My eyes? two diamonds of winter or two fountains which stare at an immutable sun and remain frozen. Similar tree springing deep roots, blind to murmurs shakes in its sleep nocturnal verdures where defunct suns ripen forgotten: Very same tree that by day the light violates bereft of foliage, bereft of birds, clawing at clouds curses summer with its huge arms anathème. (from the collection Sodome, O.C. t. I, p.253) Note: Sonnet's original rhyme scheme: abab, abab ccb, ccb © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 6,2014 Silence, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s Silence by T Wignesan SILENCE, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's poem: Silence by T. Wignesan The silence PRIOR to silence Silence anterior to the ineffable SYLLABLE where silence is born where it's accomplished in advance PERCEPTIBLE syllable distanced by far from pure silence by an immutable very flat zero movement By distending explosive the stretch of this A which during an infinite moment dazzles in an INSTANT Not EMANATING from any Being not the bearer of any pure breath envelope bathed in Being and breath projecting forward Without stirring in the Immense where all sound ceases and vibrates everywhere at the same moment of the drumming of the OCEAN But pushing but howling without a fold which crinkles the horizontal VOID of an imminent effort AAAAAAAAAAAAAA UUUUUUUUUUUUUU* U sans end nor cesure after sounding off this A which rushes in to strangle itself in the closing-in of ranks U the long neck of the uterus where even before the UNIVERSE is born the process of birth goes on interminably Endures fretting as an OBSTACLE to itself and constrains itself into braking its ardent frictioning U hole of the zero MOUTH forming a carnal thick-lipped circle to expel what went Earlier on Inconceivable is This which thus CONCEIVES itself UN BORN indestructible and ever more in the act of giving birth U channel where the abyssal A devoid of space solitary in the joy of being ITSELF and auto-nourishing Great torrent of MILK over-zealous breasts spurting to satiate the infant's hunger Which is BORN to rise to the marine breasts this blade of the deep on its mouth frothing AAAAAAA UUUUUUU MMMMMMM* This self-same infant even while it ingests the milk experiences the withholding towards its nourishment Feels the retention at the Commencement which is the SOURCE and the mouth from the Being it obtains its sustenance The latter not even being aware of its own existence attaches itself on to OMNISCIENCE and there feeds on while asleep The ineffable Syllable is the caress of the MOTHER and the matrix of everything without engendering anything Is the accomplishment and the HYMEN of howling silence the mouth finally filled OM* (from Le grand oeuvre, O.C. t. II, p.993) •Note: OM/AUM, identical-sounding, interchangeable Hindu (also Tibetan Buddhist) sacred mantra syllables, preceding and closing sacred texts in Sanskrit. © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 5,2014 The Weddng Ceremony of the Dead, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s Les Noces de la Mort by T Wignesan The Wedding Ceremony of the Dead, Part One, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Les Noces de la Mort by T. Wignesan Orgy of stone! I drank hate in your inferior parts And bathed during a wild summer our green sepulchres O! death and my animal mouth became distorted on those decomposed lips which long ago turned strange Stricken by god for having loved you during transfiguring summers O! Madeleine wholly naked breasts dried up by such severe beauty and by such an impetuous sun between your legs and upon your flanks two large smelly wounds I loved you streaming and golden through fatigue O! grape of sin ripened by my gaze I loved your heated mounting sucking in shadows and the houses your famous teeth and your gardens all juicy the evening of the dream of whores Nocturnal city whose walls of tears bitter crypt the obscene litanies that I have sung that I have prayed to your Madonnas of pleasure and those testing the guilt-ridden ex-votos which I trimmed during my wild years! How I prayed shed tears sang How I intoned in a tenebrous voice your praises at the organ of winter's rains in the tubas vertiginous in the shade and how I walked! How I stalked Death for a long time under your arcades with my blood I mixed the oil of cobbled paving where I looked atrociously for pure crime amongst discordant murders the agonies the love And the svelte leaded-glass window I loved so naked in the square of memory that she was visible in the great heaps when her haïr raving cascaded graminaceous over you revealed your proud marble O! speechless that she was grave and sculpted by your labours death which bathed you with her tender arms that she was tall like down in the depths of the lakes and that your rivers ran sweet on her ivory How difficult was the offering of tears where to be crucified, you appeared to be betrayed down there in the darkness How she was superbly black this heavy calice raised by two hands of blood over your sin Which from the other being never useless is the tomb II Lord! You looked for me in the vacuous waters of a woman under the searing myrtles You stifled her the youthful dead drenched in tears! And you cried out more desperately than the light and You laughed at the earth one could hear Your heart beating ferociously amongst the stones Father of my pain! You tear apart my demise but why destroy the cadaver since You want the blood? and why the emptiness? and why do You let me have this victim? Hands sullied by the night Am I the murderer am I the cursed priest of this death have I eaten the bread over her and drunken the wine have I shed Your blood over her have I invented her body cross of voluptuousness whereupon to have me nailed O! jealous gods! what is my crime? I loved her She was a sword of fury between us in times gone by, but dead what can she still retain of my likeness this forgotten rock pounded by her kisses? Is this blasphemy that these rites of a pious heart serve as down under the stone's wing a black sun in her hair a sip of shadow at her lips a portion of autumn in her hand a herb But O! You aren't at all deceived by these environs of alleys of tranquil slumber: and You require that I were naked in the battle! Here I am made glorious, a great flag of adorable countryside Death at the highest tower of the impossible, laid out for her! I am the fort on which converge all vistas raised on the naked ire of memory hymn of stone and the resounding tomb where adorable Easter rises protected in You she who was death O! Sacred One! You Lord, march into crime! amidst the detonations of the soul and the mammoth explosions of the depths, hurry up with the profanous dénouement or the darkness or it hardly matters the resurrection! and don't ever lift eyes towards the curtain of the theatre. (from the collection: Tombeau d'Orphée,1941/1946/1967) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 1,2014 (from the collection: Tombeau d'Orphée,1941/1946/1967) © T. Wignesan - Paris, October 1,2014 I I know, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s poem, Je sais by T Wignesan I know, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's poem: Je sais by T. Wignesan I have seen upon this earth the gangrene of mass graves I have seen the sky foul up with human ashes I have watched the breath of superb beings Mist over with their blood the universe I have seen how the hearts of the powerful decay on their lips I have seen men thought of as possessing wisdom While they picked their way through pools of blood I have seen the just in spirit breathe in massacres As if the wide open spaces puffed up their lungs I have seen the good at heart repulse God And that brought on a tide of extermination They were clothed in the white linen of words To dissimulate the stains of blood I opened my mouth God bear witness I wanted to speak out My heart unable to bear being human Wanting to burst upon other men Shrieking so as to cleave the sky But the air thrust its fist down my throat Out of my heart streaked words turned to lies That I was unaware of Those words were put into my mouth And I pronounced them I would rather have died than utter them And (yet) I uttered them In turn I have turned words into carrion The human soul manufactures words Which by fault of my own rot in the face of God I have become the speaker Who has been deprived of the meaning of Speech My eyes are the mirror of lies And my ears the echo of lies And my mouth the melting-pot of lies And my soul clogged up with lies Froth on the lips of a dying God Who proffers even a word without lying? Who dares to address crying out at the Cross: Have I not murdered the Verb? I assassinated the Verb gifted by God I am an assassin like everyone else But not all know who's put to death by them Me I do know it. (from the collection: Visage nuage,1955) © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 29,2014 The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s Il neige sur le crime The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel's Il neige sur le crime Are we buried under snow holding our silence in what immense Cimmerian (collision) of terror? The mouth kept open in the shriek of interminable shade lips held fast in the frozen depths we disturb the slumber of the Dead with our yelling mute - calling Whom, alas? We howl by the sepulchre the absence of a name stretching towards a solitary Name: but the Voice suppressed down our throat strangles the liberating Name which could call back on its feet. The head in the tomb and touching our lips the lips of these the dead that we shall become tomorrow, we continue to live in spite of it all but let's conceal our breath for fear of dispelling the silence gathering around us for God could oblige us to confront ourselves and more than the Fear of Him, we are (indeed) afraid. Fire over the snow Fire at those still alive What matters is that blood saturates this land/Earth Words enough snow down to cover up the blood It snows over the Shriek of long sighs of absence the glossy smiles over twisted lips It snows over wounds of pale hands, capable of simulated caresses like those of naked tortoises It snows weighted flakes, the glaring white of the blind which fill the great orbs the eyes of the dead make It snows a gentle down of murder on the plains just as troublesome as the slumber of assassins The Shriek sans end reaches up to lunar heights where trees are shorn of their barks: listen the strident whiteness of vast deserts populated by men where abandoned stones howl in the face of death. The Night, the immense snow Pièta of an ebony Christ looks at the shadow cast by rifles pointing towards her dead son the shadow of murderers projecting over the snow -- she feels the breath of that Shadow on her feet the horror freezes her over up to the stars ah crying « Fire » so that at last the salve explodes and downs these shadows of rifles these over-sized canons But the tears of this great Death shall alas get the better of this snow. (from the collection: La liberté guide nos pas,1945) © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 28,2014 Note: Pierre Emanuel, b. May 3,1916, d. September 22,1984 at Gan in the Basses Pyrénées, was one of the most prolific of XXth Century poets. His corpus also included books of critique and a novel. Rejected by a distraught mother at three weeks, his parents emigrated to the U.S., leaving him to be brought up by a paternal uncle, according to Anne-Sophie Constant who selected and prefaced his Anthologie Poétique, out this year. Upon graduating from the University of Lyon where he studied literature, he taught for some years before heading the English language services at the RTL and writing for Témoignage Chrétien, Réforme and Esprit. President of the French Pen Club (1973-76) , he later headed the French National Audio-Visual Institute and the Cultural Affairs Commission of the VIth Plan. Elected to the French Academy of Letters in 1968, he renounced the honour in 1975 in protest at the election of Félicien Marceau. For a time, he also headed the International Association for Cultural Freedom. As a poet, he had already made his mark with his first collections: Elégies (1940) and Tombeau d'Orphée (1941) , followed by a steady stream of some forty collections thereafter. Received - among many - the Grand Prize for Poetry of the French Academy in 1984. A-S. Constant quotes from two interviews on his inveterate independence: « Je ne me sens pas la vocation d'un maître, et je ne veux aucun disciple. » and « Je suis un poète et un chrétien. » T. Wignesan COPLA 114 CONCLUSION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 114 CONCLUSION: This Bad Guy World The way Evil triumphs in this World What lies in store must be much worse: Yet Evil serves Toddler gods in this Grand Plan make so bold As to usurp Laws of Universe - Get what each deserves: The turntable of three Continents The cradled civilizations There end should come And so must these Manriquenas' contents Be the homage of my supplications: By/My Death overcome © T. Wignesan - September 22,2014 The entire series of COPLAS de pie quebrado dedicated to the XVth Century Spanish poet, Jorge MANRIQUE COPLA 112 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 112 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Cowardly criminals hide behind wall Make certain the Good Guy's all alone: Then strike him dead Helps to boost ranks raise walls tall Courage grows when faced with arms of stone: So they spit lead But first they concoct a « just » cause By branding the Good Guys as « anti-them »: How convenient One by one their victims they louse As World looks on helpless to condemn: Subservient © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 113 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 113 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World This Immutable Yi Jing Law: Do harm and join the Bad Guy ranks - Is Bad/Good the same Absurd so long as past Death's door None may reveal what's on nether banks: WHO plays this game Can thoughts survive the death of neurones Trillions of intricate connections: Bio-chemicals Harmful acts ‘interred' with one's bones Makes no sense Good Guys suffer restrictions: Frees the criminals © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 111 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 111 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Criminals and cowards are blood brothers Both operate in stealth to inflict Harm to increase wealth States multinationals speculators Rely on spineless banks to restrict Works for GoodGuy health Tyrannosaur States join hands with culprits To protect criminal states' interests: Make bad banks bulge Sinistre hollow cowardice hides hits When blood brothers threaten interests: State banks indulge © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 110 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Torrero sans l'aide de Picador Such artful courage sans pareil: Gored in the loins No need to shout who Bad Guys stand for Mean lances of the Picador slay Split Toro groins Speak not of Bad Guys in the same breath As of fighting bulls and bull-fighters: Can courage die Seek not Bad Guys' ultimate death Shakespeare says they ever die blighters: Let cowards lie © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 109 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 109 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World What drives the Bad Guy is avarice And the cruelty he invests this vice: More never less He'd get under your skin to suck your kiss He'd make out as if he were trampled mice: Suck World bloodless He's deaf to bird-song blind to squirrel romp The World's for him a tree to plunder: Sap fruit flower He'd wipe you off the slate of Elysian pomp If you dared tell him what's his blunder: Love of power © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 108 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 108 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World The question's not which the real god is The question's how to learn to do good: Abhoring harm The good despite gods still the good is The good need not be labelled « Good! »: Harm feels no qualm Bad Guys will claim their lives in danger Excuse to put Good Guys underground: To be polite Bad Guys too struggle to defend manger Against other Bad Guys wanting more ground: Babes in the night © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 107 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 107 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World The Good Bad or the Bad Good Guys All the shades of meanness in between Do Bad Guys clean Neither talent nor intelligence lies On one side or the other's esteem: Can genes be mean Chances are that growing up makes one mean Those who have not feed on customs faith Looks status and fame All conspire the Good Guys to demean The thought that one's god rewards not faith: What utter shame © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 106 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 106 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World The still centre of independence Is not inhabited by vacancy: Inaction voids Can Love alone ensure existence In a void and make Bad Guys fancy No harm overrides Stand not alone unless you renounce All the joys of life within your reach: Dangers approach Bad Guys derive pleasure from their stance In damning Good Guys isolated each: Then they encroach © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 105 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 105 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World The revolt of the Persecuted Against all forms of authority: Justifiable The Meek turn the cheek humiliated Should father let destroy his family: Impardonable How long may the Untouchable Be trampled by caste consciousness: Three thousand years Skin colour nose bridge haïr disable Suffering billions from human kindness: Go pray in tears © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 104 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 104 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Ethnicity geography parent Ferment in spiritual cauldron: Breed gods violent Who wants to serve gods heirs apparent Can believers be made to reason: God indolent Gods thus get imposed on others Through violent spiritual conquests: Meek must submit One Way of Life spread over borders Not by sword nor by royal behests: There gods must quit © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 103 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 103 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Roughly speaking hindus are Indians North Americans protestant: Give or take some Most catholics invest Europeans Plus the South American continent: Save Brit Kingdom Almost all the Malay world's muslim Likewise Maghreb and the Middle-East: Africa mixed Buddhist tour à tour East Asian Chinese orthodox Slavs communist: Rest animist © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 102 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 102 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World One's spiritual convictions Depends on who your parents are: Hardly a choice Kings changed crowns with religions So do subjects their underwear: Pay but small price A regional map of the world Is also the map of religions: His story wraps Humans in bundles of match-sticks rolled Takes but an atheist to fire legions: Wars of madcaps © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 101 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 101 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World Born helpless in a void without rights Each a naked being in tow: A wordless spell Purveyors of beliefs through myths by rites Know this well enough while kneading dough: Ephemeral The howling spirit wanders like wind Would wrap its angst round any pillar: Turns not to soul No quest can shut out the singeing din Than the feeling of being forever: Is that a goal © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 100 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 100 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Brilliant open as the human mind Blinkered bigoted the human spirit: Each bleeds for gods From the cradle to the crypt blind Pitted one against the other split: All crazed by gods Said one two thousand five ago: The business of God is not yours Don't do His job If all man-made gods decide to go And live in different galactic twirls: No one need sob © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 99 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 99 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Look: how Great leaders smile at the sky Proud of the kettle-drum thunder they ply: Safe underground Yet tectonic plates inch by inch shy Away from the Gondwanian crunch nigh: Earth molten bound Zhen the Eldest Son shockwaves the gong Drowns our thunder bound in moth balls: Nature's close call See how Pompei's pillars go for a song Come the Krakatoa tsunami walls: (Do) Great leaders fall © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 98 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 98 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Bad Guy nations club for protection Of their ill-gotten gains and power: Yet they too serve On and off they do good and function In worlds which tilt in their favour Power reserve Their hegemony put to the test Brings out the worst in them as allies: Greed cunning vice They club together to avoid contest Of sharing the world's goods with all lives: Break the blocked ice © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 97 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 97 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World God of money makes monkeys of man Great leaders line up for Mammon mass: Count notes sleepless Sound of money clinking in the bank Is enough to make leaders kiss *ss: Monkey business Leaders decide when to declare war Silence disgruntled men in their youth: Weapons bring loot Warring peoples always want something more Like a thousand acres of greed to soothe: Vanquished stay mute © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 96 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 96 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World How bad's the Bad Guy State on its own Strangles own peoples by its laws: Rule by fear Can the State's only aim be foregone: Shore up flagging image in the jaws - Horse for Lear Leaders come together to control Wayward gods who know not One God: God be leader What about that One Great Soul What's His role in this God**** World: Powerless Seer © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 95 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 95 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Tyrannosaur State eats rebel states Even if its peoples' stomachs ache: Pollute pumped gas Some toddler states like to lie in crates Full of Tyrannosaur shells and cake: Jiving to jazz Others congregate to make war On tyrannosaurs decrepit: Born ennemies While our mighty Tyrannosaur Falls all by itself into cesspit: Making babies © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 94 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 94 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Can the State be arraigned by the State And condemn and imprison itself: Whose is the blame Do many Bad Guys make Bad Guy State Or does one the other way round delve To reveal game Tyrannosaur states auto-absolve Themselves for the wrongs of bad guys: Raison d'Etat Yet selfish acts of Bad Guys resolve Themselves into acts of the Wise: Au nom d'Etat © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 93 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 93 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World The lone wolf shies away from the pack The tyrannosaur scoffs at his kind: Systems with it Tiglons roam lone on the beaten track - Fall prey the gnu foal lame and blind: Systems well-knit Stand alone and the pack will hunt you Lose your integrity to live safe: The human fate The Overman'll camp on the volcano Far from the humdrum crowd's stifling life: Asylum bait © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 92 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 92 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Is authority an entity On its own or individual Spiritual Or is it en bloc bound by duty A super individual With no equal Or composed of individuals With their own fates and destinies Tearing apart All fed by powered victuals Serving no higher Almighties: Ships without port © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 91 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 91 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Not on whose coat-tails hang the Yang Other values than lip-service count: Nor country birth Wave no flags at Death's door crying « Bang! » True bravery quenches staunch souls' fount: Denial's worth Harm's wrong however right the cause Refusing timely help's likewise an arm: Do souls alarm Even intentions turn to grouse If kept from keeping neighbour warm: Yin feel no qualm © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 90 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 90 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World The more you're Yang the more the Yin Will seek to plague you: that's the Law: Must mess such mean The consummate Yang does not win Asceticism's outside the Law: Golden's the mean If you think you're the Son of God The Yin will plan your end by Cross: Die not extreme The genes so dosed none'll be Lord Even incarnated good'll be loss: Is Justice seen © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 89 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 89 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Just as the virgin's cossetted Nursed untouched raised in seclusion: So's the toro Two beings born to be slaughtered For sado-masochistic fruition: Virgin toro Then the day comes for her sacrifice Even as the toro's let loose in ring: Blood's espada Banderilleros splice eyes Faenas rip muletas and sting: Estocada © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 88 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 88 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Will the meaning of the Word be plain And what is said not corrupt sense: Contain the word Words cannot come alive nor complain Utterer and uttered entwined fence: Sense the discord In the beginning what was the Word Does OM of all sounds utter Truth: Mother of words Aren't white lies begot by discord Between the Truth and the Untruth: Can lies stoke words © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 87 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 87 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World If you zero into the centre Of your existential doubts: You'll disappear You cannot be the prime doubter And the subject of your own doubts: To see clear What you see must of necessity Be past the curve of your time-space: Gone is the trace When everything can with certainty Be known to have stayed in its place: All'll end by grace © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 86 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 86 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World If Worlds stand still for nano-second Logic can bind all in straight-jacket: Alas how nice There'd be reason for this errand On Earth as in Heavens to mock at His artifice Who is that comet hurtling in space Looking for answers in mindless face: Disintegrate Could the answer be such simple grace As to stop reproducing this race: None then can prate © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 85 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 85 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World If the aim's to nullify conflict How could evolution be willed: Sheer accident Since species are subject to roles strict Just to keep each entity drilled: None come out spent If the idea was mooted first Then set to plan by innate laws: What's the purpose Just to assuage Creator's thirst To see how we obey His powers: Meaninglessness © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 84 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 84 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Unchecked Bad Guys will romp rampage And turn World into warring ground: Good Guys resist At the height of summer advantage Good Guys rein in secede no ground: Soon comes the mist Bad Guys bait entice fascinate Give them the long swinging tight rope To strangle in knots Let not thoughts enmesh imbricate In life and death struggles sans hope: Bide time Yin rots © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 83 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 83 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World How many Hamlets hatch the plot Or is Shakespeare just doing the thing: Do the Dead care Or are they in need of a slot In the machine to make them sing: Heard voices dare Whose engraved voices rise to the ears When the pierced coins jingle on the board: Ancestors speak Or is the printed word ours Must King Wen's and son's come from Lord: Echoed thoughts meek © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 82 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 82 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Do Bad Guys try to make amends When it's not their role to be good: Do they regret Do Good Guys come back to help friends Since it's their duty to be good: Do they forget No spirit returns to tell us why They cannot reveal the lived truth: Except farewell Only a few days reprieve to spy Neither revenge nor help as sleuth: Who sounds the knell © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 81 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 81 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys perforce ressort to prayer They pray to augment the harm they wreak: Should Good Guys pray Who then assesses prayer power Who dispenses what Bad Guys seek: How fare the lay All the evidence is in the genes Just as the Earth's in ocean cells: Bad Guys impose If Good Guys react by all means Out of season all by themselves: World'll decompose © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 80 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 80 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World What to You the World can matter Who You assail on a pedestal: The games You play Volcanoes Your molten breath sputter Your heavenly hearth throbs infernal: Mind blasting clay Some snakes slither deprived of venom Others hoods-unfurled scoff at power: Yet both survive Who makes the enthroned Law Heaven Who then in the dungeons cower: Who must connive © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 79 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 79 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Whatever the Law behind Nature Naturally flow ways of life: Come seasons go Each in his time must grow mature The fruit that ripens ripens strife: Must Justice know Is what's Immuable thought out A priori or accidental: Reason must reign Nothing's made of nothing throughout Everything began in the middle: Think not in vain © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 78 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 78 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Recruit killers from the cradle " Touches pas à mon Dieu! S'il te plaît! " Crazed Pavlov mice Curious holy books lie idle Bits and pieces froth in mouths lay: Rest lice in rice Even if faiths feed best within ethnies Holy writs and laws best divide them: Make each Other Some faiths lay claim to affinities Yet each other slaughter and condemn: Curse their mother © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 77 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 77 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys hope to keep their disguise For they all parade as Good Guys: Whisk their masks off So bloated their egos through lies They think their mission's to act wise: Rub Good Guys off The history of violence Is the history of religions: For Go(o) d they slay And who enjoy such indulgence: The puny guys sans neurones Who chant hearsay © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 76 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World COPLA 76 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Is the authoritarian set up Also the Confucian Heaven: Prince on people Can the rogue State cushion blow up Under the pretext it's Yang's Tian: Good Guys grumble If the Earth sinks Heaven'll break loose If Tian rises through sinking Earth: World is at peace Can Confucian States Bad Guys disguise Be made to hound the Good Guys' worth And still save face © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 75 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 75 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World If it weren't for the experiment Why would our past lives not be known: Is karma writ Who among us asked to be re-sent Barring Bad Guys re-cycled re-born: Bodies aren't knit Don't guys out there stir the gene pot To screw up our World with bad juice: Fun games by far Make Good Guys stew in bad juice pot Just to see them turn to Bad Guy Muse: Deurmekaar © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 74 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 74 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Is the quark a zero sum dot Likewise the table to the mountain: Try dot the spot So is the gogga to Hottentot And your toddler to the dragon: Earth mere sun spot Solar system lost in galaxy Universe in Multiverses: All gone to pot Whose is the sum of this jelly All strung up in stringy ellipses: Might turn(ed) to rot © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 73 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 73 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Flit through Khayyam's magic lantern Or be nudged on chequer boards by The Unseen Hand One thing's certain dark hands beckon From behind barred doors - ask not why: Sealed by No Man Only an extra-terrestrial Experiment requires this: Not Evolution Would the Maker put on trial To ensnare us and then dismiss Life's equation © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 72 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 72 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys know they have a good time In these multi-verses out of sight: Who the hell cares Is the exit door the end of time None to answer knock locked right tight: Served sentence dares Talk of string vibrations in thoughts And the mite's view of dimensions: Whose idea this That the most intricate contorts The Will to unravel tensions: Exit in bliss © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 71 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 71 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Though never short of material - Short of substance spiritual - Nor of number Though rare the intellectual - Dumb mass saved by individual: Human error Time to spare on expanding space Time enough to ignore causes: None need slumber Thus You insist on hiding face While You tame by galactic crashes: Humans suffer © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 70 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 70 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World To keep the play going - You? Who? Must see to it the plot's a fix: Despite Freytag One thing's certain - empty seats: No! Always a packed house to dry climax: Ideas may lag Good play bad ploy Good Guys don't buy All that's needed - someone to watch: Can house void clap You taught Your puppets on the sly To write their own plays Yours to match: Turn cheek for slap © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 69 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 69 INVOCATON: This Bad Guy World Yet the way You humiliate us Is to make us grovelling slaves To bloating bodies Thank You for clothes combs and tooth brush And the soap that barely cleans souls And such goodies Do we complain at every turn Or merely stumble and give thanks Knowing not why Or is the lesson we must learn Before the lights go out: Who descends To watch us cry © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 68 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 68 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World We drop from the filthiest parts End up wanting to get back in: Sense of humour Thank You! For keeping the head's thoughts Far from losing face in within Though women sour The rest of Life's littered obstruction You put in place just to surmount: Care for children Till insurmountable damnation Riding bare-back on Himavant Men limp broken © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 67 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 67 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World " That's the spirit, Tell the Old Man off! Who does He think we are, s'il vous plait! Of course, you're right." If there were a God anthropomorph Yes, we could all take umbrage and pray: Universe might Might we not be an experiment Of some advanced civilization: Testing Self Will Or the chance physical accident Of Immuable Laws' equation: Force renounce will © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 66 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 66 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World High ideals aims des hautes visées To stand on tested principles You don't reward For You it'd seem sometimes nausée You caution mixing with infidels To move forward You set the main stage for villains Who romp and jump on proscenium Cashing the light You let the trodden poor in chains Serve morons without premium: You call this right © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA 65 INVOCATION This Bad Guy World COPLA 65 INVOCATION: This Bad Guy World Humans refuse humanity Humans love nationality: No better friend " Platoon" lives' anonymity Rips masks off hypocrisy: Souls inner fiend You who made the World go around Sharpened the sick souls' will to kill: In Your own name Such killings as with hatred bound More lives we produce in lustful thrill: Forfeit Your claim © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA SESENTA Y CUATRO This Bad Guy World COPLA SESENTA Y CUATRO: This Bad Guy World No one denies Life's stunning rich What we all have to put up with: Stark sacrifice Spite of beast in Man or the Witch Brains soar limitless heights or width: As gods we rise Bad Guys drag us down ugly depths Role Good Guys must accept as fun: Who stands to blame Yin-Yang conflicts not shibboleths From dying bored stiff keeps Man: The crying shame © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA SESENTA Y TRES This Bad Guy World COPLA SESENTA Y TRES: This Bad Guy World The Enemy resides in us Not by invitation nor by ruse: Bad day Good night Could lone Yang gather in surplus The Yin put down to no good use: Dark day Bright night Could the Almighty fear Evil Is he ONE opposed to the ONE: Both indigenes Garden warblers' pure early trill Deaf magpies shriek and rasp their tongue: Mutable genes © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA SESENTA Y DOS This Bad Guy World COPLA SESENTA Y DOS : This Bad Guy World Anger hell-bent at enemy Despair at Bad Guys' existence: Bring self-defeat Let him not provoke your envy Nor make you expose inner essence: Minds must not bleat Only the dispassionate will Gita's detachment of action: Leads to success Everything else being equal Plus strength of cause and conviction: War's then pointless © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA SESENTA Y UNO This Bad Guy World COPLA SESENTA Y UNO : This Bad Guy World Even just cause makes not good war If you attack you put to waste: Good does no harm Marshalling defence at your door Can make bloody retreat in haste: Shrieks of alarm If you let the Dao lead the Way Bad Guys'll jump up and down in vain: To tumble down Even apt choices bring dismay While you listless wait and bear pain: Time's the rogue clown © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA SESENTA This Bad Guy World COPLA SESENTA: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys bully to boost pleasure Assure themselves of their meanness: Just to keep trim Not minding own onions' lure Makes them feel insecure bone-less: Who's the victim Good Guys keep wond'ring what to do Defend attack or simply wait: No choice cower The longer they wait in limbo They'll find fighting back far too late: Choose don't dither © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y NUEVE This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y NUEVE: This Bad Guy World Fear's the ultimate sly weapon No one need fear nuclear bombs: They explode dead Through Fear alone we praise Heaven Fear makes us dread what future becomes: Let Fear drop dead Fear's the lethal tool mind-twisters use Their source of Fear kept well hidden: Fearful exposure We fear Fear to avoid abuse Of the Self within us deaden: I me fear sure © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y OCHO This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y OCHO: This Bad Guy World All the rest's sheer insanity " I have the best reason to live" : Says everyone No one'll admit to cupidity " For my wife and children I live" : Says the lost one Great many live for their own god In lands they slaughter other gods: Yet say all ONE In other lands some imitate God Men of money who live like Lords: World they govern © T. Wignesan - Pais,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y SIETE This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y SIETE: This Bad Guy World All for the bliss in somebody's arms Just for those few lightning moments: Never to last Breed innocent kids by the swarms Watch them turn into beastly gents: Like us outcast The lesson's not trick of Indian rope Birth Growth Joy all through filth in pain: Abstain in stealth The greatest invention is still soap One way to tell God without disdain: Thanks yet for death © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y SEIS This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y SEIS: This Bad Guy World When in need don't do just anything Short cut to humiliation: Need feeds on need Violence is the need of being Big Bang is the need for motion: Need to be freed When the impulse to commit goads Pull yourself together step aside: Pleasure passes What insatiable primal need prods The Almighty to make gods stride: Boredom pulses © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y CINCO This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y CINCO: This Bad Guy World Centre-half's the heart of defence Danger comes from the Right and Left: Ball politics When heart's corrupt fickle sans sense Enemy dribbles through with zest: Goal posts drumsticks The second line's the general Prince and people rally round him: Alert spearhead Goal keeper pulls skin over all Defence cataracts make him victim: Balls bounce dead ahead © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y CUATRO This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y CUATRO: This Bad Guy World Today's revolutionaries Cheer tomorrow's diehard tyrants: New wealth old pose Bad fruit engender not sturdy trees Good Guys tend to slither down hot pants: While world's gods doze Bad Guys feel good to be truly bad Ill-gotten gains worth dying for: Bad Good Guys lay Even Good Bad Guys can turn bad And the Bad Guy world all restore: Utter dismay © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y TRES This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y TRES: This Bad Guy World People see what they love to see All that glitters makes them feel bright: Tip sinking boat Right now ball craze all films of glee World of adverts subverts the sight: Salesmen sail moat A young woman stands at street door Dazed by drugs an oozing sex pot: Short years hence hag Suckling aids milk son of whore Whose mind will unhinge smoking pot: Jet lag lost bag © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y DOS This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y DOS: This Bad Guy World Stand and fight! Don't abandon the field! Confront not the Enemy alone: Bad Guy cowards So long as Good Guys drop their shield Bad Guys will multiply and clone Filthy innards Yi Jing says denounce the Yin first Let everyone see its bared face: Make public - fate Seek not to quench your smarting thirst The more it hurts the more the furnace Will burn in hate! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA Y UNO This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA Y UNO: This Bad Guy World Evil pounces on the defenceless The covert path beckons the Bad Guy: Pollutes pure blood Watch how the Bad Guys congregate unless Good Guys en bloc block Bad Guy ploy: Altar sacred When plots are hatched covered with lies With Security Council vetoes: Who sucks profits All trussed up by treacherous spies Truth's smothered in accursed ghettoes: Rich man's glove fits © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CINCUENTA This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCUENTA: This Bad Guy World Favela children see no World Cup Their dire distress kept under lid: Sick bodies sour Watch the kicked ball in a toss up Fun wars to buttress countries' bid: Pecking order Hearts jump up or sink with each goal He who works the plot sets the trap: Hold high the beam The more the " gods" the less the Soul Hold high the country lest it flop: Hollow esteem © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y NUEVE This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y NUEVE: This Bad Guy World Meantime we've got this Bad Guy World Where the Bad Guys have it all their way: Should Good Guys laze If Good Guys stop toiling to mould A better world in Tao Way: World in a daze The Grand Design calls for Spoil Sports Those " society" thinks less of: Who the hell cares Bad Guys are made up of all sorts President doctor or prof: Scared guy Life snares © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y OCHO This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y OCHO: This Bad Guy World How easy it'd be to believe All is maya all mere figment: Nada vision Yet how might one make believe All is night in the firmament: Just illusion Who has returned when breath has gone Who knows no lasting pain in this life: Who does not cry Pain is real sorrow's turned to bone Separation the lone soul's strife: Can this angst die © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y SIETE This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y SIETE: This Bad Guy World Could humans be thought intelligent And gods dumb blind bloody heartless: Might it look true Or are humans made to relent Higher design by gods no less: More likely true Supreme God uses toddler gods The rhythmic Shiva dance divine: Yang-Yin la-di-da Till humans learn to become gods And submit to His Grand Design: Lordly lila* •Lila (leela) : In Hinduism, the Supreme Being (Brahman) in a magical creative act manifests himself in the Universe acting out the " Divine Play" through a rhythmic dance (of Shiva) , and the " Divine Actor" casts a spell on the beholder of the creative act which appears as an illusion (maya) to him. And then He returns to Himself. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y SEIS This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y SEIS: This Bad Guy World Religious hate-mongers pullulate Gullets stuffed full make laymen loathe: Sacred totem Even football wins dedicate «To Country, Race and team-mates' Faith! »: Sport's anathème When prayers rise from stadium grounds For wins against rival teams' gods: Holy Crusade Who plays whom on consecrated grounds Little gods dribble balls with swords: Pray in stockade © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y CINCO This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y CINCO: This Bad Guy World If all the people on this Earth Decided to believe in One God: Guess who jobless Sure, humans need caring from birth Not at the cost of sparing rod: Coax hate madness Who will speak for the Almighty Must show proof of saintly presence: Loin-cloth yogi Not that there weren't some thought saintly They served lepers not malevolence: Power hungry © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y CUATRO This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y CUATRO: This Bad Guy World Animals mammals kill to eat Thinking animals kill humans: For their own gods Most of all those who One god feat Turn on themselves with blasting guns: Schizophrenic gods No founders of religion wrote The words attributed to them: Holy hearsay Clergies interpret arrogate Late remembered words post mortem: If gods could pray… © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y TRES This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y TRES: This Bad Guy World No one's to blame for being a dope Nor for nursed beliefs from cradles: Unless born Lords Nor be blamed for sucking on dope Nor for believing word riddles: If told they're God's Not what but where raised to believe Born to parents in which country: Pavlov rats all If God loves and knows all who live Why This World so unjust un-free: His beck and call © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y DOS This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y DOS: This Bad Guy World This Life's nothing but a sink pit You wake up one day deep in it: No one's to blame Yet the Phoney Fake Hypocrite Don't even have to try to make it: Theirs is the game Still here and there the genuine Leave sweat behind them in chagrin: Bled tears don't dry Those whose lives distil ink in pain And those whose stuffed mouths spout din: Same world don't vie © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA Y UNO This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA Y UNO: This Bad Guy World Engine turns on a principle Whole physical laws based on it: E-motion-less Humans think their plight's multiple No one's asking them not to quit: Life's such a mess Whole planets and solar systems In white heat blow up as Quasars: Or Black Holes suck Would pastiche Primal Soup poems Paste poets on canvass stars: The best of luck! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA CUARENTA This Bad Guy World COPLA CUARENTA: This Bad Guy World The World looks good for those on top For theirs the very handiworks: The rest serve them For long centuries top spun top Some turned tables to take over works: Looks good to them If changing hands changes no head Bad Guys gravitate up ladder: World upside down Turn the pyramid on its head Vow of poverty for ruler: Make good rain/reign down © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y NUEVE This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y NUEVE: This Bad Guy World In cauldrons of faith gods fester Legions of bigots follow blind: Some sane more mad In between shades of good better And the best taint all of a kind: Motley mass mud Between the gods and the mad mass Lodge those bound by rituals rites: Usurp gods' edicts Priests who love to massage the mass Arrogating heavenly rights: God's politics © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y OCHO This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y OCHO: This Bad Guy World Not all Bad Guys fall on their own No Gandhi can make them all fall: Some bad survive Even after Zhen's thunder's worn And the land lies cleansed and trees tall: Evil must thrive Be it ever so much as mite Past Axis Triumvirate death: Conflict goes on Nip not Evil in the bud tight Each petal will unfurl Death's breath: World War goes on © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y SIETE This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y SIETE: This Bad Guy World When wrongdoing piles up on top Bad Guys strut and yell out like hell: Whose fault's within Withdrawal sloth makes the worst cop Nature shirks to balance rights well: Yang lets Yin win Either abandon all to Dao Or seize the seasons by the lock: Life comes alive Winter solstice arms the Yang's bow Zhen's lightning thunder bolts spring shock: Let Yang Guys thrive © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y SEIS This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y SEIS: This Bad Guy World On the international plane Yi Jing's advice might even fail: Lone man lame duck Engage not the enemy lone Bad Guy on his own will turn tail: Let run out luck On the grand scale the enemy Must jointly be brought down on knees: By year seven Past this ridge evil will levy ‘Sweat and blood and tears' as first fees: Besmeared Tian/Heaven © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y CINCO This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y CINCO: This Bad Guy World If the Russians failed to fight back We'll all use the Hitler salute: No nuclear bomb Bad Guys can only be held back When selfless Good Guys join pursuit To strike them dumb When you see evil people says Yi Jing: find refuge in your head: Fine for yourself When a people let evil rise Evil leader sprouts Gorgon head: People engulf © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y CUATRO This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y CUATRO: This Bad Guy World Everything points to Life being Some Body's idea of a joke: Should be better Of all the deadly sins breeding Greed and lust Man's sloth provoke: Perish never Lust drives Man to steal neighbour's wife Greed makes him want to kill neighbour: Trickster takes all Imperative in dreary life Is the stoking of desire: Hear Death's last call (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y TRES This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y TRES: This Bad Guy World Yet the odd thing about Life is That without Bad Guys' bag of tricks There'd be no life Conflict between Good and Bad is What makes the World go round axis: Husband and wife Looks like the World Life Universe Was conceived to amuse Some One: Out of boredom Who has to pay with his prize purse For the Hell caused by Bad Guy fun: The Good succumb © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y DOS This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y DOS: This Bad Guy World Human existence's redundant Universe's too vast and lost Our Earth's nought Fat Cats steal the show with their stunt Flex vain muscles on this thin crust Fools give not thought Power's just a stuffed pyramid Men of little worth sans vision Straddle countries Andromeda's hurtling rabid Wall of Back Holes tugging suction Milky Way freeze © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA Y UNO This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA Y UNO: This Bad Guy World Is Life then an experiment At death humans stand stark naked: Must right be wrong Can there be greater merriment Than Fat Cat Wars celebrated: Image votes strong No pardon then for confessions Each his own hidden fears must face: Right here on Earth Those who visit Earth in missions Must laugh at Fat Cats' kissing grace: What show of mirth © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TREINTA This Bad Guy World COPLA TREINTA: This Bad Guy World The same goes for the Big Fat Cats Their body-guards aren't going to die When boss-man dies Big Fat Cats burn best with tummy fats Kittens best keep distance not nigh: Don't become fries When Good Guys knock on Elysée President of Heaven answers: Apt courtesy Good Bad Guys with much dough they say Turn Bad Bad vile with stolen furs: Angel bribe fee © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTINUEVE This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTINUEVE: This Bad Guy World The more Bad Guys countries co-raise The more badly will they behave: Simple logic Human existence has no place In its essence for country crave: Die fanatic At death no angels check passports So don't go waving flags to Hell: There they will burn Bad Guys love to play stacked-up sports In order to look mighty swell While insides churn © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTIOCHO This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTIOCHO: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys with bad girls squirt at will Since sexual revolution: Plague emotion The intellectual love kill Learn from Left-drilled safe permission: Drug-filled Dick-tion Kids who rampage on exposed thighs Quote Beauvoir and Sartre as of right: Leak-minded sots They who let babies suck on lies Heroic mothers out-of-sight: Who rock the cots © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTISIETE This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTISIETE: This Bad Guy World Are guys then just born to be bad Just as others get to be good Then where's the rub There's the art of being less had Renounce violence/sex you should And bad birth drub Easy women who take no heed Let wanton sexual hunger Make bad guy love The best males at the right time breed Even animals observe order Make best guy love © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTISEIS This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTISEIS: This Bad Guy World Yet there's one more explanation Psychopaths make the best businessmen All in the genes Way the chips spin into motion Bad Guys can blame it on semen And spill the beans Watch the Bad Guy twist turn and split Most convenient it's to slip up In short play sick His role's to get Good Guys to quit So this rotting world will blow up Till all fall sick © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTICINCO This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTICINCO: This Bad Guy World One thing is to look for the cause Another to suffer the effects Ours the result No excuse can philosophise Turn suffering into defects That's an insult Nature then cannot be perfect No use looking up to heaven Ours is the fault Bad Guys misbehave and infect World built on sweat of brethren: Oceans of salt © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTICUATRO This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTICUATRO: This Bad Guy World Let's take it one step further yet There's nothing per se good nor bad " Thinking makes it so." * Life's indifferent to conflict Holds unfolding drama a fad Some kind of show Playing on centillion planets Dark energy in dark matter Pulling the strings Weird bodies on other planets Writhing quelling one another Evil GOOD brings? * Spencer Chapman. The Jungle is Neutral. London: 1948. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTITRES This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTITRES: This Bad Guy World For the sake of the argument Let's admit Good-Bad thrives in self Does it matter Without Yin-Yang predicament: Conflict bound in the self-same self Makes life matter Yet in this Day-Night lantern show Light and dark flit through like shadows Who plays the roles The pain is real when laid low Good Guys stung by banderilleros What hurts in souls © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTIDOS This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTIDOS: This Bad Guy World Can withdrawing into yourself Keep the Bad Guy evil away Wishful thinking Easy to think thinking's the Self Stop thinking: self's in disarray Think not living Bad Guy's role begs to make you think He's the projection of your self Splits up your thought He'd as lief not make you re-think If he could live his life himself Good Guy well caught © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTIUNO: This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTIUNO: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys seek safety in numbers At heart most dependent cowards Fear not their fangs To stalk you they'll don false fauve furs Drop not standing alone your guards Stress not their wrongs They love to make a show of strength Myths push roots in infertile minds Blades in bowels Choose not battles which drag at length He who gorges blood his life binds Drowns in revels © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA VEINTE This Bad Guy World COPLA VEINTE: This Bad Guy World Expose the wiles of the Bad Guy He'll stoop low and use stratagem And if he fails He'll cry foul play and devise ploy Hold himself out as the rare gem The World defiles If you succeed in nailing him: He'll say pro patria mori Or some such god If you then let him play victim You'll fall right into his hands free: Like him be sod © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Parsing Time Parsing time Along the slope he leant with his caved-in shoulders not standing on end one foot upturned the other curled a shrivelled cucumber sole Which way did the past go past the point where the wind turned tail behind the shadow of curling light or the precession of Mercury If you see your tail swish before any hint of thought could wish How do you know if it did If you didn't see it topple the intent's lid Many the whisper of a word will come calling in untrod chasms by the waylaid tongue Whose the nameless parole the lexicographers culled for want of another word or two If time travels in an unflat trapezoid Which way will it be going first Your way My way Or that away Time is not Time If it didn't travel Time then is unrealizable motion What doesn't move of its volition is dead Time masters all life If you kill every being on earth Destroy every trace of every particle On earth as on every other sphere In this universe or heavy dark matter Likewise on every parallel universe Time will go berserk Running trapezoid wild in every direction for it'll have nothing to relate to Yet it'll be the solitary inhabitant of the Void Calling out to itself to void the Will For it'd have had a past A body to call its own And you cannot kill a body Which does not exist in Time © T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Limerick crochetes Portrait of a Dead Brit Nazi Lord of the Lollypoppians Limerick crochetés: Portrait of a Dead Brit Nazi, Lord of the Lollypoppians Part One Once an uppity man from Poland Wed a stumpy wench from High Golan Result: mangy mongrel Was no way you could tell His front from his toady tail-end In Broughton raised as Mancunian For his stature was Lilliputian Sent up to hot Eton To become smooth Briton Of hoi polloi he nursed low opinion There at the clubby institution Three thorough-breds of noble distinction Chased him in quadrangle Stuck dildos up sockle In his hock-filled mouth sans elocution Lacking shining past in his pedigree Made him mug up facts in history Shot up into Oxford Father grandeur afford Marks and shillings through frilly lingérie At New College what spoke most was money Free drinks all around and clothes so horney So things ran with his ilk Reeking of mothers' milk Ere going down he rode high and pretty Once down he was not down and out either With free hand in till of his step-mother In book trade old mongrel The art of the scoundrel He made much of his blithering litter Dreamed day and night of the House of Lords To rub knees with the Chancellor of Boards Stuffed Labour coffers cash Stood for Commons: whiplash Injury by hoi polloi on records © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick Once an anti-Academic doctor Limerick: Once an anti-Academic doctor Once an anti-Academic doctor Prescribed poison for ailing professor Prof gave powder to wife Wife sold it to mid-wife Who mixed it in husband doctor's dinner. ©= T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA DIECINUEVE: This Bad Guy World COPLA DIECINUEVE: This Bad Guy World All biped animals aren't Men Some are elves, fairies and witches Others yet thugs All are born to play roles given Time Place Parents Beliefs Glitches: The fate each lugs Guys good and bad make up charade Tug of war levels out with time: If bad guys lose When bad guys gang up to invade Other guys living in good chime: Charade red glows © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA DIECISIETE Corollary This Bad Guy World COPLA DIECISIETE (Corollary) : This Bad Guy World Either account you must for self At Death's door or everybody Gets a clean sheet In either case it's not your self Which will inhabit your body: None turn back neat Pardons for wrongs encourage sins Who gave whom the right to condone: Not in His name Comfort in numbers makes has-beens Face your own guilt Death will spare none: Stand by your shame © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA DIECISIETE: This Bad Guy World COPLA DIECISIETE: This Bad Guy World After-life: litmus of this life Some know how to make us connive: Make us repent? So they console us in this life By spiriting guilt while alive: Pardon well spent? Confess now to be made pure clean Extreme unction frees you from doubts: Who takes last step? Bad guys all feel their wombs thus clean Sin is sin: numbers don't hold clouts: Lone the last step! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick Once a dainty Milkmaid with hands like lead Limerick: Once a dainty Milkmaid with hands like lead Once a dainty Milkmaid with hands like lead Milked a cow whose one eye was painted red: She woke up terrified Thought Dali Pasteurized: Felt upturned moustache growing through her head! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick Once a tipsy Lord of the Manor Limerick: Once a tipsy Lord of the Manor Once a tipsy Lord of the Manor Took leash to be led by Labrador: His Lady called him back - Tied the tail on its back But the dog turned tail behind the door. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle If you knew what the rest in silence think Villanelle: If only you knew what the rest in silence think (if a guy not so Sterling be) If only you knew what the rest in silence think You wouldn't rush to hang him on a string Look at his gal and see why he's such a stink We're all Africans whichever way you blink If you fathered Man do not your sons sting If only you knew what the rest in silence think If your girl leant close in Magic Johnson's clink Wouldn't you bounce up and with envy wring Look at his gal and see why he's such a stink Leave the guy alone and let him jealous sink His gal will drop him and millions you bring If only you knew what the rest in silence think Be not so self-righteous and haughty think No sweet Blackie stuck on Whitey you not sting Look at his gal and see why he's such a stink Lucy's blood drains down Cro-Magnon's brain link All the world's but one long genetic string If only you knew what the rest in silence think Look at his gal and see why he's such a stink © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Bye bye for now - Adieu Ma Dear Adieu Ma Dear Puisque tu es arrivée trop tard dans cette vie En trainant trop dans l'autre dans l'oubli Arrivée seulement pour me dire adieu L'innocence triste tremblant dans tes yeux Sur tes lèvres d'étudiante tremblant Tu me demandes D'un air peiné autour de ta coiffure d'une déesse de Landes J'eusse passé des jours Sans trop troublantes convenables Comment puis-je te les dire pour de vrai Sans que tu ne passes tes jours à mes côtés Toujours et à jamais Si tu es à moi à moi à moi Toute seule Les liens noués dans les cieux Je n'ai qu'attendre Que tu me rejoignes dans l'au-delà Je t'attendrai pas trop long J'espère dans l'autre vie Tardes pas une seconde fois Moi qui t'attendrai d'arrache-pied toujours seul dans l'au-delà Ne manque pas le coche cette fois-ci On n'a qu'une chance unique A vrai dire La deuxième n'est qu'un refoulement Un déjà vu La première n'est qu'un avertissement Adieu Ma Dear pour le moment © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limericks crochetes Once a Bar Student in the fifties Limericks crochetés: Once a Bar Student in the fifties Once a Bar Student in the fifties Hoped to finish quickly his law studies: Some students tipped him off Pass-list clerk Good Enough Will shift around marks for Five Guineas! One late Singh Bar-at-Law, Seremban Took finals with student Wei Ni Shan: May nineteen-fifty six Trinity exam fix: Who was called to the Bar if not Shan? Said Singh: " Week before results are known At Council of Legal Sovereign Crown: In open envelope Put five guineas like dope: Clerk will to refectory come down." Now Singh had booked his return passage His fee reached clerk by special message: " What! Only five guineas? " Wei Ni Shan made much pleas. " Once on Pass List give more to assuage! " For decades choice invitee at bars Was you know who: O! Do-good-er woes! Look up or down: East-West Never at him in jest: Think: all the good he did to Yahoos! Wei Ni Shan twice went to refectory Early one morning at nine-thirty: Saw West and East Indians All shot-up onions: Drop their envelopes in mail-rack tree! Mister Do-Good-er was good enough The hundreds of lives not to think of All over Empire Famished straits all dire Waiting for Barrister to lift off! When empires crumble on last legs Old Masters then hatch sly loaded eggs Ensuring level best Way to scuttle the rest: Yahoos make enslaved Houyhnhnm dregs! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once a lean Lecher in his nineties Limerick: Once a lean Lecher in his nineties Once a lean Lecher in his nineties Wondered if he could relive his twenties: He went on a diet Of French fries and cutlet: The Wench said it felt like rigor mortis! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Rhine Salmon Complaint Translation of Etiemble s Complainte d un saumon du Rhin by T Wignesan The Rhine Salmon Complaint, Translation of Etiemble's Complainte d'un salmon du Rhin For Yvon Belaval (A lilting musical poem of varying line length in quatrains with a refrain and much internal rhyming; end-rhyme scheme: alternate rhymes in succession: abab or in aabb and abba…) The Salmon: Banks of the Rhine Joy of my loins Bronze-sounding roaring of limpid spindrift! No, my bleaks, I tarry not until the feast whence I make haste. When the salmon of the Rhine swims towards encountering its lovers, for all the gold of the Rhine no chance of its turning back. Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold The Salmon: Bloated dogs stuffed with soul, what do you want of the plains? I'm on my way to my lady outwitting the (sirens') breasts. The poisons of filthy waters haul you towards death; with my lustrous paddles I'll arrive at a better station. Every chance there on high, beyond the echoes of thunder, hop! with one jolly good jump I'd have gained the glass palace… Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! The Salmon: Fishermen, you are mistaken Who thinks of catching me: I'm off to meet my lover: Discard your quenelles. Nothing will stop me, neither the grass of the deep calm, nor the beaches of the isles, nor the darkest shingles, over which the sun enjoys dressing for our eyes temporary altars of fire. Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! The Salmon: At the heart which right night am I going to - at last - know the truth? Exhaust my desire for him who palpates the eggs of my spawning? This force within me so profound being less of a salmon, I'd be drowned, it carries me like a wave and crushes me like a ray. She breaks me and makes me whole and lets me triumph over your sexual prowess O! Sirens, queens so rosy. I don a head band to take on other battles. Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! The Salmon: I have in vain a premonition of Kehl's caresses! The quid, one could say: furious and curious, upright in its ink of flame and mud, ah! Which dam of blue flashes, the black holes…where but where am I? Oh! Prisoner of these queues of magicians who seduce and disembowel you during their emotional bursts! But here's my current and death is theirs and I go past the bridge and life I'll have won! Gurgling air bubbles where the quid sleeps: I have cut your gullet which had you tied to gold, to the mud of galleons rotting on the Rhine bed, to gold, when it's love that I bear in my loins! Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! The Salmon: Stronger than the force in me vivacious, this failing in me which cuts me off from my back, would it be cupping glasses of river lamprey? an eel which crushes me in this informed gesture while I snap up an herring? O fruity salmon, O trout of blue flashes, after this night… tired, how I am pumped out! Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! The Salmon: And my night entangles itself in billions of gulf weed, Thickened in black milk which hardens and brings rotten luck, The aveniau of currents cling to my scales, I'm carried away downstream, I weaken, I give in, Help! I'm drowning. Surfeit of love, of soft roe, For this back made lean through fasting and through faith. Everything's heavy, everything's pulpy, everything's deaf; but I hear this time true thunder - peace - the recompense. Should my back break with the effort and when the hour of truth stares me fixedly in my eyes, leap, salmon, leap even higher! And with little concern but for the act of spawning, and for the best, so be it, you die! Lorelei: Leap, salmon! Leap much higher! Leap much higher, higher than the water, than the waters of life, than the waters of death, than the waters of death, than the waters of gold! When the salmon of the Rhine swims towards encountering its lovers, for all the gold of the Rhine no chance of its turning back. Banks of the Rhine, joys of its loins, bronze-sounding roaring and limpid spindrift! It doesn't tarry before the feast. Gaze upon its head, and its bones. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA DIECISEIS: This Bad Guy World COPLA DIECISEIS: This Bad Guy World Takes nothing to produce a life Much less to make it cry or die: Life's far too cheap. What matters is brain's after life: Thoughts and ideas never die. Brains make Man leap. What must count should be the person What spoils is he's part of people: The Bad Guy part. Peoples drive notion of nation: Persons' brains stifle in people: Nazis roll out. © T. Wignesan - Pars,2014 Limericks crochetes: Once French Socialist met Brit counterpart Limericks crochetés: Once French Socialist met Brit counterpart Once French Socialist met Brit counterpart They turned right and round and round each other: Frenchman took two steps right Brit four right steps with might: Ended up one on top of the other! Then they met American new Leftist Who taught them how to do the ragtime twist: Turn left and then to right And the twist will come right: Now Far West Leftist sandwiched well-betwixt! The Three met Russian-Chinese Communist And danced round the Maypole on May Day feast: A little to the left And ropes knot in the cleft: East showed West how to beat the Marxist " Beast" ! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Three states of the same nape Translation of Etiemble s Trois etats d'une seule nuque by T Wignesan Three states of the same nape, Translation of Etiemble's Trois états d'une seule nuque by T. Wignesan (End-rhyme scheme: ababacac//abab//ababaccddddddd//) Nape no 1 Since so many lovers have thought it beautiful, and have extolled it earlier on than I have relapsed and rebellious, I want that this nape be made to fall for me under the axe of an hangman, and rot in my tomb. Being the orphan of you and of it, I'll rot there, a young old handsome. Nape no 2 When my sword in its proper fitness descends into my sheath, if my spirit dips towards the knot of your nape concelebrated in times gone by, my executioner's sword at one go cuts your neck and the knot of the eunuch. Nape no 3 Even if so many lovers have found it beautiful, and had it extolled earlier on, I would that he who would in me rebel against these executioners of my belief that this nape were more beautiful yet and that, soon as my ashes scattered be, know how to descend and to rise up to your heart he who I await without rancour: he who I stretch over your heart, he who I spread over your heart, he who falls in love with your heart, he who traps me in your heart, he who returns you to your heart. Broussais,1977 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once right Spaniard looking for a job Limerick: Once right Spaniard looking for a job Once right Spaniard looking for a job Found nothing in his country to rob: He crossed the Pyrenées Left he turned on his knees: They made him King sans his shedding a sob! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Marble breasts Translation of Etiemble s Les Seins de marbre by T Wignesan Marble breasts, Translation of Etiemble's poem: Les Seins de marbre by T. Wignesan For Eugène Guillevic (An eleven line poem of between ten and twelve syllables lines, with the following end-rhyme scheme: aaabbcddeec) The breasts that you sculpt in marble or alabaster, poets: antics! I laugh at all your plasters, flat moulds stung by Cleopatra's asp. Mottled red and blue, smooth, shiny, over taut, marbled all over ruptured vessels, minus epidermis, that in one life the only ones in a generous sense I have seen the night - felt the day -trembling in spasms, more infinitely sensitive than during an orgasm, crazed and charred by cobalt fire, barbed, smarting, fixed within two blocks of basalt, which during her death were those of a cancer victim. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The temporary altar Translation of Etiemble s quintet Le reposoir by T Wignesan The temporary altar, Translation of Etiemble's quintet: Le reposoir by T. Wignesan For us As for me, I have renounced the noxious vault where the other life child concealed a father whom he had sometimes betrayed his mother who took him for someone else the baby she sensed to be a clone. For you, I have renounced the death mask which earlier on I yearned leaving on this earth, baked dust. Pride? But tomorrow you wander about looking for me in this me, void of feeling, i‘d rather leave nothing: all: my image in you. For you, I have renounced the common grave where, in me, eponymous heroes mortify themselves. Pride of another kind - hero and zero, these rhyme! - which provoked me to disown my verse thanks to theirs in swarms: for you, my passing is not news in brief. For you, I have renounced the morgue's formalin: life lingers on in me as a Sorgues medic glides me in a body-bag after the great organs of the death mass. I'd hardly serve to disgorge your viscera live, and dead, to undo you. For us, I'll burn in a crematory oven: not love's fires which burnt their poems: not loves gone cold which had me in thrall -the floodtide of sperm and blood, mixed with anathemas-, but of wood and for you. Death, where's your victory? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Three French quatrains Translation of Etiemble s Trois quatrains francais by T Wignesan Three French quatrains, Translation of Etiemble's Trois quatrains français by T. Wignesan Fly …fly! For Sylvie (Etiemble) on the occasion of commencing primary school All cats are school-goers watching a fly fly but the teacher caught the fly: one should seize the collar. October 1978 1.Narcissus For Sylvie who came late to the mirror stage, but who has since made up for it… (1981) All ducks are Narcissuses kissing the ends of their beaks. Comes the solstice's rigour: the ice clouds the dry mirror. 2.All ducks are Narcissuses kissing the ends of their beaks. Comes the solstice's rigour: the silt clouds the dry mirror. The Frog Translation of Etiemble s quintet La grenouille by T Wignesan The Frog, Translation of Etiemble's quintet: La grenouille by T. Wignesan (This quintet rhymed: ababc might in its propos - perhaps in its imagery and allusion - be based on some family history involving the tragedy over a son and the subsequent adoption of a daughter. If I'm wrong I offer my profoundest apologies in advance.) Lime-stuck last night by the frozen water of the pond, frog boxed in glass window fending off thickening waters, it's our naked daughter, heart of cold gold, shivering recumbent statue hardened: withstanding the rigours of our wars: stuck the other night by the cold of its/her times. This's our hardened son who plays the frog and to himself lies, caresses sharks, courts a female cosair puts trust in spurious air which entices and captures, flimsy trapped game strangling us by the collar, frogs petrified by the fright of our times. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once crazy Coot in spring chased female Coot Limerick: Once crazy Coot in spring chased female Coot Once crazy Coot in spring chased female Coot She squawked and shrieked and refused the suit: He dived and swam up close Then bit her tail and rose: Jumped, did his bit and didn't give a hoot! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The drowned man Translation of Etiemble s poem Noye by T Wignesan The drowned (man) , Translation of Etiemble's poem: Noyé by T Wignesan (Etiemble who devotes some pages in this only verse volume to translations was a stickler to the practice of reproducing the original in its form, metre and prosodical structure, a methodology I find quite useful, on the one hand, and pedantically futile, on the other. " No man is perfect" , an axiom which could easily apply to both poems and their translations. In my view, it is not the translator's duty to improve on the original creation nor is it to re-create another poem based on the original. Where the ambiguity of sense arises in vocabulary and syntagms, the translator has to make a choice, albeit even a personal one. End rhyme scheme of the original: aaaa, bbcc, dede, fgfg. Syllabic count irregular, roughly around eight, give or take one or two.) The sea, its games, its lights of jade, its crazy sheep, cheerless foam obsolete languages, their countless watering places standing open-mouthed, all their harbours nets of steel where sometimes an insignificant strip of my fingers signed my passage through these harbours underwater strewn with cadavers, all these actions in which I lose myself and find myself always strong(er) all these abysses where you hope to find in vain the last port and which vomit you via an hiccough towards shoals and their setbacks, towards their beaches, their precipices: non! it's not for the sea to imbibe. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 On the Beach Translation of Etiemble s poem Sur la plage by T Wignesan On the Beach, Translation of Etiemble's poem: Sur la plage by T. Wignesan (The end-rhyme scheme of the orignal: abb(b) a, cdcd, efef, ghgh, iijj, klkl, fmfm, nnhh) How good-looking he was this spy all studded with sea-shells, that the sea disgorged on the beach (that the waves buried on the beach?) at the very moment we departed this world! Anemones for his eyes, a clam instead of an ear, a bouquet of algae for haïr. Long, hard, white and similar to those statues of salt, for every tongue a cuttlefish bone whose caress rough and dry awaited only a venomous kiss. Clothed only in sand whose fever and the shock of our death had turned to wood our lips, we called into question the treasure: « English? - French? - Nazi? - Who knows? But Young, Oh! yes! Drowned, that's for sure; doubly drowned: the mouth open for the ultimate gulp of green water. How tenderly you leaned forward to seal the ancient eye-lid, that a tear, born of your needle-eye, heavy, colourless like stone trickled from his mouth: the honey suave! - « Oh! the sea anemone flowers, there, unfolding their double rainbows, bubbles of rubber easily stained; look, I killed him! » « Fool, I said to him, admire with me the prodigy, and the proud perfume of his body the body of a deceased still faltering. » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Journeys Translation of Etiemble s tercets Voyages by T Wignesan Journeys, Translation of Etiemble's tercets: Voyages by T. Wignesan For André Gâteau (End rhyme scheme: aab, ccd, aab, eed in the original, the first and third tercets beginning with " Pour vous…" and constituting one complex sentence each. One would do well to bear in mind in this poem that Etiemble was the foremost authority on Arthur Rimbaud's poetry.) For you all over I laid out my oases, all their date palms in the tiresome desert without wells, where the salts of nitrous valleys, for you* only and your hollow hips squeaked with the leaps of camel calves. For you only I stretched out the fine lace of the poplars over the blue shirt of the nights and scoured out of this bone the winding sheet of dead stars a place to lie as long as mine. * " tu" : second person " you" . © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA QUINCE This Bad Guy World COPLA QUINCE: This Bad Guy World Don't Bad Guys think of after life Knowing Good Guys will do no harm: See if they die Good Guys pluck from their backs the knife Say karma used the Bad Guy's arm: So there's no lie What if Good Guys defend themselves Defend the lives of near-dear ones: For after life And found nothing remained of selves None will reap true comeuppance: Karma or non-life © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Dreams I Translation of Etiemble s poem Reves I by T Wignesan The Deception of Free Verse: Dreams I, Translation of Etiemble's L'imposture du vers libre by T. Wignesan (From René Etiemble's only poetry collection: le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash sixty years of poetry) . Paris: Les deux animaux,1984, pp.123-126.) Yet He, who contemplated his incandescent world and the sterile streaming of the lava, drunk with the swirling of the primal incense dreamed on… His shape, during that period, took on all forms ten thousand beings milling in him, inexistants; the amoebas mixed with gigantosaurs awaiting the hour of the amoebagigantosaurs. How you were divine, God, before the Creation of your own non-being, before your sacrifice, your suicide, how divinely monstrous: I see you such as I was you in your entrails all the bodies of all the fishes in all the seas in all ponds, blossoming on greenish scales of mackerels, the fins shining on roaches and red fish, in all the wings in all the albatrosses feathery in all the skies, the wings of all the chicken, walking on the thousand feet of all the scolopenders on the four hairy columns of mammoths, of rough rhinoceroses on the four legs of lambs on the two feet of all pterodactyls of all ducks, of all humans, on the rings of all the earthworms. Your voice which charms deaf rocks more than songs of future sirens sometimes raucously roared; your caresses bill-cooing turtle-doves trumpeting strident when your ten thouand mouths opened. Therefore, hermophrodite inseminated by its universal sperm the Being bearing plants and beasts, all and the woman whose womb as yet to be formed dreamed in this way: The scintillating effervescence of granite, of basalts, of diamonds freeze into position thus: Mountains of rock, organs of Titan, cristals of fire. Collapsing clouds, rapid cataracts tumble down abrupt stony walls. The earth swells valleys mother earth made pregnant by ferns of great shadows. Ocean rivers sweep along continents open into flanks of mountains' heroic holes pour a freshness of love on thirsty roots… the first pollen grain pollutes the first pistil. The first flesh dazzled by the light sketches the quiverings of joy that will be. Two lives lie in the wet clay two lives ten thousand lives. The eye - without becoming the enormous dreamer - closes over this total image of its death sees the saurian ichthyophages horned beaks with sharp teeth shivery mammoths all the theory of winged horses winged men men without wings Me And I, on this earth where I was dropped by mistake In your dream however much I raised my eyes higher than the clouds, however much I scrutinised the celestial transparence however much I could recall the person who in your entrails I was as you no more do I see your face in its ten thousand true Facets, nothing more do I hear the rustling of so many snowy and metallic scales over so many feathers. Nothing nothing more… " No! No! Not this reckless Golgotha! God! You are mistaken. God! I surrender myself (only) to you yourself." But the winds wailed with the wolves " Tough luck! " " Just as well! " At last my egoism refuses to accept the cross the spear and the sponge with the venom Why then every evening the same stars entice themselves into the self-same ponds? Stars, make yourselves scarce! I know all about you and your promenades. Too docile, horses offer their jaw bits on flanks where spurs caress the necks. Water which flows so miraculously so fastidiously servile: seas part themselves, alcarazas freeze lips. Every night when fatigue overcomes me with sleep the sun retracts its golden claws in order not to derange my sleep. Drunk with power like a Ceasar like a Nero like a Caligula I make myself small " O! such as I was you in your entrails allow me the remembrance and the regret." © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once Chaplin wanted to play Brando Limerick: Once Chaplin wanted to play Brando Once Chaplin wanted to play Brando So he hired a walrus for duo Walrus refused to shave Lather's scent far too grave: Chaplin played Hitler with moustachio! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The deception of free verse Dreams II, Translation of L imposture du vers libre by Rene Etiemble The deception of " free verse" : Dreams II, Translation of Etiemble's " L'imposture du vers libre" by T. Wignesan " Free verse, free not to be verse" - Audiberti My love is not blue like a lake my love is not blue like a sky but red swollen with blood and of ire No lapping sounds of oars playing out a nocturne Bienne lake or that of Bourget ever beat out the loping of my heart My love's neither blue nor like a lake nor like a sea of oil In the cauldron of boiling oil a witch throws in a thumb and the formula My witching love sputters and bursts out stinging these busts and this lip red Vehement like a she-demon it dances in a mad whirl My left temple wails with the furious ocean which rumbles under my pillow What ships wreck in this sunken heart still bleeding of all the hearts it peeled bleeding bodies of the young girl And this heart weeps over its deaths Like those on All Souls' Day the old hoary woman weeping twisted up into wailing somersaults which pad the cries of skeletons clinging to rapacious granite My heart beating on the pillow muffles the voice of the friend which begged the evening gone by " Tell me it's not over yet! " And like the ocean cowardly I collapse into my bed to better listen to the tolling of my temples and my heart a delusionary song of joy. Signed: Jean Louverné (pseudonym) (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 (Translation Haikus with commentaries by Etiemble Translated by T Wignesan Haikus by René Etiemble, with commentaries, Translated by T. Wignesan (Taken from Etiemble's only collection of poems (out of thousands which he burned in a fit of rage against the university in 1983) : le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash: sixty years of poetry) . Paris: Les deux animaux,1984,158p. He had also published a critical work on the haiku.) 1.Epigraph strictly intended " for the heart and the ash" : For fear of dying of leaving dear ones behind he did die of fear (As the above seventeen syllables, which forced themselves upon me in October 1983, do not contain any latent kigo nor patent kiregi, I can hardly claim they make for a (proper) haiku. Let's simply pretend that they are made up of seventeen obsessive syllables. Page 15.) Pages 92-97: 2.Haikus for Konrad CZYNSKI, Columbia University in the City of New York: Millions of diamonds: sun shines on this freezing rain. Thousands of dead trees. " The length of the haiku which does not permit itself to be laid out with blank spaces within its three metrical units, (yet) here in France and elsewhere is presented as a tercet; I insist on preserving its original form and thus have let it run over two pages (in one line) ." P.94. 3.Not a cloud in sky. pond pitter patters: downpour? burnt grass scent fills air. 4.May winter be late on these white flakes of April! Petals of flowers. 5. (a) Milling sea anemones carnivorous under sea: my field frozen under. (b) Milling sea anemones carnivorous under sea: field of frozen white. (c) Milling sea anemones carnivorous sea flowers: my field frozen under. (Etiemble says even Basho didn't always respect the 17-syllable count. And adds: " Basho may never be able to say that in this page he didn't recognise and approve (at least) ONE haiku! " Page 96-97. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Offering, Translation of Offrande by Rene Etiemble The Offering, Translation of " Offrande" by René Etiemble (Quatrains rhymed abab, cdcd, efef, ghgh, each line made up of eleven to thirteen syllables. Etiemble is wary of free verse as we shall see in the next posting. From his only collection: le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash: sixty years of poetry) . Illustrs. by Hiro Soumita. Paris: Les deux animaux,1984, p.43.) For you! Here are the hands more scarce than chance the nails of my fingers remain in bud which never shed their leaves and agonies of perfumes there fuse their aromas with the roses of Menton. Here for you my arms, weary of so many wars so heavy to bear, so many sent to concentration camps, that the flesh looks lifeless where of late it sagged in cribs for winter, in chains for summer. Here for you my breast (did you sense it so close?) made heavy by sorrow and this darkened core that the most beautiful nipples in their flesh cock of the rock achieve fullness: the cause of their desperation Here for you this yet unformed abdomen which age nor love can wound: Ah! Don't let it worry you even a bit, forgetting your death by drinking its mirage and to want to die by drawing the screen! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 A French Narrative Poem, Translation of Narration Francaise by Rene Etiemble A French Narrative Poem: A wren comes to rest on a reed after the storm - Dialogue between the bird and the shrub. Translation of Rene Etiemble's poem: Narration Française (The very first poem composed by Etiemble while a student of Class 5A at the Lycée de Laval on Octobre 14,1921, i.e., when he was only 12 years old. The poet provides the two pages on which they were written in his school exercise book. The poem is rhymed abab, cc, dede, afaf, agag, hihi, ff, ajaj, kjk, flfl, each line made up of eleven to thirteen syllables. Amazing maturity! In a footnote, he states that in 1983 during a fit of rage against the university he burned a great many of the exercise books he had preserved until then. T. Wignesan) The storm has abated. A wren Arrives wings a-flutter close to a felled oak tree And shivering with cold, his feathers stuck together He alights gently near the vanquished giant. On the reed dried up by the shining sun, He tarries all surprised and says to him into the ear: " This terrible north wind has wreaked but havoc Even the haughty oak tree has been cowed And you, you are upright. How might this be? That the life of him whose powerful crown Spread proudly over the forest has been uprooted? The reed replied: " And that of the mighty Is it not cut by the imploring Park As an ear of wheat by the scythe of a yokel? The oak which you see, bleeding there, laid low, Addressed me in this proud language: " Poor little reed You are unable to bear the weight of a wren And the softest zephyr bends your back. Nature has made you the plaything of her desires Under my protection you would suffer much less For the north wind to me is only zephyr My Caucasian summit rises to the highest point My dense foliage provides shade to the child And my powerful branches extend up to the firmament." " Don't you believe it, I said, that you can resist All kinds of hurricanes. Your proud ridgepole Will fall perhaps sooner than you believe. When the rain and the winds turn the soil to mud My frail stalk bends but does not break." Just as he was uttering these words a furious wind came a-blowing At first the oak tree trembled and then finally was laid low. " Thus dies, he said, this proud giant The king of the forest at least a couple of centuries old. Then the sparrow dry and whistling Went away looking for his brothers and to them related this story. Signed: R. Etiemble © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Nothing to hide, Translation of A coeur ouvert, poem by Rene Etiemble Nothing to hide*, Translation of a poem: " A coeur ouvert" by (René) Etiemble For Jeannine (Later in life, Etiemble suppressed his first name, ostensibly on account of the accented " é" ending his first name and preceding the accented " é" of his surname. The poem is dedicated to his second wife: Jeannine Kohn who taught literature at the University of Tours and survived the world-renowned Sorbonne comparatist in 2002. See my poem on Etiemble, titled: " Front door, side door, back door: Which door might the Confucian take? " in PoetrySoup.com, PoemHunter.com, OccupyPoetry.net, ZCommunications.org, etc. This poem, one of a dozen or less which have survived a " fire" , according to the poet in a 1988 video-interview with the famous literary journalist: Bernard Pivot, is from his only poetry collection: le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie.) The steps taken close to you in the forests, the steps mounted thanks to you even higher in me, have at last enabled me to descend into my true self far from the summits and peaks where I strained to reach the sublime and the eternal snow: delusional eternity, as much as in these books, where out of my essence only the waste I let go, and where I couldn't free myself of infantile fantasies safe for the pitiably only end in order to somewhat survive. Today more than in days gone by, fodder of this deaf existence! What matters to me is to live with you: only with you. A thousand glory years of mine - of a sudden - I'll exchange for just a day longer in your hands, in your eyes, in your hair: and through these the sweet scent of stew! For you will have yet for the upteenth time taught me that true love never resembles l'Hâmour*; that it draws us to the earth and flings us into the sea; that it cultivates lowlinesses, illnesses, that the cries of sufferance and those of voluptuousness mix by rustling in the darkness of our days; that the cross to bear matters to lovers that we are, a married couple, in this waking dream far more than the affected smile of " White teeth" ! If by chance their eternity were to exist, I'd make little of them by cursing myself to death and in this way to have you betrayed after fifteen years, of bodies, of spirit, of loyal hearts, but of a love and of ill-chosen words which plastered you with wounds which made me suffer far more than if I were inflicted with abscesses and ulcers, a love that I enjoyed better by far than follies which I had inanely sublimated into wisdom epicurean. In fact that of eternity: the void. I will therefore never have the time to punish myself for this lapse in my love: by my death. (at Broussais,1977) * " A Coeur ouvert" : literally " Open heart" . * Hâmour: A French surname and/or a select brand of tea and coffee. I must confess I can't quite make out its connotations, if any, in its comparison with " true love" in the same line unless of course the comparison is made to stand out against something of ephemeral value. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Villanelle: Hope not hope against the landing of the craft MH370 Villanelle: Hope not hope against the landing of the craft MH370 Hope not hope against the landing of the craft The sky is deeper than the oceans of the earth The last voice you heard does it come from the loft What goes up must come down be it just on raft The longer you wait the dimmer must grow faith Hope not hope against the landing of the craft Days stretch into nights till lights dim dark on raft He who knocks from the other side knows true mirth The last voice you heard does it come from the loft Man's meanness to man cannot be Maker's graft Two hundred thirty-nine ways show World the truth Hope not hope against the landing of the craft Million dashed hopes founder by scion in graft Too many the mourned lives roving lone the earth The last voice you heard does it come from the loft Sixty years of a cover-up now erupt In the face of those modelled by Master birth Hope not hope against the landing of the craft The last voice you heard does it come from the loft © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake: Part Thirty-Six The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake: Part Thirty-Six Hardly had the CS drawn tight the net round the mosque and lake The red phone on his desk at the Préfecture signalled a break Through at the Orly Airport end: " Guests from the Near East: ARRIVED! " Protocol required their being transported for Prophet's sake! The Foreign Office rushed to proffer red carpet treatment with gloves But the Princes refused to board the suburban trains in droves Roads stood blocked choc-a-block so helicopter commutes were proposed: A landing pad at Carrefour de Pompadour if the Lord approves! And so it came to pass but the Princes stopped at junction sign-posts: " What's this? " Prince addressed his French Agent: " Hôtel des Postes- Banque de France, Hôtel de Police, Hôtel de Ville, Préfecture Hôtel du Département? Why haven't you bought these hotels as well? The billions we pay in costs! " " Your Highness! If you'll kindly pardon me, these hôtels aren't for sale! " " Well, never mind Hôtel des Postes! Buy me Banque de France sans fail! " " I'll see what I can do but it might take a pretty penny or two! " " That's no sweat! For fifty years or so we'll pay in gas and oil! " " As for the last entertainment consignment my retinue still complains! They got stitched and patched up fifteen-year-olds for their pains! " " Your Highness, that's the age limit down here since laissez-faire! We'd be hard put to find a virgin over ten in these terrains! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limericks crochetes: Once a Policewoman put on road duty Limericks crochetés: Once a Policewoman put on road duty Once a policewoman put on road duty Ate heart out thinking of rival beauty So she pinned a ticket On rival's car bonnet: " Take this: your engine's old and filthy! " Said rival to the policewoman: " Under the hood I may be common Yet in shiny carcass Ride many a jackass Who pay(s) your fines in diamond! " " True enough! " said she who was jealous: " No wonder your sinus pipes leak pus When key's in ignition - Fumes cough up munition." " Think! What/Who jitterbugs in my octopus! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake: Part Thirty-Five The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake: Part Thirty-Five Chief of Staff commandeered the Lake Restaurant and Sailing Club Setting up mass long-term cuisine facilities for Robo-Cop Turned Swimming Pool amenities into canteen facilities Took over the now vacant Lycée class-rooms as rest-room club As someone said within ear-shot: " He has bouclé la boucle! " Added Galapago Rani: " He sure runs a tight ship schedule! " Chief Executive called him up: " I can come for seven hours." " Sir, best to stay put: Never know what's between now and next poll! " The drones and sound-barrier blasts of fighter plane practice runs Have died down in the distant swan-song red-eyed horizons And Maghreb prayer for the Faithful was drawing to a close When the now less-than boom-voiced Commandant edged by entrances Seeking to confront the Holy Mullah with the Writ's purpose Black-beaked Bernache geese stretched sleek clarinet necks to hoot opus: The Lake's sacred even-song anthem bidding one and all adieu As the wintered Sun still majestic drew woollen curtain cloak close CS ordered check-points to be set up at short intervals In the Robo-Cop five-strong ring round the Mosque's exit portals Lest the " Miscreant Poet" sneak out in chador black by night: Dainty Robo-Cops were rushed in to frisk chador-clad mortals! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake: Part Thirty-Four The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake: Part Thirty-Four Sea Anne-Anne Queen in between managed to make it to the Chief's car Helped by five Robo-Cops she charmed with fine-timbered voice of star The Chief (C) feared being quoted in his official capacity: « From an anonymous source close to the SCCOO! » Urged Galapago Rani: « O! Anonymous Chief! Be assured! » As the camera focussed on his reflection on glass blurred. « Could you give us first the composition of the arching SCCOO? » « The Chief Executive heads the Crisis Council of the forces armed, « But immediate decision approval remains in the hands of CS. » « Who else? » « Yes, co-opted members include various ministers: Interior, Defence, Transport, Justice and Foreign Affairs. » What about the Prefect and Mayor? » « Only as consultants! » « Yes, as Mayor and Chairman of the Regional Authority He has been made head of the Department of Casualty: His Ambulance Corps must by foot first to the Metro du Lac Till Metro Echat thence to the hospital of the Faculty. » « Jesus! That'll be the Day! Since coming to this terrain Several of the media fraternity suffer from broken brain! All cobbled paths and pavements in these surrounds make for pitfalls! » « Besides, » interpolated the Chief, « if it weren't for rain! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limericks crochetes: Once an Outlaw wished to abide by the Law Limericks crochetés: Once an Outlaw wished to abide by the Law Once an Outlaw wished to abide by the Law He married sister to Officer Law - Then he went to college Now lawyer in village: His in-law divorced to marry Outlaw! He took her case up to Appeal Court The judges pronounced the divorce naught So she joined the husband To form the In-Law bund To trap couples in marriages fraught He thus named his law firm: In-Law & Co: Specialists on marriages broken by law - His clients were divorced Payment by cheque not forced: Outlaws lawyers in-laws knocked on his door! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake: Part Thirty-Three The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake: Part Thirty-Three Just then out of the arboured portals of the hotel emerged the wily woman Clad head through bent back to toes in black silk bulging gown She thread her way through free-flying curses to reach Darling Dears There the Arabic she picked up through sucking Maghreb rivers overflown Now stood her in secret stead to hoodwink jasmine band of Dears: The Chief had to warn Robo-Cops not to succumb to their lures For such sacrilege could in an instant flare Jihadi fires So he bade Robo-Cops to keep to the rear with their gears The Chief of Staff (CS) took things into own hands to set up SCCOO: Supreme Crisis Council of Operations to lead succour Moved relief Robo-Cop contingents on to the playing fields Along the swimming pool and sealed off the hillock's back door Moved heavy artillery on Prefecture hump overlooking mosque Authorized overlake Bastille Day practice flights at dusk: Fighter planes' red-white-blue smoke streaks drew gasps from assembled crowds And gave the Franquist woman in chador chance to sneak in mosque While some Faithful steeped in Maghreb prayers shook in fear inside The wily woman murmured under burqa state of the mosque divide The Chief (C) wanted her to approach the muezzin's tower steps: « Nothing doing! » she spoke into micro: « All sealed cordon-tied! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once step-Father gave daughter away Limerick: Once step-Father gave daughter away Once step-Father gave daughter away But first exercised his rights of sway Droit de cuissage decree* Gave to Wife repartee: Doubled their joy now in every way! * In European feudal societies during the Middle Ages and thereafter in succeeding centuries, it is thought that the Lord of the Manor or Seigneur of the Serfdom arrogated for himself the Droit de cuissage, i.e. the right to sleep with the bride of a serf on the wedding night. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once an intrepid Olympian Limerick: Once an intrepid Olympian Once an intrepid Olympian Craved for anthem gold on the podium Games after games came fourth So sawed his arm in wrath: Won at Paralympics gold and odium! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Thirty-Two The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Thirty-Two Late afternoon. Doldrums. The waters stood still. Was She asleep? Lady Lake then drew her petticoat up to scratch Her shins deep. At Embryo Islet the siesta-bound birds stirred and squawked. Did matters of Form and Faith plague only minds of men who weep? By the spindle Mairie tower wobbled the defiant Sea Anne-Anne fleet: Galapago Rani of Pharoah's Independence Square feat Set course for Pubic Isle with her staunch camera women But the sail stood limp while Lady Lake puffed Her exhausts down feet Undaunted she threw rustic baguette crumbs to lasso swan cob Then to cleave becalmed waters she enticed the cob lob by lob: Austro-Hungarian Empire looked forward to Waterloo - Glides and jerks moored her boat on Pubic Isle to ensure her job From the port-holes of the Préfecture's seaside ship liner shape Keenly-trained eyes watched her moves with great approval for her shape: Chief of Staff thought out loud if she could pose questions for their lot The wooden bridge to mosque meadow looked saggingly out of shape Yet again the Commandant strove to clear his throat Writ in hands: " O! Wise and Learned Mullah! Would'st Thou keep Faith in these here lands! The dire day wanes fast while this Writ stays unclosed hard and fast…" " STOP! " cried the Imam. " Maghreb calls! I must hence to avoid bandhs! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once queer Duke insisted on Serf Thigh rights Limerick: Once queer Duke insisted on Serf Thigh rights Once queer Duke insisted on Serf Thigh rights* So bridegrooms replaced brides on first nights: Droit de cuissage* then free Duchess claimed repartee - Since newly-weds rush to castle in tights! •In European feudal societies during the Middle Ages and thereafter in succeeding centuries, it is thought that the Lord of the Manor or Seigneur of the Serfdom arrogated for himself the Droit de cuissage, i.e. the right to sleep with the bride of a serf on the wedding night. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Thirty-One The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Thirty-One The Tent-Vendor's son kept whining and wailing on the road Such that none could even hear their own thoughts mocking aloud: " Now what doth yon Sirrah untimely break open our contained Faith! " Exclaimed the High Prelate, white crown-band an overwhelming load " Sire! " called a yea-sayer, " He crieth like some thwarted fiend! For - says he - his war service won him neither medal nor friend." " And what might that service be? " - thundered the Imam all fired. " At thirteen ball-bearing catapult blew a légionnaire's mind! " " Allah! Forbid! Come to judgment! Free this miscreant's soul! " All around the sacred ground ‘Insch'allah! ' echoed the Faithful! Eyes fixed on sky, the Imam cried: " Can such be true? " Loud silence reigned. Up stepped the Commandant, " Yes, Your Holiness! Word, deed and all! " " Our files attest to this forfeiture: he now works for us! On the list of the Franquist Woman he collects détritus! " " Our mind boggles: why wouldst thy sworn enemy now be thine? " " Thwarted enemies make the best enemies of enemies! " " Sire! Whilst we are on the subject, I beg Thy condescension: Habeas corpus ad subjiciendum… Ibrahim's son…" " STOP! Will'st thou refrain from thine use of Canon and Sceptre! Here on consecrated soil it's beyond our comprehension! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Thirty The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Thirty While the Mullah versed in the Hadith and fiqh harangued his flock All over the milling crowds outside plastic cups did hands lock By four even before the dazzling Cyclop-eye pierced the gloom The mosque's Administrator convened a crisis meeting ad hoc: " Be it known from this hour forth no more couscous nor green tea Will be served for our stocks - thanks to chefs - stand consumed empty The hallal shelves at malls' " Square-Oven" and " Prix-de-Chef" stores Stand undermined transparent since noon this Faithfuls jamboree! " The King of Morocco promised his palace tea consignments The Begum Ali her weight in gold for present requirements Local residents boiled water to brew other sachet scents A steady stench rose like humus vapours for lack of toilet vents Rowdy commotions outside drowned the holy deliberations To bring the harrowed Mullah out on the Faithfuls' positions: Braying half-Turk clad in jellaba borne over heads by hands Wan Quixotic head with beard wobbling through elucubrations: " Set not this Tent-Maker Miscreant on consecrated land Let drop this putrid loin of meat on tarmac or public sand! " " Sire! " quoth the Administrator, " This be no Tent-Maker's son! Forsooth, he's of no other than the Tent-Vendor's vagrant band! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA QUATORZE: This Bad Guy World COPLA QUATORZE: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys all bind stand together Engender their kind forever: Love each other Good Guys think alone they matter When Bad Guys approach they scatter: Get run over Countries get ruled by both the guys But Bad Guys push for unjust wars: Peoples' bodies Media people make the most noise Decide - for the People - sans mores: Wars boost countries © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limericks crochetes: Once a French Goncourt telecast live Limericks crochetés: Once a French Goncourt telecast live Once* a French Goncourt* telecast live: " You don't write from knowledge of (knowing) Life. You write from reading books! " Prize won for swagger looks? Or longest novel on unlived strife? Who takes the Cup for creating lives? Should Shakespeare not read Plutarch's lives? Nor Cervantes adventure? Greek tragedians Homer? Watch! Which kurti* Goncourt henceforth survives! •Once: Elisabeth Quin's " 28 Minutes" on ARTE channel, Feb.28,2014 •Goncourt: Premier French literary award(ee) •kurti: shirt (kurti) hanging out of long pants (salwar) , Indian style © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Nine The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Nine " Sire! " cried a lame yea-sayer: " I know this mad hookah addict! " " Then drag him here by the scruff of neck be it hook or by trick! But first when thou seest him Jap-slap him before and after! " The unfortunate crony jerked crab-wise for fifteen slabs of brick: And came toppling back: " Your Holiness! What Jap-slap really mean? " " Slap him when you first see him and then slap him after seeing him! " " Oh! How might that be, Sire? Right at this hour Abdul dreams deep! " " Well, pluck him from Widow Zaynub's lap! Shake down his heroin! " And even as blood thawed in dragonfly under water veins The dribbling pitter-pattering rains unclogged the stubborn drains Hidden stifling demons shook ominous wings to draw the veils The shroud of mists lifted over the assembled hosts' terrains To reveal the pent-up currents of mystifying self-hood: The Commandant strove to confront the prelate in the right mood The Imam caught up over and above sacrament duties While Robo-Cops and the Faithful hung fraught by their livelihood Regional Council convened in the Mairie spindle tower Chief of Staff rounded up forces' heads at the Prefect's bower The Writ-Server constrained sang: " I must this behest unload…" " STOP! " cried the Imam, " I must this very hour conduct asr! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA TRECE: This Bad Guy World COPLA TRECE: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys evolve best in big banks Where they can stack gold in coffers Minting money Best cover: secret service ranks Where they tighten screws on others Their conscience free Banks dish cash to Bad Guys to probe The inner workings of Internet vibes For Lords country Passwords adds suck into their globe They nail you down to chips with bribes: Resurrect flee © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once a fine Fireman on night shift Limerick: Once a fine Fireman on night shift Once a fine Fireman on night shift Called home to check if wife was adrift Called alarm post number Rushed home helter-skelter Found his wife on fire doused in the rift. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Eight The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Eight Other media meanwhile busy with who's sleeping with whom Relying on New-Sweep and Thyme to make loud front-page zoom Mainly of those who leapfrog into top power palaces On whether de Beauvoirs or transvestites be given more room Dohr took dire toll on the High Prelate's laboured vocal chords And just as the Chief pow-wowed with advisors and legal boards So did His Holiness with a delegation come from afar The results as well as can be expected turned out: Discord! The wily Franquist woman counselor slammed the Chief's car door And bee-lined the barred gates of the trysting hotel's portico The Chief sent Commandant in hot pursuit of bent-backed woman Scarf drawn over pockmarked scalp limpet-mouthed suction sore As the dohr throngful of the Faithful streamed out queues formed for asr The Commandant waylaid the Imam come out for some air: " …ad subjiciendum… Omar…Tent Maker's prodigal heir…" " Means thou Umar ibn Al-KHattap…Exalted Caliph Sire? " Non-plussed the Commandant looked hard at Writ in his thick hands: " Your Holiness! Be it thy pleasure to peruse these commands! " One yea-sayer read aloud: " Oooo..maaaar ibn al-Khaaayyaaaamm…" " Who? Must be that drunken half-Turk by rich widows favour finds! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA DOCE This Bad Guy World COPLA DOCE: This Bad Guy World Of all sins crimes the crying shame Make one more life damned to the grave Be yours the last Don't kid yourself just playing game You fell into trap made for knave No love will last Look at it this way: make the most Save pleasure what's there truly left That too lasts not Let the Bad Guys shout out vain boast All they want is more through MORE theft Leave them the LOT! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick croises: Once a loud-mouthed Sergeant-Major Limerick croisés: Once a loud-mouthed Sergeant-Major Once a loud-mouthed Sergeant-Major Joined Cold Stream Guards to troop colour He kept wondering why He heard not himself cry Until he took bearskin helmet off ear! So he left the Lilywhites Guards To lounge around the ‘Frisco bards Beats made him bleat poems Sans use of micro-phones: What he heard made him rejoin Guards! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once a lone House Dog led a dog's life Limerick: Once a lone House Dog led a dog's life Once a lone House Dog led a dog's life Always wondered about life with wife Day and night heard House gripe Master duck Mistress swipe Happy his kids grew up sans his wife! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Seven The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Seven The near-full Moon at night lit the lake up majestic proud More than the fissioning Sun at noon could make out contours loud Scurrilous exhausts tore down Her lush flanks and flustered chadors Eyes peeled as Vollschlang curves of the Darling Dears bulged their shroud A lone garden warbler perched on cutting curve of the Crescent Over the tinted panes of the muezzin's turret casement Trilled kyrielles of cascading notes one upon the other As if to notify the world of the essence of sacrament And Lo! The gilded orange rays streaked through the soaking gloom And caught the assembled crowds in a burning feverish bloom Rings and shafts of stabbing ricochet lights pierced drooping eyes To remind the colliding forces of self-benighting doom! Those who would Our Sun pluck out of the sky to own Must of needs also sweep up into their arms the Unknown: Countless suns which burn and die through aeons of blinding light Cannot yet make the Human Soul feel Man is not alone! This need to feel secure in the bosom of the ONLY God Is it the sickness of the Soul? Or the weakness of the Word? Or the play of Light and Shade to keep the Truth well hidden Far, far away from the Human Will to subvert the World! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Six The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Six Soon all the rooms at trysting hotel were for years booked through By pilgrims from Mindanao and Minangkabau to Timbuktu Saudi princes bought the hotels at Carrefour de Pompadour Kings of Malaysia with retinues planned long séjours Sea Anne-Anne's " broken news" chartered all the sailing club's boats The Mayor sacked the Accounts Chief for failing to raise the rates Sea Be-As put out feelers to buy the Pompiers de Paris All-Cheese-Seas-Roar made a secret pact with the mosque's prelates All-Lions-Fun-Press opened offices at the Préfecture's terrace Bee-Bee-Sea late as usual wanted a Royal Palace So they got the Queen to confer Lordship on the Président Beings-Port set about organizing annual matches face to face Between Robo-Cops and the Darling Dears clad in chadors On one condition: they all fought it out in the lake outdoors Just then His Holiness with his yea-sayers strode out for air When boom-voiced Commandant pounced on them with Robo-Cop jaws: " Pray! Esteemed Prophet's Emissary! Lend me thy sovereign ear! Habeas corpus ad subjiciendum this writ makes clear Miscreant Tent Maker's son Omar doth s'installe à demeure… » « STOP! » ordained the Imam, « I must forthwith lead the dohr prayer! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Five The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Five The Chief Executive gone a day doubled back to Hexagon From Arcadian fields where old " friends" feasted the traditional bond Took one look at road map and declared an Etat d'urgence School boys and girls jumped up and down and gave thanks to High Heaven Léon Blum chicks on the way to lycée swooned at Robo-Cop feet While the Darling Dears in chador silk black looked daggers to greet All around at lunch break the Faithful assuaged hunger slaked thirst The mosque's restaurant was caught short of green tea and couscous treat Far too grave a problem rose with the need for instant relief Spring stayed yet far away for wet winter to come to grief Leafy bushes still being scarce nor tree trunks of decent cover Long queues formed at public conveniences or where grows belief On the routes and roads shops hotels restaurants and gas stations Took a toll from urgent users of their private dire motions Though none could stop cirri of turds piling up on pavements Nor the armies of street vendors with pizzas in demi-portions From down the route the gypsy camp a pebble's throw away Steamed sullen women and hapless children up and down the way Crying ZAKAT with extended hands from pilgrims come to pray While Robo-Cops exchanged places with a relief force in array © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Four The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Four A chill-marrow scowling wind rushed up abysms of the South Rumpled Lady Lake's sparse dripping tresses splashing up Her mouth Gushing fountain raced down the waterfall crumpling eye-lashes And slurped the choppy tide into swishing slopping mammoth Trillion cursing harpy screams raged down her full furrowed loins And set feathers wildly clapping where Embryo Islet joins Pubic Isle: aborted marsh of reeds and rushes cypress grave Where now the avifauna scatter chased by mythic Tiglons Some alien monster wild has escaped its abysmal rest And shakes and shatters the moribund year as if in jest Doors slam windows swing and crack as the beast goes howling past Is Zhen the Eldest Son still snug in autumn's arms as guest? Over the stranded cases of milling flesh cracks a rude blast Has Qian woken up his heir with the thunder clap at last? Was it the fire-cracker to summon false Fire Horse Year? Something's let loose in this air bodes no omen fair to last! The Commandant retraced heavy steps to the Chief's guarded car Tense reddened eyes sought relenting signs in faces wrought by far Yet who in all this surging melée gave a thought to the Bard Oh! Where might Ol' Khayyam be hiding! Alone! Or on some star! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Three The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Three Is it true the sun dared cock its eye over the hillocks Nor did it with affront sink into raging Atlantic docks Such the glare of armoured headlights singeing the mist-crowned mosque Though the assembled hosts ogled the Furies with hidden locks The Faithful knelt with heads humbled down facing best the mihrab Be it on sidewalks thoroughfares parking lots or slab Calling out in strength: " Allah! Le Clément et Le Miséricordieux! " Hundreds of thousands of hungry voices rose in one gift of gab Faced down by Darling Dears Robo-Cops looked lively about them When outstepped prayer-full worshippers in composed phlegm - From out the Chief's official car rushed the dazed Commandant: " Tarry yet, Gentle Folk, bid His Holiness to our errand come! " The Senior Mosque Administrator decked in robes and headgear Spake out in measured tones grave and strict amid silence dear: " The Prophet's Servant hath just now gained his hard-earned quarters Whence at this very hour breaks the fast with sacred bread pure! " Bison Futé traffic reporters echoed " panic stations" in tears Safe for one route leading from Pyrenées to tell-tale Poitiers Retreat was no longer feasible: bylanes to broadways Lay clogged with shiny metal and armour-plated zigzag gears. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once Schuhmacher-Shoemaker from Brazilia Limerick: Once Schuhmacher/Shoemaker from Brazilia Once Schuhmacher/Shoemaker from Brazilia Made a shoe shaped like the Ark of Noah Birds and beasts of forests Fought acarien* pests Till toes itched: that's how Man danced the Salsa! * mite © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-Two The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-Two The day broke on this fateful date like gravestones pushed asunder Transcontinental wagons hooted their humming blared thunder The Faithful six million alerted to the confrontation Made their way in unison to the muezzin's call yonder The lake's squadrons of Bernache geese trumpeted in response Took to swooping in formation along national routes dense The Faithful abandoned their vehicles and bikes at will Once they converged on the citadel at siege with incense Even pole stars at noon hiding behind clouds claimed no rights Congregations of men and women choked the portals' lights More than plain portables buzzed during sacred ablutions Plane loads from Maghreb to Middle East had Orly in their sights Even as the last words of chour sermon filled Faithful ears Jellaba white under black overcoat chador black in tears Strode out to form thick walls of human flesh like parapets Sandwiched between Robo-Cops and theirs furies of chanting Dears They came by plane by cars by buses till arteries choked Till crammed railroads and metros screeched under loads unlocked Clutching Hadith books they sang or murmured psalms and sayings Pilgrims treading on well-worn Compostela routes unhooked © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty-One The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty-One Meantime the Faithful gathered for prayer sans delusions His Holiness excused himself for the usual ablutions -- The Commandant backtracked to an official car for pow-wow -- Lights dimmed as indoor lights were turned on for inspections Starch stiff blue-black uniforms and sleek arms rallied round the mosque Throttled roads with dark coaches and cars loomed rocambolesque The sullen force trudged in from the east over Her matted tresses Town and national route entrances choked with armour and lock Within the hour as prayer murmur surged up to the dome Polished cars of expensive make gathered as pious gnome On sidewalks banks driveways all roadways had chockfull become Till even the national route alongside to standstill succumb His Holiness at the forefront of flock strode out in regalia While all around the standing blocks rose faithful echolalia: " Our Lord Master of Security bids us thus announce: In the Name of the People: Habeas Corpus inter alia " On Sha'ban 27,1431 A. H. mentions This writ one miscreant ‘Omar' given to calculations…" " STOP! " declaimed the Imam, " I have to proceed with chour! " And thus turned on his heels to lead the congregations. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twenty The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twenty Trillion pin-pricks of the sticky mists surround the mosque's turret Shrouding the pallid angular slabs of the Faithfuls outlet: Even the muzzled pit-bulls marshaled out in the cold winced. At the sharp tweet of the Commandant's whistle car-lights uplit Like some otherworld Xanadu the mosque loomed ethereal Floating on fizzing cloud mists in a sky turned surreal: " Awake! And unbar the portals, " boomed the thick-chested Chief, " Dawn's disapproving face frowns down upon us in denial! " Some penitent come for early fajr prayer called out in fear: " Who art thou in armour-bound black hidden by helmet visor? Is this some Garth Varda come to task? Or some Spielberg quest? The cock summons not the day nor doves huddle in the clear." " We've come to serve a warrant for the arrest of a miscreant. Go! Tell the Imam forthwith! Wake the Holy Incumbent! " So hollered the Commune Chief's barrel-chested Commandant. " Grand Officier of the Légion d'honneur, pray be patient! " Silhouetted against shiny walls stood the stout robot force Not an arm stirred though eyes stayed peeled with ears to the boss When into headlights strode the jellaba-draped Prophet's servant: " What heinous crime hath brought the Caliph's wrath down upon US! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Nineteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Nineteen " Not that I had not spied your tulip-lipped doting jasmine airs Nor the way your wraith-like form take me back to sumptuous fairs Of Samarkand yore whence I dallied with dulcet-toned damsels Just that my incognito pursuit here had little need for flares." " The sombre air you cloak yourself in to much deceit succumbs, I pain to endorse the waste your ivory casing entombs. Come! Let's conjure the day ere the lurid night-half lengthens, I would you were mine to confide ere summer solstice enthrones! " " Now I'll this reconnaissance to Our Lady Lake entrust Know thou well my light-foot Maiden being of like-nature must. Time is but a secret door like-minds might easily unlock: Be it days or years or eons two hearts in one bind robust! " Alas! Alas! The Ol' Bard's message bobbed up and about Lady Lake's unctuous raiments buffeted by squalls in bout; The tulip-lipped Lass unawares thought no more of her act Till the Mairie's men-at-work fished the bobbing bottle out! The Men of Paperasse studied the Bard's note in all duty haste And drew the conclusion: ‘Secret messages across time's waste Confirm the guilt of one and the other from distant powers! ' The arraignment was drawn up, signed and sealed with wax paste. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Eighteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Eighteen Even as the lower rubbed its dazed eyes over Her hillocks The light-foot Lass of Lahore made her way past the boating docks Past the Marie's dank reedy banks over Her heaving breast Tip-toeing over the complaining boards of Her nose-bridge locks Hugging a bottle labeled " OMAR" where Her bust cut an arc - A left-behind lame garden warbler tweeted its dirge dark While the doe-eyed Lass tilted the bottle at the water's edge - Her own secret message to save the Sufi Khayyam from wreck: " Oh! Illustrious Beacon of the Saljuk Empire! Pray! Let me so much as I might deign to sing sans lyre! The WORD is out: Your Eminence's proscribed by penal mettle: The Republic's Procureur Général wants you in pyre! " " Your humble sister begs your esteemed bardic indulgence: Two fitful summers gone past we did cross each other's presence Me a mere slip of a girl from yon Ghaznavid Empire Heard the clamorous reed warbler's Himalayan penance! " " This bottle with the missive I know the Lady of the Lake Will to you waft: tidings dire as to keep me awake Through bitterly biting lonesome nights you stumble and rove: Take heed! POLICE cycle-brigades have tripled round the lake! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Seventeen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Seventeen Of late the tepid cold only rebousse poil her coyness Nowhere the slushy mud caked into strands of crunchiness Even the over-mothering coots let their chicks roam all alone Sand and soil slop in swishing puddles down her tress fullness Darkness bloomed along her gamboling Riviera façade Window-panes like so many cryptic poker-face cards invade While amber-lit promenades reflect once debutante gaiety Now swans sail in wanton jerks into the late evening jade Cocky sea-gulls from far-off cascades spurn the land-locked lake Screech and caw like white-crows and bully bread crumbs from swan beak All over her borderless skirts droop stems and stalks fading downcast And the froth and foam gather at the Prefecture's northern gate Was she ailing in the meniscus all summer to icy spring? The promenade of choice girding the Prefecture like a sling Stayed slammed and riveted with the gate gutter over-flowing Some said ‘twas the asylum seekers broke into the building To rob official stamps and cartes de sejour to gain false entry Others less scrupulous thought Omar the culprit roaming free Said some the Procureur made out a writ for his instant capture - Abetted, said they, by the Resident Maid - our Bard sans country! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 COPLA ONCE: This Bad Guy World COPLA ONCE: This Bad Guy World No such thing as the Perfect Being Even if Bad Guys prey on Good Guys Life still goes on For Good Guys learn by suffering The price they pay doesn't turn to lies When death bears down Yet should the Bad Guys give it thought They'd see they too need not have to slog And in void cry Ephemeral beings all come to nought They flit through life spans agog Not knowing why © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Politician on hunger strike Limerick: Once a Politician on hunger strike Once a Politician on hunger strike Dreamed of juicy steaks Champagne and Klondike Meantime ate humble pie And promised not to die: So they fed him caviar and the like! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Sixteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Sixteen Who dreamed this dream also dreamed he was dreaming all alone: Tail-end swish of winds barely pulled up the lukewarm afternoon Cob love-bound with pen from Down Under clad in ruby and black Emerged among mute and complacent bevy of milk-white bone Was it the dream of the Other Self? Or the love-lorn Bard's? Dreaming they'd for an instant slip through the sluice of Time's guards To ease the pain of a locked-in fateful reality bane Are there as many universes as there are caring gods? Two teenage mates promised by parents with an eye on lineage Linked in self-contained charm among feathered-kind old adage All conscious of their bridal status' precious caste crimson stakes Their marriage to recognise children romped at the water's edge Two darling loving non-Mutes on their first and last honeymoon Come from the nether world's unbroken Darwinian festoon: Bienvenue! Welcome! Sing songbirds all cloaked in cosy warmth! We drink to this untarnished couple! O! See Ol' Khayyam swoon! All knew ‘tis but the Old Bard in disguise with his Lady Lake All incarnate in stolen time during their one summer's wake: What the purest in heart desire most even stern Gods relent To watch out of envy what holy emotion can truly slake! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick crochet: Once budding Writer took private tuition Limerick crochet: Once budding Writer took private tuition Once budding Writer took private tuition Father wished him a Man of Distinction He got straight As in school No one thought him a fool At higher studies won commendation Got high-paying job in government Promotions to highest firmament Wished to be great writer Looked around for tutor Who showed the way out of predicament " First enrol in creative writing schools Where Shakespeare and Cervantes are thought fools: They didn't take tuition Abhorred imitation - Follow our advice and drool out stools! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Limerick: Once a hangman tied the proverbial knot Limerick: Once a hangman tied the proverbial knot Once a hangman tied the proverbial knot On a woman who smoked sizzling pot Tried as he could his best To take it all in jest: Smoke in pot rot the knot round the sot. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Only in democracies reigns surprise Villanelle: Only in democracies reigns surprise Only in democracies reigns surprise The majority cast their franchised rights Elect CEOs who tell fat cat lies In dictatorships the leader is wise He elects himself and appoints his mites Only in democracies reigns surprise On election day leaders on the rise By the hundredth day majority fights Elect CEOs who tell fat cat lies By end of first term majority dies Wonders how they kept the leader uprights Only in democracies reigns surprise By start of second term the voter cries Give us our oligarchy by rights Elect CEOs who tell fat cat lies In dictatorships people march in files To show they don't much care about rights Only in democracies reigns surprise Elect CEOs who tell fat cat lies. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Fifteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Fifteen She dreamed a dream all unfulfilled all through the dragging day Even while she tossed and grumbled half-starved and in dismay Two lives she lived as the swivelling Door swung through her faith Did Ol' Khayyam keep her company absent during the day Through the empty branches on her shoulders the squinting sun blinked Yet tore a dazzling path across her swirling lithesome loins inked The constant lapping and lolling currents tilling her mien Where the light-foot Lass of Lahore gravely treads lights fuse linked Doleful night or dreary day the Door swings loose on hinges As the Maudite of the Lake knows not whether Khayyam cringes At his quest to seek and save her from the blindness of fate Even as the sizzling orb blurs the horizons fringes A lone lost dove hops from one Tim Burton branch to another Damp benches under white birch trees keep lover from lover Unseen seeds shoot their hopes through decaying wheezing morasses As pigeons corner head-darting mates across her feet's lather The sluices of her invisible canal lie in limbo Each level of water rises into some alter ego Till the Door that she must cross opens on Ol' Khayyam's quest: Now her brimming breast heaves with the Bard's bold super ego! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a back-pain Man from Japan Limerick: Once a back-pain Man from Japan Once a back-pain Man from Japan Who couldn't even lift a can Went to Geisha Palace For much-needed solace: Since then does Can-Can with Mama-San! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2014 Rondelet: Scoop of the World Rondelet: Scoop of the World Scoop of the World It's not what rich Advertisers say Scoop of the World But yacht golf formula one gold Where scoop-searching Journalists stray There the Readers cannot say, " Nay! " Scoop of the World © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a gay Roman bored Emperor Limerick: Once a gay Roman bored Emperor Once a gay Roman bored Emperor Sailed Near East as great Conqueror Queen there married brother Was this a great bother? He married Queen to have the Other! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a true benign Pope wore iron Cross Limerick: Once a true benign Pope wore iron Cross Once true benign Pope wore iron Cross Ate humble pie dressed white spoke not lipgloss Other Lords reigned in pomp Caught in their cool aplomb: Up Calvary got seared into steel Cross! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA DIEZ: This Bad Guy World COPLA DIEZ: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys all organize - strengthen To give lone Good Guys a bad time: Their raison d'être If Good Guys don't resist - weaken They'll only be adding to crime: World will regret Envy cunning greed slander Tools of the Bad Guys' stock-in-trade: Make them mighty Should Good Guys stoop in ways similar Bad Guys will leave their safe stockade: Make world filthy. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Barrister hired a Spinster Limerick: Once a Barrister hired a Spinster Once a Barrister hired a Spinster To work his pump short of a sphincter She bought piston and nuts Fixed up the leaking guts Then Spinster married Barrister's sister. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Fourteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Fourteen Even sea-gulls mistake this lavish lap of water for sea All day long their cries betray their delusion so eerie Circling and swooping and settling on her deranged graces Coming in with wild winds this day dismal and dreary Cannon fire: a shot? Pigeons by the dozens take wing Atlantic sea-gulls shriek and circle above her hovering A squadron of bernache cravant takes to the air trumpeting The alert blares loud: the Lady of the Lake is whimpering: " Murder! " " Vile iniquitous act! " proclaim madly hopping crows Shriek hell upon her tummy in motion: " Everybody knows! " Grebes and coots dive to bring up the truth: " Dark purple poison! " Behind tinted glasses Men of Paperasserie in throes. Enticed inveigled lured to her fallen tripped entrapment Her cervical and lumbar discs verily out of joint No many-splendoured rays of the rising and setting sun Reflect the rhododendron dews of her irises glint Only the lone Bard of Nishapur hears her anguished quails: " They see not the heinous hurt of the hills dug into dales Nor drink they pure geothermal juices of the guts of the earth: Here must I lie die till Sister Seine flows into my entrails! " © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA NUEVE: This Bad Guy World COPLA NUEVE: This Bad Guy World Bad Guys multiply on their own Faster even than the microbes: They fascinate Though they cannot thrive on their own They need to feed on Good Guys' lobes: Just hibernate Summer solstice up to Winter Let them bask fry in howls and scowls: Feel not pity Left to themselves they'll waste blunder Watch that hip swing from bum to jowls: Nitty-gritty. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Thirteen The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Thirteen Oh! Woe! Woe! On pubic islet the dirty deed's done Bloodied needle leaves stain the Zen-rock cobbled garden The derelict torn womb spills seminal fluids on the ground Fallopian tubes shredded by the elements count down Her mons veneris rough-scaled and crushed by bombarding rams The cicatrised wooden ramparts no more serving as soil dams Not a lamina of palmate leaf even so much as shaking hands Where the maple tree once swayed to vulva-lapping tom-toms This soggy desolation of mud and gangrened charred rock Three weeping willows drooping wan lifeless at the water mock Where even the wild fowl desert the juicy period spoils Tell-tale signs of the Lady Lake's pilloried grief in stock Where the surgeon's thrusting irons reigned now stands the shiny bridge Three dark as dungeons evergreens bear lurid witness knowledge Of an unwholesome demonic deed done to the locked-in Dame Look! That Ancient Bard of Nishapur will surely acknowledge! Hark! The tulip-lipped Lass from Lahore walks downcast on stones! The Maiden of the Main lifts her head to utter bye-bygones! Pale Ol' Khayyam still roams dreaming of the Dame of the Lake! Yet the foul deed still resounds up to the highest heavens! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Steppes Chief Mongol in a loose hose Limerick: Once Steppes Chief Mongol in a loose hose Once Steppes Chief Mongol in a loose hose Tried to jump Great Wall with horse and Rose Horse kicked hole in hose goal Chief bored hole in the Wall Guess who licked Rose red-in-the-nose? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 MERRY XMAS to ALL Soupers! The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Twelve The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Twelve As one solstice surrenders its last gasp of warmth to winter The Lady of the Lake's icy grip tightened over her Still yon Dreamer of the Deep blew smoky wisps over coiffure While rodents and rabbits scurried through warrens to stock their lair All night the scowling harpy gusts scoured her furry skin Bourrasque après bourrasque pour bourrasser la Dame sans fin Slates of icy hail jabs slammed into her tortured sickened flesh Whiplash after whiplash thundered into her tender skin For what crime Gorgon-headed harpies come to make her pay For what sin or debt of karma centuries cannot repay Window shutters shook and shuddered by wildly whining winds Is there no remorse fit for her vengeance from this mournful day Whoever cuts this life short must to the sexton explain If his judgement at the time was less than willingly plain A man once jumped into the water arguing out rescuers Or was it the Lady of the Lake with hungry hands of rain Now weeping willow lemon yellow leaves litter her face And the bare frilly lindens' have turned the sod to fudgy lace Along her belly brittle branches collect the year's regrets As Ol' Khayyam's astir in his tent with the wine of disgrace! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Big Chief Indian called Count Big Toe Limerick: Once Big Chief Indian called Count Big Toe Once Big Chief Indian called Count Big Toe Always counting loud fingers and big toe Big toes said they worth: Two! Small toes wanted that Too! Cut big toes: Now called Big Chief Count No Toe! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a London Bobby wore a bobtail Limerick: Once a London Bobby wore a bobtail Once a London Bobby wore a bobtail Little girls pulled his leg by the tail So he cut off his leg They pulled his other leg So he cut off his head to keep the tail. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Eleven The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Eleven Once a wounded turtle dove ground out its pain in a bare poplar When autumn sunset bid bitter farewells to the lone star Three black liana lassies trudging homeward swayed to strains: ‘It's not a second, Seven seconds away, ' from Africa One swore she saw the Bard linger by the reedy marshes ‘Just as long as I stay, I'll be waiting, ' at her haunches Where the Préfecture's tinted glasses ricochet sunset sadness Where the long low wooden wharfs burst pyrotechnic gushes Here where her weedy mud periods foul barnacled autumns Where sharp shafts of icicles shoot shut her twitching bottoms And in her gripping gash the killing cold relent geothermal Sweet Nature yet watches over the Maudite Maid of Dungeons Where the Bard of the lost astral eye keeps vigil in his tent Astral pebbles skim over her sleek seductive juicy rent " Ghalatan Ghalatan hami ravad ta bun-i-ku" No sign of her release at day's end when autumn's old and spent Oh! Stay yet with Ol' Khayyam! Ye! Dream-tongued Lass of Lahore Lest he pine waste away let dry poesy's wine ever more While the lush Maiden of the Main dreams on for all silver tongues The stuff of such dreams as stuff universal words into Law! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Ten The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Ten Of late dying yellowing orange rays glint through the turret Where neither muezzin nor mullah bids the sun to set Lyceen lassies in threes swear by a ghostly figure A gaunt gray-bearded lean man with hollows for the eye-socket Amble past their school his eyes fixed past the lake's horizon Not one amidst the believers chanting on Fridays the orison Decked in white djellabas, black gilets and leather sandals Vollschlang women in wobbling overalls shuffling by their men Some say there he stood the Bard lone long at the swimming pool Others, nay, he passed oblivious the Boating Club's rowing school His glazed eyes as in a mystic Sufi opium swirl The mad red poison coursing his veins for a long-pined girl He wafted through trodden paths of dark red cranberry bushes Passing as though through the unsuspecting strollers in bunches Sometimes he'd tarry to gaze at the waters along her supine spine And just as duty-bound waft towards where dipped her eye-lashes Alas! Not for Khayyam the chant of the murmuring masses Nor the bouncy cadences of West Indian steel band noises Nor the drunk-driven drumming of the marathon stompings Only the eerie wailing the Maiden of the Main voices! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Lucy met Heidelberg Man Limerick: Once Lucy met Heidelberg Man for Nelson Mandela Once Lucy met Heidelberg Man Then Neanderthal and Peking Man Tortoise said to the Turtle: " Where's your doggone girdle! " " What a disgrace to my race, " said Bushman! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Nine The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Nine Staring sun perches on Créteil hillock hump and dazzles lake Waves slop through tingling streaks of furrowed light dance quake Blinding nuclear fissions in a cloudless cinematic sky Sparse streaks of ephemeral jet trails cirri overtake Over the wings of silver shafts flutter in the distance Two troupes of gulls some on wing others squat circling aisance Where eddying currents trap bream and trout going berserk Ashen yarrow tuft fur heads lean over complain nuisance Single-mast sailing boats across her breast to and fro streak In Parthenon pillar curves chart their collision free trek Aranjuez violins and guitars serenade the lake As the light-footed Maiden of the Main skips for Khayyam's sake There on her luscious tresses the Bard lay stretched in her curl His eyes glazed from too much wine and pining after one girl While she lies cloaked in dreams of golden spires and marble domes Worlds where nectar words with absinthe in phials gently twirl Tingling spring sensations invade the lake's deciduous stench To remind Ol' Khayyam of his infernal thirst to quench All that glitters lasts not even a single winter's day Yet at dusk Créteil Lake stirs and winks one sly eye, the Wench! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Eight The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Eight At her feet gather daily plumage dark white to brown leather Pigeons geese crows sparrows larks and wild ducks in sunset colour And the resident owners of the waters by the fleet The snow-white swan-lake ships gliding majestic in clover Every day come older women with children or decrepit With sling bags stuffed with golden crumbs of yesterday's baguette Some Berber women with sacks of semolina for couscous All to seek good works at her feet where waves lap up and beat Where the lazy louts of the spoilt winged clans wait on one leg Pretend to keep an appointment though not to seem to beg By rushing to providers with an air: hail dope well met! Till some Labrador runs amuck just missing a juicy leg Just then on that well-worn wooden bridge past the portcullis Did Old Khayyam steal in a glance a wisp of a form bliss Doe-eyed leaning on the rail in a gossamer negligee The infinitely lamented thing that's this lady all miss Once more the Lass from Lahore lifts her dark diamond eyes The breeze softly displaces the cowlick from vision's disguise Does she espy the Bard strain his thoughts fingers through his beard While the Dreamer Dame of the lake leaves without much choice! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Cute Pute in Gay Paris called Miel Limerick: Once Cute Pute in Gay Paris called Miel Once Cute Pute* in Gay Paris called Miel* Plied her trade around a Ferris Wheel Rode them roller coaster Spun them on wheel later Got lush cut on fines for police squeal! * •Pute: stands for " prostitute" in French •Miel: for " honey" in French •A new French Bill, dated December 7,2011, proposes the fining of prostitutes' clients. French law, by and large, tolerates the profession, even if overt solicitation, procuring, and prostitution of minors IS NOT. According to French law, sexual maturity is recognised at 15, but for prostitutes 18 is the legitimate age. Prison sentences range from 2 to 7 for related offences, and fines can run up to €100,000. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Professors of Philosophy Limerick: Once Professors of Philosophy Once Professors of Philosophy Came together to solve human folly Each defended his birth In his school of thought's worth So with fisticuffs they split hairs to flee! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Seven The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Seven The balding weeping willow by the Prefecture Gate's railings There where on drowsy summer's day gather swan and goslings To unfurl and let fan the crisp ensconced feathery quills Litter and scum frothing in a creepy morass of leavings Yarrow stalk mats faded leaves sticking to twigs and branches Skewered tins dead fish collapsed beer cans plastic bags bottles Shredded rags browned-off yesteryear's papers broken toys turds All fizzing curdling in unholy pot au feu stenches There where her knee-cap juts round the firemen's helicopter pad Along the shin-wobbling cobbled promenade laid rough shod Signs of her sick bowels cling to the nostrils and sticky soles Or is she with baby taken her tummy heavy with pod Had old Khayyam goosed her during abandoned sleep numbness Caring less for her image than her breeding will confess Or did she dream immaculate conception to walk the plank Even before returning cranes cross over to Loch Ness Alas! Deep in her longing quest the lone siluroid dreams More than all the poetasters of Isphahan Khayyam convenes The sun at four burns sickly upon her breast and collar bones Woe to the Damsel in distress the Poet forsakens! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Six The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake- Part Six Awake! Dour Dreamer! And draw the curtain of benumbing clouds Fairies hover by ears to whisper mantras dispelling doubts Already unheeding magpies cluck rudely tongue-in-beak And trans-continental flights from Orly pierce through rain clouds Good hour or two has gone by since Metro Lac broke loose Gardiens de paix drive into the buckle of her tresses noose Barnacle geese strut at her feet preening proud feathers sleek Mullahs wash their feet by fountains gushing djellaba loose Murmuring Berber prayers from cowed heads rise to the skies While lyceen innocence dries up on loud tutored lies Do hotel beds lost in arbours get bought for sleep or trysts Stompings on her esplanade nose-bridge: she frets and defies Wake the dreamer of unwholesome dreams and set the hour right! How long lone and stricken chained beneath the main tight! " What ails thee beneath thy furrowed frown! O! Prisoner of sin! " The tent-maker's son still roams with galaxies drifting plight! " Lift that gorgeous head just once: let us see those laser flashes That make this lake look thunder-struck even through sun-glasses! " Fitful sparrows in hedges and eaves seek not to share her thoughts Oblivious Mall shoppers let slip lone tears from her gashes. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Five The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Five All day she toiled to keep her knees and busts in position The Mairie's serrated metal-hearted spool of derision And the glinting fly-eye cutaways of the Prefecture She who must mind her own onions during dutiful mission: Let school-children slap her lolling belly with oars' un-silence Let schools of swan swipe and furrow her concupiscence Let darting coots and grebes play hide and seek in eddying depths And let cyclists and dogged runners trample her dire patience And when the day's work at last done prepares the earned shower Lo! a canopy as dark and dense as the Afro bowler Pulls the shroud down on her: dismal soot round the white of eye Resplendent sings the gilded orange band: sunsets in clover Restless parent coots cleave the face on the dream-lidded Lady's Surge with rage to ward off stray swans from their young amidst reeds During some purdah couples' chance of enlacement in the dark And the long breathless night returns to her adenoids She dreams the dreams of precious princesses warding off demons Her dreams fester in her clasp and spiral up to heavens In musk infused melodious gestures buoyed on lotuses Release streams of ruby wines from lutes strum by virgin maidens! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Academic got into panic Limerick: Once Academic got into panic Once Academic got into panic Asked to make rival's panegyric He copied article Sans def'nite article: Learned art he was trained to mimic. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Four The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Four Lovers stroll down her nubile spine blithely to pubic isle Where under linden boughs and mulberry spread connive smile Old and young keep parading swathed in bundles of fur wear While children romp around on tri-cycles with befuddling guile Leon Blum lyceens cart on bulging backs their home-worked chores While their waddle with rollicking bums speak of runaway mores And boys groomed fast to mature men cast lewd eyes on wives Teens no more stop to listen if the Lady of the Lake snores Colonies of campers come to barbecue on her tresses And watch some husbands kick the balls through two stumps of dresses While strained and starved-looking dames escort and watch children play In a Bordeaux and yellow toy-land sandy circus wine-press The Grande Armée of the sporting fishing clan pitch their tent On her soft flanks for solitary siluroids anglers hunt The bashful toothless mammoth lost in nightmarish dreams While cameramen stalk their every gesture in contempt At her itchy feet where Pompiers de Paris come to train Rinse uniforms, flush cisterns and fly over crested main Pigeons grumble wobble while crows flap razor-sharp tailcoats As tourists from nearby trysting hotel blink in disdain! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Three The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Three Note: I do hope it's clear to readers by now that - strictly speaking - in these ruba'iyat, I deviate from the original Persian medieval model, introduced by Rudaki in Ghazna, in that I do away with the 7-syllable hemistich and even the 14-syllable line of the couplet in order to create a longer more breathless ruba'i of my own. I adhere only to the intent and the tone at large. Apologies to Master Khayyam and his ilk. Then as the dawn comes creeping through the dull cold listless haze Shattered by nitpicking crows still in their tuxedo craze Raucous squawks remind her to take that woollen mantle off And stretch her legs just where her feet splintered the brittle glaze Yet no one had ever seen her curious darling eyes Her fronds of glaucous eye-lashes lie under thin ice On some frosty winter morn gusts shake her locks threadbare loose While some Himalayan pine bucked her will long bent with vice No frog croaks nor cicadas cut into eerie silence And the vapours of sticky unkempt limbs hang low and dense The forsaken dame dreams on as on every December morn No carbide stench of Bastille Day fireworks will choke her sense On such lone nights when joggers dare not dig into her sides She'd unclasp her python coils to search through shopping guides For sherwanis and sarees to rouse Khayyam from his cup While the svelte lass from Lahore wanders in her coils besides Come winter! Come shine! This life's nothing but a longing grind Each in his own way dying to find his own special kind If that happens, will this world be bereft of its only quest For never does the search bring together two of the right kind! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part Two The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part Two All night her troubled sleep buffeted the makeshift ramparts The flip-flop flop flop flop of her tears undermining hearts The plaintive cry of the lone crane seeking the flock heading south When it paused on her pubic lushes' warm geothermal parts Some thought she'd un-crossed her legs during the chill of the night Though the islets and reed pockets still held their primal sight Others heard her moan and groan in the dark of their tight sleep While strapped sailing boats shook their mast-heads testing their frail might Full many clusters of menacing clouds came hurrying by Hoping to caress ripe bosom and swell lap on the sly Some girl gazed past misty curtains and saw Ol' Khayyam rise On hillock shoulder where he pitched his tent to the dim sky No lover so loyal as that lonesome lass from Lahore Everyday as she gently treads to her job on the Mall floor Her dark diamond eyes carved into milk-white blushing cheeks Her tulip lips part for the tent-maker's son of Nishapur And all the glory of an opening night at La Scala Break through to greet Bonjour to our Lady Traviata She blinks her stricken eyes to turn fountains to water-falls Then rippling tummy and lolling breasts belt: Viva Aria! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Ruba'iyat of Creteil Lake - Part One The Ruba'iyat of Créteil Lake - Part One Lone gold Venus nears the sickle moon in the late autumn sky She lies naked dreaming with one leg tucked under her thigh The pallor of her silvery skin simmering with tide A lone white swan trundles on one webbed foot heaving a sigh Her tiara of amber and halogen loose by her side The gold-braided brocade and studded raiments on one side Gushing tresses hang loose by twinkling broaches on her back Heady scents from pubic island and dark armpits fester inside Wintry winds sweep through weeping willows tickling her fancy Sway clumps of yarrow stalks huddling fearless coots in colony She turns and heaves a sigh thinking of Old Khayyam's ardour Stars in his eyes and ruby red wine coursing through glory Over the mobile hips and seductive slopes of her hills Come calling Canada geese and wild duck in squawking trills All messengers from Tundra's ever clasping hoary past Will she remember you O! Omar! when freezing water kills The hoar frost wheezes under-foot along her silken robes And the lone otter dares not venture out in his last throes Even the sea gulls swoop no more for deep hugging blind fish While she slumbers through blared Canada geese trumpeting oboes! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once French Demoiselle in Bikini Limerick: Once French Demoiselle in Bikini Once French Demoiselle in Bikini Lived Moulin Rouge life en catimini Cute Eye of Hurricane Saw through naughty Jane/Jeanne: No use for bikini in Bikini. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Indian Virgin met Peking Man Limerick: Once Indian Virgin met Peking Man Once Indian Virgin met Peking Man They spoke together in Malay van North Koreans wondered What in her ear thundered Thai rebels found her fried in Japan. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a future King heir apparent Limerick: Once a future King heir apparent Once a future King heir apparent Old House stained and shredded to pennant Divorced the future Queen Married divorcee between Now sees Russian demimonde during Lent © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become Villanelle: Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become Same fate's meant for all in this thrice-nailed world Everybody's mistakes around they'll come No use crying over some lost kingdom Unless it's to prevent mistakes of old Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become If no one e'er made mistakes at random Everybody will be mean, proud and bold Everybody's mistakes around they'll come Only life on earth will be boring some Most will wonder where to live life like old Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become No life's straight nor easily overcome None can claim the right mistake be re-told Everybody's mistakes around they'll come Right or wrong the challenge is to become That person who knows how to learn from old Ask not why, how, where nor what we've become Everybody's mistakes around they'll come © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rubai'i: Umar ibn Ibrahim al-Khayyam, Omar son of Ibrahim, the tent-maker Ruba'i*: Umar ibn Ibrahim al-Khayyam*, Omar son of Ibrahim, the tent-maker Words awoke on the retina of the astronomer Unknown aeons piled dark energy upon dark matter Astral bodies all strung like sea shells in the firmament What old Khayyam saw was not what was seen by the Maker! •Omar Khayyam, d.1131, was a renowned mathematician-astronomer poet of old Persia •ruba'i (plural: ruba'iyat) : 11th-12th century Persian self-contained quatrain of 14 syllables rhyming aaba made popular in the West through Edward Fitzgerald's 1859 translations titled: The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ruba'i: The Poet, the Page and the Word in whichever order Ruba'i*: The Poet, the Page and the Word in whichever Order? The poet en face the page: unwritten words come to head Words await tongues to be formed for poems to be read Heavenly bodies stretch out seeking caravanserai En route to gauge the extent of the ruba'i's ruby red! •ruba'i (plural: ruba'iyat) : 11th-12th century Persian self-contained quatrain of 14 syllables rhyming aaba made popular in the West through Edward Fitzgerald's 1859 translations titled: The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery I I led her Her silent leg-irons cutting into my shins That day when the air stood still Dry as the day perhaps on the hill when he spoke standing still Drier still my words today of a redundant ransom of flesh: I'll take you to the stopping place Where the quiet cowled nuns make lace They run a school for well-bred girls In a cloistered fenced-in arbour There where you'd have no need for curls She turned just then seven and ten Me barely two more when She said in a breathless moan: Take me to the French Convent Here my road has come to an end I want to learn I want to gain As much knowledge as my brain Will strive to contain I had no choice I had no voice In a Chinese school which stopped midways She was the best of forty times five Where I was hoarse from English and Science She sat so close in the front row She must have felt my breath at home Her cowlick hand stretched crooked Brushed my thoughts down my mane Something about her dragging gait Spoke of late hours as a kitchen mate Or as the matron of squabbling squawking siblings When the mother scrubbed and ironed the landlord's lingerie and loins A saddened face she kept awake All through the hours at stake II It took me days and days of doubting pains To ring at last the nunnery bell And to stare aghast at a pallid face Not quite white and not quite couched in cowl To register my request The novice drew and barred the door As though I would break down the wall And as the minutes raced in anguish by And I heard the rusted pig-iron latch click open Two forbidding eyes contemplated my plight Under strictly starched and stretched folds a-sail: " Is she Catho…" she made to ask Then as urgently withdrew her demand. " Bring her tomorrow at eight, " she let her words escape. " Ring the bell at the gate." I never saw the demure girl again. Her schoolmates thought she worked for the nuns. Others: " She took some vows! " A sibling: " She took no clothes for a change! " Just before her silhouette effaced itself Under the porch of creepers dense She turned to give me a look: Was it a look of despair Or a well-thought-out farewell fair? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA OCHO: This Bad Guy World COPLA OCHO: This Bad Guy World Think you this World upholds Justice Or stands for Principle that's right Fool not yourself Everything's in place: throw no dice To make this World go round alright Fool not the Self Life's like a never-ending film With its patched-up plot come unstuck In your dream true In films Bad Guy's chances are slim Think now how real life turns his luck To win right through © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Take the poem by the tail Take the poem by the tail Dash not the Word on the rocks sans sense Avalanches bury the meaning in the rubble O'Malley came alive to prove this sound truth Not words alone can make up the poem: You can take the poem by the tail And make it rightly wail Words can't be killed not in their intent Unless you kill sense in the making first And destroy the minds of everybody else On every planet made from darkest dirt: You can take the poem by the tail And whip it to make it wail Then start all over again Burn every creature rode on wings Wore claws or suction pumps Or sheathed in slithering muscles Till the poem is turned on tail And made to squeal and rail Who spoke to the plants that lay in wait High holy stench oozing in their udders To watch the frail humming suppers Fall eerily within their butter-cups: Twist not the poem by the tail To make it cough up its mail When every parcelle de terre is tilled You still need the motive to arrest the poem That willed its worlds into being Through that chartless string of meanings: Rumbling trains of words would derail Even where it did no McCauley entail Cheat not to say it is this not that Which made the poem to make sense If you have something not jibberish to say Even phonemes and syllables will line up: You can then take the poem by the tail Yet swiftly softly will it sail. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick crochet: The Saga of Sea Anne-Anne Limerick crochet: The Saga of Sea Anne-Anne Once the Captain of the good ship Anne-Anne Took to the waves to conquer the main. Slept round the clock mid-ship Towed his women aft-ship: Yet women and ship turned on him in pain. The Flying Oarsman won America gain And tamed the raging waters Sea Anne-Anne. One cup he never won Was the Darling fourth one: A touching tale this: the tears shed by Jane! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick crochet: Once a dangling Dude got himself tattooed Limerick crochet: Once a dangling Dude got himself tattooed Once a dangling Dude got himself tattooed All over to make himself look pretty good Only piece tattoo free Was the retracting pPp: So he installed stainless steel under hood. He met a woman with scarce a stain On her svelte body smooth as satin So they locked jaws and torso: Steel piece severed in grotto Surgeons found tattooed insides: shark's teeth and fin! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo Villanelle: Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo All nations on their own play Satan's role If S/He created you, then Satan too It's the Satan in you brands other too For the Satan in the other's calls roll Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo If Satan you think freezes in igloo Tell me who made the Satan His equal If S/He created you, then Satan too Those who make nations also make igloo For sure as Hell, nations will melt in thrall Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo Nations are fine for boosting their ego At World Cup trials where balls get to roll If S/He created you, then Satan too Sink oceans, level mountains, customs too And the Satans will be caught shivering all Brand not a nation as Satan's igloo If S/He created you, then the Satan too. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick crochet: Once Swiss Miss wanted to make cake with cheese Limerick: Once Miss Swiss wanted to make cake with cheese Once Miss Swiss wanted to make cake with cheese So she bought a cow, a dog and some geese. The dog ate the gander Geese laid no eggs for her, So she locked the cow up in the deep freeze. She called up her cousin in the French Alps Through melodious yodeling yelps. French cousine long in bed Kept boiling her own blood, So she blew the long mountain horn for help(s) . Her cousine germaine, a stout dairy maid Answered her urgent melodic raid: " Put the dog in manger, Let cow sup in anger! " Eh presto! Milk turned to holed-cheese sans aid! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Mom Tigress spurned her lame-born cub Limerick: Once a Mom Tigress spurned her lame-born cub for Commandant Cousteau's son Once a Mom Tigress spurned her lame-born cub Wild Life Champ admitted cub to his club Took cub under his wing Till she could wildly spring: Club members now learn to swing the knobbed club. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Longing, Remembering the Sway of the Primal Guide, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem Carlos Bousono's poem: Recordando a pastora imperio for Damaso Alonso (Poem published in the collection: Metaphora del desafuero,1988, and dedicated to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not read Bousono's poems - I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago - before I began translating them on October 16,2013.) I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance is concentrated of a sudden in this posture of an instant, under the weight of centuries, all of its foregoing agitation, in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation: the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop onto the prey, and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant, like the form most refined and pure of such an incomprehensible paradox: velocity and paralisation, becoming more dense in the procès between Aquiles and parsimony, or the tortoise and despair… No, there is no différence, because to differentiate hère is to make a descent, while here there is but an ascent. And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly that to make a move is an intolerable imperfection for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement, to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between the fresh flames, a compromise, then, with the truth of the highest form of living, and so the dancer of flamenco remained for this reason without moving in a difficult equilibrium to see if that position, without touching it, in not moving any of the pièces, without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction, could by chance last, keep enduring there, on the razor's edge, maintain itself on the head of a pin's unlikely verticality, balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant succeeding the other, on the verge of the abysm itself, earth and boulders coming loose, and one after another in succession, and in succession… © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai, The Little Master chose to say good-bye; His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes, He whispered thanks up to high-open skies. Gods spurned earth but as living Avatar Though Sachin was not from Superman star, Yet rolled cork and leather, he hit so far Which soared not from willow but from his roar. And when his bat was laid up for the day After ferrying his side to safety bay, He donned his landscape painter's sunshade hat And took his long-on stance as humble brat. A twelve-year old watched India lose the Cup, At thirty-seven roused his side, backed up To the topmost crest in cricketing tide And put one voice in a people torn aside. A whole nation woke to the cry: Tendlya: Beggar, Brahmin, Bhai and even infidel. All drenched in the tide of common feeling For one novelist's second book breeding. Only five-foot five, strong neck in between Body made to withstand pace bowling steam: No bumper nor full toss cowered him down Not even that mean ball bled his nose brown. At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai The Little Master chose to say good-bye, His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes He whispered thanks up to high-open skies. Then the nation held its breath at ninety-nine, While Sachin knocked nineties, not the last nine To make that long-awaited world history, Until Bangladeshi ODI test victory. Over heads of cover and point with off-lifts Elegant leg glances through long-stop rifts Straight drives above umpires' dreamy heads Dashing pulls past gaping square leg dreads. Back to back boundaries and easy singles Late cuts through second slips' shocking bungles Then the home-stretch past the century post When India at last roared in burning thirst. Myriad mrthangists thumped the beat Plaintive senais by the million broke out neat Temple bells joined in the merry festival: Ton-up! O! Ton-up! No more survival! But the Champ had other ideas in sight Like the fastest one day fireworks of might, So he flashed his blade all over the tight field To rob the world of its remaining shield. Now he says forty is not really old Cricket's not the only thing to be sold: To be a god in Hindustan is not all To be a PM is not given to all. Not one vote will go to the other men Not one voice will be raised against batsmen Who put the nation on the map of runs: The man with the bat is the man who runs. At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai The Little Master chose to say good-bye: His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes He mumbled something to himself between sighs. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Waiting for the Government Waiting for the government… Waiting for the government to do some thing any thing I didn't get that. Oh, you took a space-craft out into space We'll keep our fingers crossed behind our backs… What's that? No, not at all. Don't thank us. We thank you. Don't call us to tell us if you're not coming back. We understand. We're no quid nunc. Things like this happen: every house collapses. Haiyan rushed by in a leaking hurry. Yes, we know. You told us to take flight. Hours before landfall. At least, you're safe from the likes of these mud-slamming storm chasers… What's that again? O! Your quinquennium? Don't you worry no more. We'll get that fixed, too. Sorry, didn't get that? O, you mean your tri-annual vacation trips. No sweat! Just keep going. We'll understand. What? What the… You want your luggage sent express? Consider it done. We're tearing muscle from bone. Be without care. Handouts by the mountain bales are on the way. from outer-space… Bon Voyage! Happy landing! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a School-Girl who didn't like babies Once a School-girl who didn't like babies Once a School-girl who didn't like babies Thought it'd be better than having scabies So she engaged a Boor To bore through the stuck door: That's how she got both babies and scabies. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Biography, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Biografia Biography, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Biografia (from the collection: Oda en la ceniza,1967) Just to say three translations of Carlos Bousono's poems have been spiked. If anyone is interested, please check on ZCommunications.org, PoemHunter.com, PoemsAbout.com or OccupyPoetry.net Born. Went out. Prepared (or qualified) himself. Returned. Opened the door and closed it. Looked about. Went out. Put on his thinking cap. Came back. Switched on the light which he later put out. Very carefully took an apple which he didn't eat, and chose a chair on which he sat. Didn't look about himself: Re-prepared himself. Went for a walk. Returned. Breathed out and disappeared. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The sensation of nothingness, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Sensacion de la nada The sensation of nothingness, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Sensacion de la nada Consider, no matter what, even something agreeable falls so low: in the pureness of metaphysics, in the sublime brightness of nothingness. In the cubic emptiness, in the number of fire. It's the bonfire which causes inanity to burn. In the centre no wind whatsoever blows. It is the fire pure, pure nothingness. No being inhabited by faith, there is no extension. The reduction of the world to a point, to a number which suffers. Because it is hideous, a symbolical endurance, without the uncertain material which enlivens it. Is it the unwaveringness of suffering in itself… Like the night that never would dawn. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The throbbing of his heart, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet: Los golpes de su corazon The throbbing of his heart, Translation of carlos Bousono's sonnet: Los golpes de su corazon (According to the anthology editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, this sonnet with a different title first appeared in Bousono's collection: Invasion de la Realidad,1962, and this revised sonnet: « In its new form - the sense of the poem varies radically - it stops being a love poem to become (one of) an autoelegy. » I admit it would be futile to keep to the rhyme scheme: abba, abba, cca, bba. T. Wignesan) I know the throbbing in your breast has become scarce. Heart, slow down your passionate movement and make light the painful groans. for this body where my feelings concentrate all its love, where I feel death at each ashen beat of grave and oppressing repetitions. Let sleep your heart, cross my casing of death lowering into this dark soil and there keep throbbing in all the senses. Hark the strings! Heart, slow down your passionate movement of your grave and oppressing repetitions. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La Cuestion The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La Cuestion « …Oh! God, Oh! Centre »* for Vicente Puchol (* Note by the editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, attesting that the above quotation was not included in Bousono's Antologia poética,1976, and on the « mysterious Centre » on which the poem is a cogitation. T. Wignesan) Yes, we know it: would you like to find the secret precinct, the invulnerable enclosed sanctum, to enter through any hole into the incredible spectacle, to penetrate the labyrinth and find the powerful Centre. As if a thief could rob the totality of light to find, as I say, the powerful Centre, the absolute Centre, the immobile Centre of the tempest which moves by itself, a Centre where nothing is found to budge, where everything is absorbed into itself, like love, containing itself in itself, not on its periphery, but fully wrapped in its contents, overflowing like the apparition of a card in the suit of Spanish cards, like an enormous cup of manifestation which augments, like a wave which continues to mount higher and higher and beyond its highest limits, farther yet than possibility's horizons; and keeps growing afterwards, going on for days, and the spectacle of its extermination - the hideous knowledge and the joy of recognising its loss; and which continues growing for an immemorial duration in the direction of its own centre: terrible, like a persistent cascade pouring down its interior, a flooding within the experience of feeling well in one's being, an existential waterfall without end which retracts - having stopped flowing - inwards into its own Centre. Ai! The crucial question is therefore to enter the labyrinth, The big question comes down to making the move. Be warned that it is only an act of penetration, a simple act of transfer; it would suffice to make a gesture with an idea that brings joy, perchance it might suffice just to find water in the barn or a path in the woods, or in the woods to fall upon an exit through the hole (where we came in) , to proffer with the key to the enigma the solution of the charade, and discover the other side of the abysm, the reversal of the plot, before the roof deteriorates under probing fingers… © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Truth, Falsehood, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet: Verdad, Mentira Truth, Falsehood, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Verdad, Mentira Note: I've tried in vain to upload, since November 2,2013, the following poem: 'Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Palabras dichas en voz baja para formar una dedicatoria', so if Soupers wish to check on it, go to ZCommunications.org; OccupyPoetry.net, PoemHunter.com or PoemsAbout.com. Many thanks. T. Wignesan (Quotation: « …sino esencia real que al tacto obliga », excerpted from Lope de Vega's sonnet, « A un secreto muy secreto »,1634 in Bousono's collection: Invasion de la realidad. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe,1962. I'm not quite sure who the persona addresses: Lope de Vega, the most prolific playwright and sonneteer the world has known, some one else, the poet himself or the persona unto itself. Not that it matters, really! T. Wignesan) With your truth, with your falsehood, left alone, with your incredible reality experienced, your invented reason, your consumed yet inexhaustible faith you raise high in the open; with the sadness in which you perhaps roll on towards a haven you never felt attracted with those enormous hopes destroyed, the re-constructed like the sea its waves mend; with your dreams of love which never become so really true like the sea suspired with your over-charged heart which is born dies and is re-born, resuscitates and dies, look at the immensity of reality because there lies open the source of all your truth and of all your falsehood. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 A New View, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La nueva mirada A New View, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La nueva mirada (My own view of Carlos Bousono stems from a full academic year - from the beginning of September 1970 to the end of May-June 1971 - as a student of his at the Central (Complutense) University of Madrid where he taught the course: « Stylistic commentary of texts », but which included mainly a detailed exposition of his own theory of poetry and humour. It was difficult not to be wholly impressed by his brilliance and originality, even if I didn't quite agree with some of his principal theoretical premises. It is even more difficult to think of another poet who was an incisive and learned critic, literary historian, and a truly gifted teacher; in short, the consummate Man of Letters of our Age. T. Wignesan) Give me your hand - suffering and in pain - my old friend. Give me your hand just once more and I know at another time you were my companion, just as you had been so many times in the lingering darkness. The sea gulls crossed one another in the sky making the sea look dark through the closeness of being tormented. Give me your hand one more time, now I know what I didn't know earlier on. I know how to welcome you without rancour nor reproach. I'm reconciled to your dismal visit. Suffering and pain are embossed in my eyes: where you fashion your more than fine oeuvre, where you exercise your distress, your goldsmith's skills beyond comparison. There you deposit finally your redemption. You deposit it as on an altar, with extreme consideration, your exquisite workmanship, and you achieve in the middle of the night, the miracle: slowly into the skies, the most intricately fine jewel the golden spectacle worked over with patience, accumulated reality which accommodates itself afterwards to my new view. And this is so as of now, through your labours in the hidden cave, in the recondite lair where I suffer the throes of your febrile creation. And this is so as of now, I can see through the accustomed world, a world on fire. The burning flames take on a colour beyond the habitual gray, through the obscurity the light looks enraged, the rose rounds out, the animated crimson and yet beyond that, through its transcendent appearance, one sees another mode: transpiercing towards an eternity, a new country. A new country, immobile under the light: through the obscurity of my agitated night. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 A Partisan Heart, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Corazon partidario A Partisan Heart, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Corazon partidario for my Brother Luis My heart, you know well is not with him who triumphs or with one who entertains such aspirations as with the sworn-in trader, who lies in wait for a good opportunity, then crouches and pounces on the usefulness of such utility which is his beloved activity: looks to profit from the embrace, exacts rent from butterflies and lays out the interest in the open, collects the receipt for dawning miracles of the changing nuances of colour of an invisible and early rose, sweet and in a hurry as if it were a man or a flame or a humane form of happiness: Yes! My heart is not with the man who knows the truth, all that is needed to forget the rest that there is, content with the wind, empowered by conceit, the chancellor of snow, king by chance, but never himself knows. My heart is with him who one day, though deprived of flitting fame, abandoned by the graces that kept him going until then, during the time it takes for everything hostile to render agreeable reality itself: life being easy, the light adorable, yet to know how to say: « It doesn't matter! » My heart is with him who as a consequence, the glass which a hand of snow extends in the shade, drinks up the last drop in all clarity and without feeling bitter - the scum of the world. And afterwards, in all seriousness, way out there, in the heavens, sees with renewed eyes - the sky that is pure. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Metafora del desafuero Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Metafora del desafuero (In celebration of a birthday) for Andrés Amoros Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage and then the quiet, beggar of your conscience, hermit in the desert of your inaction, believing only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone, without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread, miserable and without grove like a boat struck by tempest but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur of this sum of experience in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic, with greying water, or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour, sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony, or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake that leaves everthing low, rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up monuments, neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks, there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country, dumb, without the notion of a language ido* all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint, irremediably left alone, but without solitude, yet you hadn't any memory of any earlier companionship, there, where no form of evocation could touch you, even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous declaration; there, there you were with your back to your own being, without seeing, without seeing yourself, even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with great clear-sightedness who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally, your knee, which happened, during this period, to occupy the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of a short distance) with it, your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot, stepping on the treeless plain with resonance, in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine, your gigantic foot, your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it, and after that, but only afterwards, your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such that your skeleton without peer, your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides towards no one, towards nothing, because later everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little by little to its initial state, and every part of your body began, by slow degrees - yes, this - to absent itself: first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex: impenitent, the object of ridicule, even if the nails continued with indifference to grow, attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more: the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how parsimoniously it proceeded, but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience, which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished surface of the piece of furniture, disorder, the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion, there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated, this area without topography where truth and lies appeared intermingled as the self-same answer to the question that you didn't pose. Oh! Beggar of your conscience! Oh! Scrutinisor! Oh! finicky Explorer! Oh! Celebrator of the unfortunate! * Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don't quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 But then, how am I to say it, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Pero como decirtelo But then, how am I to say it? Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Pero como decirtelo (To those who are familiar with the Bhakti religious outpourings in the Hindu tradition, in certainly all the vernaculars of the sub-continent, this poem and its symbolism coming from the Iberian peninsula might be a delectable surprise. T. Wignesan) But then how am I to say it since you insist on being so light and quiet like a flower. How will I tell it to you when you are the water, when you are a fountain, spring, a smile, a(n) ear of wheat, wind, when you are the air, love. How can I say it to you, incipient lightning, early light, dawn, that you will have to die one day like somebody not here any more. Your eternal form like light and the sea, scarcely lays claim to the enduring majesty of matter. Beautiful like the permanence of the ocean against whatever will hold it back; your flesh is more ephemeral than that of a flower. But if you're comparable to light, (that's because) you are the Light, the light that would express itself (and) which would say: « I love you! » that you would sleep in my arms, that you would be thirsty: eyes, tiredness and be possessed of an infinite need to cry, when you see the roses in the garden blooming, once all over again. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ascent into love, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Subida al amor Ascent into love, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Subida al amor (The first poem in Bousono's first collection of the same name, written before he was 22, sounds very much like being his declaration of « love » with life or rather his « testament » of love. A good many of the poems selected by A. D. Amusco in his anthology: Poésia Antologia 1945-1993 have been revised by the poet, himself. T. Wignesan) Pay attention to the airs, Solitary Soul! Sad soul which goes whimpering all alone. Rise up, mount! Love awaits you! The summit looms high. Limit the harness! Fluttering, trembling and pale, I see you mounting with your force held back. The sun returns where, until yesterday, the moon reigned. The moon arrives where yesterday blew the north wind. At last, life shines forth with light. At last, death is dealt a deadly blow by light. The summits sing, and so do the valleys. Sing! those who're always alive to those who never die! Face to face together with God's: listen to the airs vibrating and live your dreams! Life together with life, light bound up with loving light and the humane heaven bound with love in heaven. Lower the light of love, the light of life. I feel with ease the minuteness of airs. Let the light of God dissolve in that of the soul! How clear it all becomes at once. What silence! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ode to Spain, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Oda a Espana Ode to Spain, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Oda a Espana (before the Civil War) (Alejandro Duque Amusco draws attention - in his selection of Carlos Bousono's poems - to the fact that José Luis Cano considers Bousono to be the poet who re-introduced the theme of « patriotism » in the poetry of the post-Civil War (1936-39) era. T. Wignesan) Oh! Spain! the land where while one fighting bull assailed, another kills. Drunks flying without direction in the stars seek to ascend shirt-sleeves at the cuffs. At the meeting points of unfortunate demise and of living it up, the merrymaking goes on until midnight. Accordeons. More wine. Applause. Uproars. Whistlings. Nausea. In the midst of this wild revelry, a priest militarily surges up. Imposes benedictions and awards medals. He climbs up upon a chair. Harangues the crowd. A general rising up in the thick of battle. In the hardened and deserted arenas on the route of bitter thirst, multitudes of drunks bracing themselves against the wind, staggered at the rising of the sun. One of them was dressed as a bull-fighter. Another laughed to himself. All were dancing. ………………………………………………………… In the treeless plain swept by wind: persistent hunger, Spain stammered and choked. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 In the eye of the hurricane, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: En el ojo del huracan In the eye of the hurricane, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: En el ojo del hurracan (Ninth in the collection: Metafora del Desafuero, published - according to the editor, Alejandro Duque Amusco - not in 1988, but in 1989, was awarded the « Premio Nacional de Poésia » for 1989, on May 28,1990. Bousono, as in these later free verse compositions, shows how well he manages the long-breathed line, a clear contrast to the compact and elliptical earlier verse, say, of the collection: Subida al amor. T. Wignesan) The creatures of plenitude situated themselves holding their silence, the thrones of inexplicability, exactly, therefore, in the very centre of the eye of the hurricane: that doors be blown asunder, that windows be blown away, that agonizing bodies in makeshift beds be smothered into oblivion, half-dead widows, postmen who half-way in the act of delivering the love letter which would definitely render us joyful, the seat where the poor old grandmother was in the act of sitting while sewing the newly-born baby's pony-tailed bonnet which turned around halfway in the gusts, the hurricane which uplifted love and all that was left of love: letters, papers, leaves of music, lovers in coitus at the orgiastic acmé and the light, when it began to dawn, when the saxophone cleared its throat and commenced the beat of the dance, when everything on the stage in its place awaited the raising of the curtain, when the wedding was at the point of being consecrated, and the priest was ready to offer his benediction: « el ite misa est », when within the following few moments the inexorable ceremonial of the written formalities was about to be concluded then, as I said, and only then, the hurricane unleashed its violence with rage, the incomprehensible hurricane, and there stood still only the immoveable lucid eye, separate, eminent, complete in its entire being, that by force of its profundity had ascended to the exact point where it could redeem its guilt, the eye of reconciliation, the eye of wisdom and suave serenity, where the intact and silenced world sang adorable and yet so beautiful without us, necessary pretexts, notwithstanding, of its musical nature. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Error, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: El Error The Error, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: El Error for Miguel Delibes (There are just some words and phrases in this translation that I might yet want to modify or substitute with other alternative phrasing. T. Wignesan) There must be an error in the calculation, a hole in the sock, a trick in the game: behind our backs somebody drinks all the alcohol of the said-one and gets drunk and is unable to stand up; somebody manages to conceal the harvest's wheat and the cream of the meanings. Search. in the bassement or the dolls' quarters the reason for the crucifixion, and then be obliged to hide the powerful event behind the fact of taking tea in the dining-room, below the vine arbour or in the shade of the cherry trees. Doubtless one will find meaning behind each vile act, the mathematics of suffering where each crack of the whip is a number. Here you have the delightfulness of the encompassing of the system which provides for exclusion as well, the co-existence of both the truths, the framework of impossibility. Right here, in front of us, the superb fitting together of horror and of music stands presented, that which engenders the enthusiastic cipher, the melody of the act of birth and of death. Faintly visible from an angle/a place the beauty of water spilled over the floor, the incessant leak from the eaves trough which makes us laugh. Look! How all of us dance around the fire, we put one step after another over the firebrands without compulsion, we get close to the flames with joy, we become familiar with the cinder(s) . Here we are dancing, enjoying ourselves, surrounding ourselves with ceremony and with rites, with the rhythm which makes us get together in the moment of the cremation. Here we are without fear as if someone perhaps, distractedly perhaps, or enjoying himself perchance, had undertaken for us to magically produce pigeons full of surprise from the sombrero or in the pocket of the juggler, from the other side of an incipient horizon gone feeble, from where perchance we would be warned of it, dissimulating away those emerging golds from the topmost heights, an ambiguous error in the calculation, a hole in the sock, a huge trick in the game. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Definition of Beauty, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Definicion de la belleza The Definition of Beauty, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Definicion de la Belleza (This poem is the third in the sequence titled: « Disquisicion sobre la belleza visual », taken from Carlos Bousono's collection: Metafora del desafuero,1988. I have stuck close to the original's « controlled and assurance-instilling breathing », I hope. T. Wignesan) Yes, beauty is eternity, and transcends however the appearance of its meteor, in that instant when the snow falls and the wood becomes resplendant through its dream-like whiteness during a dawn most sweet. Transcends the vastness of space: light sovereign. Again beauty is moreover the means rather than an end and doesn't exhaust itself like an uncomfortable path that we continue exhausted upon on a dark night, compelled by a feeling of anxiety, by some inner voice, by a voice which makes us stutter and which invites us to an impossible meeting at a time of a difficult feat of contemplation. It is impossible to understand the meaning of the call, to listen with clarity to the whisperings of obscurity. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Somber psalm, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Salmo sombrio Somber psalm, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Salmo sombrio (from Carlos Bousono's first book of poems, written before he was 22: Subida al amor (Ascent into love) ,1945, and dedicated to the 1977 Nobel laureat, Vicente Aleixandre.) Do not pass by me, O! God! incognito, do not cross my path like a sky emptied of its stars, for my body turns in upon itself in flames, loving you in silence with such persistent anguish. Do not cross my path while I keep loving an obscure entity, while I continue to whimper among cactuses, among stones. So turn Your face away, Your face that I fear during such a roaring and wild night! Keep Your distance from me! Abandon me in the dark! so that I may wish to be the source and thirst of this earth in order to be able to love this twisted trunk of a body sans light, all alone in this blinding wilderness! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Fear of God, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem, Miedo de Dios Fear of God, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem, Miedo de Dios (The second and fourth lines of these quatrains all end in the same rhyme, a feat it'll be hard to maintain without appearing to be inflexible with the sound rather than the sense of the poem. This poem is from Carlos Bousono's first collection: Subida al amor,1945, which he dedicated to Vicente Aleixandre, marking the commencement of his steadfast admiration and association with the Nobel laureate. T. Wignesan) And nevertheless, O! God! when imbued with feelings of love I placed my hand in within your bosom, I felt the love which subdued me as with one wave from your kingdom. But I was afraid of the darkness that could accumulate in the depths of your mystery, so deep down where even stars could not reach. Only the penumbra. Fear gripped me. Ah! My God! With what height of pity you espied me, yet with so much love you my blindness bless for having feared the darkness where slumps the light of all the universe. Because you are the ultimate hold of knowable protection. Besides, those who love you will with looks inward train and see an azure horizon where a perpetual sunrise will reign. But here I am on the surface of the earth, here, across the floor, stretched, because I was afraid of the horrible night, perchance locked up in your breast. And a confused ignorance holds me up: crossed and brutal, impure and dried. Closed yet interminably increasing as with the hardened dead. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Poet's Task, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La Labor del Poeta The Poet's Task, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: La Labor del Poeta To Vicente Aleixandre (It might be worth bearing in mind, while reading this poem, that Vicente Aleixandre was severely handicapped by illness from an early age. T. Wignesan) You, the poet of the solitary heart, You divined from love why you're a man. You gathered the truth of the plain and your ancient eyes perceived in the depths of the horizon: silence unknowable. You could never tell yourself what miracle burned in your eyes of this blind planet, what side of light was there in your life when tremblingly you watched the fall of night in the empty extension. Because I know very well what you conceal from us. In your corner of the shade, there is a filament of light, there's a hot point of the interior flower fold and you watch it openly while the night sinks farther and deeper. Everything sleeps, everything holds its silence in the night. Palpitates yet the diminished light in the darkened corner, your celestial innocence, your most pure sense of reality. The stars have all disappeared, everything grows dark over the earth. There's no consolation that could make us feel at ease in our hearts. All of a sudden, you stand up, your coarse hands upraised to the heavens. It has taken you all your life accumulating your efforts to do this. They were very heavy, your hands, as if they were made of stone or very heavy metal. You have raised your fists in pain during the night. Slowly, they opened up with the force of centuries, of roots which push upwards. As if from under the earth, you unfurled your hands, in within the denseness of the material in darkness. And there, out there, beyond the funereal space, between the thickness of the shadow, you were able, at last, to open your bleeding fists and exhale in the name of all human beings, your brothers, that you loved the light that you saw, the slight light which accompanied you all your life. Shining cold for everybody in the light, for everything celestial or diminished: coldly shining! I cannot say if it looks like some fresh spurt of water, I know for sure it poured forth freshness, I do not know if it was like a river or a drop of a transparent river. That's some water which has flowed very slowly, which has slided slowly for your life, which has emanated from a trembling life, finding its source from old roots, from routed buried caverns. From a love rooted in buried rocks. A love for the world, for a world of anxious maturity, of short hopes, of blind effects of exterminations; a poor world of polished suffering, of sorrowful horror, of prolonged sunsets… © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 A Childhood Memory, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Recuerdo de infancia A Childhood Memory, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Recuerdo de infancia (Note: Poem inspired by the figure of Bousono's grand-aunt with whom he had had to live since childhood, after the death of his mother. Cf. Carlos Bousono. Poesia Antologia: 1945-1993. Madrid: Espasa Calpe,1993. T. Wignesan) There was a child. A child who in your hands wanted to experience the music of sunrise, feel the soft lawn, the suave grass.* Out there, in the heights, lights stuck up high. Was I about to sound the rock of its mysterious and cautious blackness? The world hushed as did also the sky. The sky hushed like a child would. Oh! My childhood dream of a river lined with fronds, My cristal flight: made all the more necessary; my constant tolerance faced with your mood changes before the grimness of your statuesque stance! Silent, stilled woman alone during the day, woman without light, the woman of long shadows, dried-up wall unable to feel pain: sheer matter. A hard, embittered woman! Further, as I watched you at other times walking about: Your enormous dress train in the sombre mansion while I continued to strike at my tenuous light. My girlish light, my suave and livid lights. Your quietude waxed furious, your parched country when crossing your path a child, even a child, always, always, like scum, the nausea… •cespedes © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 When Death My Way Comes, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet: Cuando yo vaya a morir When Death my Way Comes, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet: Cuando yo vaya a morir (I prefer the reversal in my rendering of the title for it highlights the inevitability of the moment. I have also not vainly tried to stick to the endrhyme scheme: abba/abba/aca/cac/ since in Spanish - likewise in Malay - the terminations of substantives and conjugations of verbs proliferate in « a », that is, vowels. The English language doesn't quite offer the poet such facility in rhyming. T. Wignesan) This skin, this flower, this sapphire these eyes, what'll they end up as afterwards. I would have loved you to be a moon which rides in the calm of an eternally-swishing whirl. I would have wished to eternalise you when I espied slight furrows your sweet face drown: To breathe life into you, that in your entirety you'll live on Even when you hear Death calling in my sigh. I would therefore that you keep close, so that I might touch you for a fleeting moment: and know that you are safe, erect, whole. As with the oak tree to bend the wind wouldn't dare. As with the spring - the pennant. As with the evening in its frivolous wear. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Investigator, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: El Investigador The Investigator, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: El Investigador for Alexandrito, seven months The little infant keeps watching, staying attentive: what's this. The little box, all by itself, (is) of the most engaging interest. The little box appeared full of a profound interest. If it doesn't budge, keep silent, dream, if it stirs. He turns it on its head, weighs it in his hand, thing to touch. If he gets close, it grows, if he keeps a distance, amounts to not much. The box in its listless posture does not wish to be. When moved to another place, changes completely. What you have seen, is it valid? Neither a fixed form nor norm? When moved, cataclysmic change seizes its form. Standing it upright or casting it aside, yes, he can. But what's surprising is that fall it/he can. One little box lends itself to much occupation. The teacher knows it: he has to hurry up, Or else the little box will never be found or thought up. He threw it on top of a rag, by disaster taken over: All of a sudden, the little box was seen no more. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Elegy on the Death of Vicente Aleixandre, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Elegia en la muerte Elegy on the Death of Vicente Aleixandre, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem : Elegia en la muerte de Vicente Aleixandre (Born in 1923, Carlos Bousono, a renowned prize-winning Spanish poet and eminent theoretician on the aesthetics of poetry, held the Chair of Stylistics at the Central (Complutense) University of Madrid.; later as E-meritus. He wrote his doctoral dissertation, in 1950, on the poetry of Vicente Aleixandre, the recepient of the 1977 Nobel Prize for Literature. It is evident, he witnessed the Nobel laureate's passing in 1984. Bousono's every lecture, delivered off the cuff, earned him an indomitabe world-wide reputation. T. Wignesan) In Death Eyes that kept looking so full of pain on the last day, hardly moments before dying, and from the deathbed he recalled in sadness, from far away, very far away though somewhat hazily, those days with his friends, out there in the distance of his childhood, having himself a great time, life even then being immortal, they (may have) roamed through small orchards, or through the pinewood, or the soaring heights bathed palpitatingly in the light. Then to run, concealing themselves, in the rear of some thickets, awhile: why were they not being called to yet from the house. A little later, a little later feeling really lonesome for the very last time, and that would be it. And when they put a crown on his head as on the king of the world the day when it all came to pass the king* had reigned for seven years, seven years as lord over everyone in the universe: the air, the sea. He breathed. He looked tired and the impossibility. Life, the crown, painted cardboard, feeling yet happy, later in love, in the company of those slinging shots, such happiness. Years without knowing doubt, and all that was just an instant so lonely, bitter grief real. And now the tears - he who never cried - filled his eyes, sliding down ever so slowly over his pale cheeks, soaking the skin, the mouth, and continued sliding even though he was already dead. The tears lasted longer than his sorrow-laden eyes. Much longer than his own pain. •Probably a reference to King Juan Carlos of the House of Bourbon. © T. Wignesan - Patis,2013 The Awakening, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Reveil The Awakening, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Réveil I'm back in the bosom of poetry! Decidedly wealth in the million Has rejected my fullfilment, And this's a sad denouement. As for me, the chosen proverb to apply: Water clear and pure and this bitter bread Never to go without, as with The gent strumming little tunes on the rebec! As with me the bed of problems multiply: The long white nights of darkening dreams, Just as with me, the eternal hopes Striding from mornings to evenings! So's with me ethics and aesthetics! I am he on whom poesy laid its indelible stamp Rhyming staggeringly fantastic lines In the penumbra of a smoking oil lamp! I am the soul chosen by God To keep entranced my contemporaries Through such rare and fine refrains Sung on an empty stomach, O! Serene Heavens! I'm back in the bosom of poetry. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Dream, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Reve Dream I give up writing poetry! I'm going to be rich tomorrow. I'd rather others took over the tow: Who wishes! Who wishes my double to be? Worthwhile endeavour, I dare testify: Long hours given to the promenade While attempting to rhyme a ballade, I spent late nights and far away did lie. Under a lucid and clear moon, The bridges insidiously glowed, The waters' waves graciously flowed. Paris: gay as a cemetery's gloom. All this good fortune, I renounce And I bequeath to the Young my lyre! Children! To my delirium be the heir. Me, I inherit the seductor's mantle at once. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Burial, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: L'Enterrement The Burial, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: L'Enterrement I know nothing as gay as a burial! The grave-digger who sings with his pickaxe in bright thrill The church bells from afar reverberating with their svelte trille The priest in a white surplice whose joyous prayers hardly in denial The chorus boy with his voice fresh as a girl's, And when at the bottom of the hole, all warm and snug, The coffin nestles in with the tumbling in soft tug Of earth making the corpse's eiderdown, the lucky devil's All this looks to me quite charming forsooth! And then, all those, stuffed plump in tail coats' sheath, Mourners whose noses redden while receiving tips And then, the proper concise speeches stuffed with advice rare And then, with bulging hearts and glorious foreheads glistening Hail! The sparkling heirs! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ballade: In favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem Ballade: In favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Ballade en faveur des dénommés Décadents et Symbolistes for Léon Vanier* (The texts I use for my translations are from: Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine: OEuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris: Robert Laffont,1992, XCIX- 939p.) Some few in all this Paris: We live off pride, yet flat broke we're Even if with the bottle a bit too free We drink above all fresh water Being very sparing when taken with hunger. With other fine fare and wines of high-estate Likewise with beauty: sour-tempered never. We are the writers of good taste. Phoebé when all the cats gray be Highly sharpened to a point much harsher Our bodies nourrished by glory Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever The night cradling us through dreamy waste Strewn with seeds of peach beds over. We are the writers of good taste. A good many of the best minds rally Holding high Man's standard: toffee-nosed scoffer And Lemerre* retains with success poetry's destiny. More than one poet then helter-skelter Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure; But Vanier at the very end made haste The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*. We are the writers of good taste. ENVOI Even if our stock exchange tends to dither Princes hold sway: gentle folk and the divining caste. Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher, We are the writers of good taste. *One of Verlaine's publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V. * Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912) , one of Verlaine's publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly. *Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Last Hope, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: Dernier espoir The Last Hope, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: Dernier espoir There stands a tree in the cemetery Thrusting itself up in total freedom, By no means the fruit of bereavement - Spreading itself out on stone unobtrusively. In this tree, be it summer or winter, A bird alights to trill clearly It's sad song of such fidelity. This tree and this bird do us bind together: You the object of my thoughts, I the absence That time takes stock of in evanescence… Ah! To live again propped up against your knees! Ah! To be alive again! But stay yet awhile, my lover, Let not the void be my chilling victor… At the least, say: I live but in your intimate core? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Conquistador, Translation of Paul Verlaine's tercets: Conquistador Conquistador, Translation of Paul Verlaine's tercets: Conquistador Message to fellow soupers: I have been trying to upload, in vain, yet another translation of a Paul Verlaine poem titled: 'Ballade in favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists' since 28/09/2013, so if anyone is interested in reading it, just Google it or go to my pages in other poetry sites like PoemHunter, PoemsAbout, ZCommunications, etc. Thank you. T. Wignesan (Published in « La Revue blanche », April 1894, under the title: « Mal de mer »; and « Pall Mall Magazine » November 1894. Source: Jean-Yves Favre's Paul Verlaine: OEuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris: Robert Laffont,1992) T. Wignesan My heart looms heavy as the ocean waters rear From having left behind a cherished being dear Who grows sad by the day, embittered by fear Over the oceans, alas I must depart With the heart stout and the soul stalwart Even if from the Queen exile I must out Exiling myself only to return to pasture Though much more joyous beckons the future Than thoughts of remembrances' adventure… My heart has grown alike by many a wave Pushed up in an enormous mass concave Immense breast upon which the world doesn't rave… O! so far a away to be safe from fear Yet left without care the being so dear Excepting just that which holds down one tear. I board ship while the tempest rages With this hope which keeps gnawing for ages: To find treasure which my quest assuages. To bring back to her in merriment: Gold, silver, pearl and diamond With my heart as a supplement. The waters rage, the ocean pregnant bulges Terrible state: falling and rising spasms Stooping low to make huge chasms. Struggling as though forming a tomb While with courage and with aplomb The sailor wrestles even as waters loom Meanwhile without respite the hurricane Cradled like an infant lost in dreamy bane The ocean holds to course or inhumes sane Dreaming of gold by masses and more Filling up infinite rows of corridor, For my Sovereign, my life I lay down ever more… November 1893, London © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Lament, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Lamento Lament, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Lamento Ma mie est morte. Plourez mes yeux. (from an old poet of the fourteenth century whose name escapes me. Paul Verlaine) The town hoists its high roofs Of a thousand zig-zagging hoods. A sound of joyous bubbly words Rises up to the heavens, reassuring voice. ____What this vile gaiety does to me This gaiety of the city! What vastness of peace reigns over the land! The bird sings within a great oak tree, Midday renders the plains all shiny That turn golden at the setting of the sun. ----Little does it irk me your glory pure O! Nature! With the signals of her waves With her solemn moan, Call to us the vast ocean: All of us, dreamers and sailors. ----What do you want again of me Sonorous sea? ----Ah! Neither the waves of the Oceans, Nor the countrysides and their shadows, Nor the cities of ceaseless noises That giants raised over lands, Nothing will bring to life my beloved lover O! So long in deep slumber. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Epilogue, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Epilogue Epilogue, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Epilogue By way of a Farewell to « personal » poetry. Paul Verlaine, March 1895 (Towards the end of his rather short and tumultuous life, Verlaine in this poem - after composing somewhat in the manner of his times by distilling his own expériences in rhymed and fixed stanzaic forms - makes us believe wishes to put an end to his « personal » compositions. He died of pulmonary congestion on January 8,1896. T. Wignesan) So, therefore, Farewell Dear me-Myself That which decent people have held to blame. The poor people! Who put much love to flame Remain much flattered (Lady, as when she loves herself!) Farewell, Dear Me, joy and chagrin Of which, it seems, I spoke of far too much That no one wants more of: I have done with such. From now on, I must my Self drown. In the heart of hearts - how might one holler? Of Impersonal Art, and to take a dignified stand That I assume a cold-blooded stance, To celebrate you! O! Walhalla! For, Buddha, to celebrate your rites And your customs in all countries! And as for those of my country, O! Ssh! Talk of your drawbacks and your merits. And in breath-stopping plays Amidst novels put together synthetic Or, well, in the manner analytic, Stretch myself out in stupefying tropes! Farewell, Dear Me-Myself, out of work I feel the numbness of the tomb already Casting sneaky glances at us through beauty On towards a project for unique-headed Art Farewell! Heart! No need for more fare-thee-wells: This's a little like mud somewhat Piled up on one's austere Head - and over Art - What with these « unresolved farewells ». © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Prayer, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Priere Prayer, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Prière (One of Paul Verlaine's later poems, after having gone through early success as a poet, love, family life, and yet another kind of relationship with Rimbaud, crime, prison, drunkenness, unrequited love, divorce, and intense inner turmoil. T. Wignesan) Here am I at Your feet, conscience-stricken as I should be. I have known all the misfortune for having lost the way And I have no more hope, and I'm without joy anyway Excepting for one woman in whom I place holy trust, and whose worth be In my eyes more than anything else: hope and well-being so gay. She's goodness itself, she knows me from years and years ago We shared days of gloom, bitterness, jealousy and guilt, But we kept on going together, without any truce, towards the ineluctable hilt. Swayed from side to side, buffeted, at the mercy of all ebb and flow Over the sea where dazzled the twinkle of stars' favourable lilt: Openness, the awful lassitude of sin Without ever having to repent, nor wishing for either of us any pardon… Well, this sprouting sense of peace, wasn't it after all Your kingdom, Jesus, whether you wish I repent withdrawn, hidden? Grant us our wish which cannot but be Your own. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Prison Souvenirs, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Souvenirs de prison, March 1874 Prison Souvenirs, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Souvenirs de prison, March 1874* (Verlaine was sentenced to serve a term of two years in prison for having shot his erstwhile lover in the arm/hand, the legendary poet Arthur Rimbaud, ten years his junior, on July 9th or 10th,1873, in Bruxelles; yet he was deeply in love with his wife: Mathilde, left to nurse his son in Paris. He was also sentenced to a month in prison in 1885, following a complaint by his mother and another Dave, for drunkenness. Cf. Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine: OEuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris: Robert Laffont,1992.) About a year now and more, I haven't seen the butt-end Of a newspaper. « Could the « Blue Library » be sufficient? Sometimes I tell myself, despite myself: « Would you have believed it? » Oh! Well! One can't die for the lack of it. First of all, it's undigestible a bit, A little bit too insipid, the experienced eye gets angry. But the spirit! Since it laughs and triumphs, lets it be! And then again, it's a patriotic pleasure, besides being salubrious: Not to want to know anything of this century turned murderous And not to continue to watch during this last spate of trance This abominable agony which plagues La France. •There's a reference to Verlaine's letter to Lepelletier, dated August 22, 1874, and poems titled: Vieux Coppées. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 London, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Londres London, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Londres …a serious and well-behaved Englishman, well-attired, handsome clothes (Victor Hugo) (In this poem, I didn't feel adhering strictly to the rhyme scheme would have served a higher purpose. T. Wignesan) One summer Sunday when everything's bathed in sunshine London turns into a real feast for délicate souls tuned in: Trees strong and rotund from frail lawns sprouting Tender green, an air far from mists and gases grows fine. So much so they appear to be planted in pastoral country Limpid sunshine feathery in the fine sky, though blue-ish Hardly. One feels as if in a bath where wafts The perfume of a lingering infusion of tea. Ten-thirty, the hour of interminable services Divine. Thousands of melodious bells toll through the air Sonorous and volatile as though seized by strange caprices, The psalms of David come snorting through clear fog. Such silvery tintinnabulation that one hears not in France, The country of intensely tolling bells of bitter bronze Strike up a concert that's most sweet, instilling of hope and joyous Though perhaps a little too sweet, one must there fear Hell. Tolling bells again greet the afternoon. Men in queues Well-dressed women and children glide rather Than walk, hold to their silence in a selfish manner With their voices reserved instead for exclaiming amen. All this people look pleased in their stiffening posture Clasping, even if mistakenly, to their profession of faith And their Protestantism being alike rough and spineless Makes some look even set right above the reach of the law. Hopes of the true christian, Peter's ever-widening fish-pond, Fish ready for the Fisher who may count on catching them; Holy-Ghost, God Almighty, let pour Thy light on them So that Jesus' worth they might at last come to understand. Six o'clock. The drinkers find their way to the refreshment room, The family its «home » and the street's abandoned to God: And in the dirty-looking sky a few stars look quite lonesome Foreshadowing rain over homeless beggars out in the cold. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine's La Pucelle The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine's La Pucelle To Robert Caze* Even as the blaze crackled around the stake's pyre, Joan was deafened by the clergy's brutal chanting, Harsh eyes with hate from all the windows demeaning, She felt her flesh quiver and her soul budge on fire. And like lambs that resold to the butcher expire The shepherd roamed with country airs whistling She reflected in earnest on things and being And met her lord who ungrateful did conspire. « It's wrong, gentle Bastard, sweet Charles*, good Xaintrailles, To let the English take charge of her funeral She who forced them to abandon the siege of Orleans. » And as for Lorraine, the very thought of that injury, While death clasped in its arms the non-believers, Weary! She cried out just as another creature formerly. •Acc. to Yves-Alain Favre, a journalist (1853-1886) , slain in a duel. •Charles the VII, crowned King at Rheims on July 17,1429, with the help of Joan of Arc who was then aged 15. It was thought Charles VII may not have been the son of his father, Charles VI, owing to an extra-marital affaire with a Bavarian monarch. •© T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Evening Soup, Translation of Paul Verlaine's La soupe du soir The Evening Soup, Translation of Paul Verlaine's La soupe du soir To J.-K. Huysmans (Verlaine here paints a stark tableau of working-class or peasant life shorn of any symbolic or imaginary references. Even if I see no reason to keep to the strict rhyme scheme, I have nevertheless tried - wherever possible - to retain the quatrain form. Yves-Alain Favre, the editor of Verlaine's complete works, says that the beginning resembles Victor Hugo's « Pauvres Gens » (Poor People) . T. Wignesan) The day dims in the narrow and cold room where the man Just returned, in a shirt covered with snow, and for The last three days has not uttered a word, The woman takes fright and gesticulates warning the kids by signs. One solitary bed, a dislocated sideboard, four chairs, Curtains once white soiled by the blood of bugs, A table which sags on one of its legs - The whole wreaking with an air gone long stale The man with the wide forehead, huge eyes fully sombre flame Truly sparkled with intelligence and soulfulness, What one calls a solid reliable bloke. The woman, still young, looks beautiful afetr a fashion. But Misery has laid its cursed hand on them, And in a mad tumble, they were dispossessed of what was left Of their hard-cherished honour and sense of humanity, Tomorrow, it'll be the turn of the female and the male. They were seated at the table to partake of the soup And beef, and this sordid bunch made up a group Whose shadows loomed endless invading the space around The room, the lamp burned ever bright without any shutters. The children are small and look pale though in stature robust In spite of the apparent leanness of their chests Which speak of winters gone by without proper warmth And having to put up with stifling summers. Closeby an old rusted rifle hangs on a nail And which the lamp lights up in a strange way. Anyone who would look about long in the retreat With that eye of the policeman would see Piled up at the bottom of a rickety almeirah A few dust-caked books of « science » and « history », And under the mattress, concealed with great care, Heady novels dog-eared at every end. And yet they do eat. The man, morose and fierce, Brings up this nauseating fare to his mouth Like one notwithstanding a subdued air humbles, While his Eustachian tube seems destined for other uses. The woman thinks of some former buddy Who has everything: carriage and cottage in the country, While the children, their fists dug into their closed eye-lids Slurp snoring over their bowls - the sound of imitated sobs. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 To a person, they say, frigid, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: A celle que l'on dit froide To the person, they call, frigid, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: A celle que l'on dit froide (Poem written on September 5,1889 at Aix-les-Bains, which I found a bit jarring with abrupt exclamations and interrogations, not to mention the repetitive « jusqu'à/aux » which somewhat marrs the tour de terrain of the young lady's seductive contours. The second person familiar pronoun « tu » is used throughout by the persona. T. Wignesan) You are not the most loving Of those who partook of my flesh; You're not the most appetising Of women other winters me enmesh. But I adore you all the same! Besides your body sweet and benign Overall in its supreme calm, So generously endowed feminine. So voluptuous that words cannot suffice, From the feet upwards lingeringly kissed Up to those clear pure ecstactic eyes So much for the good or better be appeased! Rising from the legs and the thighs Green fresh under the taut young skin, Your odour of medical splnts well-nigh Comes through the smell of crayfish*, looking Winsome, discreet, a soft little Thing Hardly slender or the shadow of one, Out as an apotheose unfurling To my raucous desire numb. Upto the budding nipples infantile, Peaking hardly at puberty of a miss, Upto your neck triumphant while Swan-like sail down your body Venus, Upto these shoulders lush and glowing, Surging over the mouth on to the forehead Looks so naïve innocent-looking Such that the truth may be forfeited, Upto her close-cut haïr curling as The tonsure of a handsome young lad, But whose waves, overall, charm us, The way they dress without fuss or fad. Then, going past slowly down the spine Made for pleasure undulating, up to The sumptuous buttocks, whiteness divine, Roundness by the scissor legs apt to Fluffy Canova! Upto the thighs That we salute yet once more, Down the calves, deliciously tight, Down to the heels of golden rose! Were the ties that bound us unforced? No, but they were their own attraction. Was the fire engendered by us mad? No, but it provided the heat in unison. As for the Point, Frigid? Not at all. Fresh. I said that our « earnest concentration » Was above all and I lick my lips, Something surely better than masturbation. Although this's also those propensities Which got you prepared well together, As you/they say, such improprieties, Made of me a Lodger. And I keep you among the/my women, With regret, but not without some hope That by the way we may make love when We see ourselves again, I hope! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Paris, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Paris Paris, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Paris (For those who may be interested, this poem by Paul Verlaine presents more difficulties than his other rhymed quatrains I have read, but then this may only be a personal feeling. T. Wignesan) Paris cannot lay claim to beauty but through its history, But this history is by beauty all through possessed! The river Seine lies so absurdly sheltered, Yet its bright green hue all on its own deserves glory. Paris cannot be thought gay but by virtue of its chatter Yet this loquaciousness, a teeming vulgar vice, Springs from a throng of tongues in its voice, Stirring this insipid linguistic stew into spicy banter. Paris can hardly be considered wise but by the demure Flux of its populace and its diverse factions, Even if it can engender revolutions It lies in ambush in the shade with its sense of Order. Paris can boast not just with its charming Girl Who has no need to envy those who're Exotic But for harmless wrongs and sins not quite endemic Such that they come to pass in a detached swirl. Paris thus may be held to be good but for its flighty Inebriation with lust and with pleasure, Nothing much more than a flirtation with desire Such pleasure as at the expense of a brother be duty. Paris doesn't display anything as sad and as cruel As the poet we see by the year or at random Dying of ennui under clinical surveillance Not far from the old worker fraternal. Long life to Paris, likewise for its history, For its eloquence and its Girl, naïve Products of an art both perverse and primitive And die the poet purging himself by duty! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 To Don Quixote, Translation of Paul Verlaine's A Don Quichotte To Don Quixote, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: A Don Quichotte (Poem written in March 1861 that I would Verlaine had dedicated to the Grand Dear Old Man of Letters: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra - with kind permission, of course, sought by me and which I know he wouldn't withhold. T. Wignesan) O! Don Quixote, medieval princely champion, incomparable Bohemian, Only in vain does the absurd and vile crowd laugh at you: You died as a martyr and your life remains a poem, And the windmills wronged you, O! King true! Always keep going, keep going, protected by your faith, Astride your fantastic charger that I cannot but love. Sublime gleaner, forward! - those the law wraps in moth Balls are more numerous, more staggering than bygone days enough. Hurrah! We follow in your steps, we, the saintly horde of poets Dishevelled, our heads wrapped in verveine tights. Lead us on to assault high-strung fantasies, And soon enough, in spite of every form of treason, Up on high will flap our winged standard of Poesies Over the hoary skull of our inept reason! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 To a Public Prosecutor, Translation of Paul Verlaine's A un Magistrat de boue To a Public Prosecutor or a Judge of Mud*, Translation of Paul Verlaine's: A un magistrat de boue* Remembrance from the year 1885 Dedicated to the late internationally-famous Franco-Vietnamese lawyer: Jacques Vergès (1925-2013) who likewise defied/despised less-than-upright judges and was not afraid to say so in court. (Here, one should bear in mind that when the persona of the poem apostrophises, he is using the French second-person familiar or rude pronoun « tu » aimed at the Public Prosecutor) Bugger off, make yourself scarce or rather much sooner From our land of decent folk: chaste Ardennes Go to your equally virtuous Auvergne where meander The sluggishness of your chugged up veins. Idler! get out of this Public Prosecutor's Office to polish In the literal sense Feet of others to the letter instead of anchoring slavish, By filthy Caryatid's frozen stance, In this court where you hammer away at the innocent Demanding banishment to the penal colony and jails Here where in your summing up expressed through frightful accent Worse yet than can be thought droll, Despicable lawyer who amassed, the least they tell me, For himself nothing but his inherited fortune Without which he could ne'er have earned but a penny Indeed even a thune, * You insulted me, You! from the safety of your stage, Rude, trivial, peasant! You dared insult me, Me! a Man solely by Beauty bound in bondage, Me, whom the world would with fame anoint! You talk of my morals, you insignificant chatter-box, Bereft of the slightest eloquence, Yet insults when they emanate from such a rascal's voice-box Can hardly be thought of as being of any consequence. The consequence of all this, first of all you're a sod Who knows not how not to be but a beast, Well without further ado - whereas, due to your shameful assault Pinning down a poor poet A naïve poet who may not be blamed for having done any wrong But for being this poet, Victimsed by him, subject to the laziness in him throng, Common, ugly, in his boëte*, (Exactly as you pronounce it, double and triple auverpin*) That in the centuries to come That you be damned! your name, Grivel (be bathed in shame) By virtue of this little poem. •Magistrat de boue: literally « a judge of mud », in fact is a play on the word: « debout », that is, to stand up. In France the Bench is distinguished by judges who speak while standing up or those who prosecute in the name of the People, and those « juges de siège » who speak while being seated or rather the judges who pass sentences. * thune: a five-franc coin, that is, a inconsequent sum * boëte: a fishing trap * auverpin: or « avergnat », an inhabitant of the province of Auvergne T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 To a woman, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: A une femme To a woman (In this traslation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: « A une femme », I have retained the rhyme scheme to the letter, I hope. T. Wignesan) To you these lines in faith must console I address: A sweet dream laughs and cries in your large eyes through The purity of your soul which is wholly good, to you These lines from the depths of my turbulent distress. Just that, Alas! the nightmare which haunts me hideous Allows no respite and furious, mad and jealous continue Multiplying themselves like wolves in a funeral retinue Hanging on to my fate which at their mercy they harrass! Oh! how I suffer, I suffer hopelessly, so mean That the initial whimperings of the first man Banished from Eden a mere eclogue to the cost I wean.! And the minor discomforts you may endure in comparison Are like the swallows in the sky on an afternoon - My Dear - make the beautiful warm September day a boon! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Nightmare, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Cauchemar Nightmare, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Cauchemar (Translation of Paul Verlaine's quintilla: « Cauchemar ». As usual, I have tried to stick to the original's stanzaic format and rhyme scheme. T. Wignesan) In my unfurling dream I saw it happen - The way the hurricane lashes the strand - A two-edged sword whirling in one hand An hourglass in the other This knight rider Come coursing through Germany Down through towns and the open country And from the river up mountain free, And from forests to valley lone This stallion Ebony black and red as flame Sans bridle, nor bit, nor rein. Ne'er a hup! nor crop, constrain In the midst of deafening railing Unfailing! Unfailing! Long plume adorning a huge felt hat Kept in shade his eye which up it lit And then it dimmed. Such as in the mist Explodes and dies this blue flash clear The weapon fire As when the white-tailed eagle's wing As might by a sudden storm sting The air streaked with snowing, His fur coat out-raised distend Beat back the wind, And disclosed with an air: glory be A torso sombre and of ivory, While in the black night free Through strident neighing: dazzling beneath Thirty-two teeth. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Strike - And you sign your own death warrant Villanelle: Strike! And you sign your own death warrant! for Obama, a swell chap he may have been or may yet be Strike! And you sign your own death warrant! Wild men'll come a-gunning avenge their own god Is that wart on Fa-ling line: Death by shot? Come they'll too clad in black: King and President All muttering under breath: « The Old Sod! » Strike! And you sign your own death warrant! You'll have time to rue what a lone strike meant Your shores were never at stake nor your Lord Is that wart on Fa-ling line: Death by shot? Those who build iron walls know they can't hunt Must the World be sacrificed for one god? Strike! And you sign your own death warrant! When d'you strike back for the Sandyhook Lent The NRA strikes back and call you: « Sod » Is that wart on Fa-ling line: Death by shot? Be the Statesman and make every word count Bring the toddler gods to the feet of God Strike! And you sign your own death warrant! Is the wart on Fa-ling line: Death by shot? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Nevermore, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: Nevermore Nevermore, Translation of Paul Verlaine's sonnet: Nevermore (In this translation of Paul Verlaine's « Nevermore », I must say I felt inveigled into adhering to the fixed form by making some unnecessary allowances just in order to respect the rime scheme. It would have been better if I had abandoned the effort at laboriously keeping to the original's end-rimes. T. Wignesan) Souvenirs, souvenirs, what do you want of me? Autumn Invites the thrush to fly through the air lifeless sans tone, And the sun beats its rays down: relentless monotone Over the yellowing wood where claps the North wind's thunder tone. We were walking all by ourselves as if in a dream, She and I, haïr and thoughts buffeted by the wind's non-esteem. All of a sudden, she turned towards me her looks agleam « Which was your most beautiful day? » did her lively golden voice beam. Her voice soft and sonorous, a fresh timbre angelic. A discreet smile she did redeem as a reaction cyclic, And her blanched hand I kissed with devoutness. Oh! the first flowers, how their scent liberates perfumes! And the first sounds they emit akin to charming murmur The first « yes » that escapes the lips of virgin dames consumes! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Basking in Moonshine, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Clare de lune Basking in Moonshine, Translation of Paul Verlaine's Claire de lune (Translation of Paul Verlaine's « Claire de lune » by T. Wignesan. Again I try to keep to the original syntactic patterns and visible layout, but I must admit I could produce other renderings which could equally do justice to the probable « intention » of the poet.) None may ask for better landscape than where souls lie Wherein might rove charmingly masked bergamaskers Strumming their luths while dancing but who well nigh Look stricken under their outlandish disguises. Verily singing in a murmurous tone Love that triumphs and life's seizable worthiness Yet hardly seem to believe in their own good fortune And their song dissipates into moonlight's pallidness, Into that sad yet pleasing stillness the moon engenders Which must surely induce birds in trees to dream And to gush ecstatic through sturdy water spurts, Tall chiselled water columns against marble gleam. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: So this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 7 Limerick: So this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 7 On Jan.16: declares lost her paper(s) On Jan.17: Consulate declares her spinster Next day abandons son Sets up shop: Free Maison* Named worthy Napoleons' Sexual Advisor! •Maison: French for house or even firm. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 6 Limerick: Once this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 6 This Wily Woman went on the rampage New Year's Day Seventy-Six* start of new age: Marriage beds soiled with verve This woman first to serve Free-Maisons' Afro-Asians free of charge! •Adultery was a criminal offence punishable under the French Penal Code before January 1,1976 © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 To Charles Baudelaire: Translation of Paul Verlaine's A Charles Baudelaire for Charles Baudelaire (Paul Verlaine's sonnet: « A Charles Baudelaire », translated by T. Wignesan. I thought I'll first present to readers - they should see why - an unrimed version, and maybe later the strict sonnet form.) I didn't know you, I didn't love you, I know you not: period, and I love you even less: I can hardly defend your diffamed name, And if I have some right to count myself among your witnesses, Then it's, first of all, and besides all, towards the Feet tied. Initially by the cold nails, then the surges of feeling The women of sin - whose Oh! how anointed, So many kisses, intoxicating chrism and kisses full of hunger! - You fell, you prayed, like me, like all the rest The souls that hunger and thirst during the passage Pushed so many well-wishing hopes to reach Calvary! Calvary rightful and true, Calvary where, then, these doubts This, that, grimaces, art, tearful at their rout. What? To die unprotesting, we, men of sin. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 5 Limerick: Once this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 5 Now this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain Pumped hard to become Free-Maisons' Main Drain. Only thing left to win: Marianne* in dung-bin - National Assembly long lock-jawed - slain! •Marianne: symbol of the French Republic © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Free Verse: Translation of Paul Verlaine's Vers Libres Free Verse: Translation of Paul Verlaine's Vers Libres (Yet another possible translation of Paul Verlaine's « Vers Libres » by T. Wignesan, though I prefer in my translations not to derange the visual structure and syntactical and linear layout - with some exceptions - of the poem) I admire the ambition Free Verse invokes And me, what do I do at the moment My attempts to derange the equilibrium evokes The number of syllables only by two rhythms rent It's true I count myself among these syllable counters And rimers, a sin for which I well know How sorely it drags and how heavily it clutters Yet something intrinsic to our French art's glow. Otherwise it remains submerged in poetry, Since the language is oblivious to accent. What can you do there? And wild fantasy Here loses its rights: riming is of the moment. That Free Verse's ambition haunts Youthful brains venturing to take risks! Such passion for a dear illusion daunts One cannot but smile at alienating mistakes. Frisky foals which go gamboling over the green Manifesting their sincere nature dear! Insane they might be but at their age - supreme, Truely fetching, Free Verse tempts us here! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 4 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 4 Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain Married a divorcee and put Church in chain There, she said: « Me? Married! » Here, she said: « Me? Curried! » Free-Maisons dubbed her: Saint Marianne* Brain! * Marianne: symbol of the French Republic © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 3 Limerick: Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 3 Then this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain Got the old suction pump jerking again She pumped herself so hard They said she set record Till sewers now run through her to the Seine. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: There are more poets than there are poems Villanelle: There are more poets than there are poems There are more poets than there are poems Eveybody writes with some poets' tongue Do duckweed and mugwort breed well in loams If only those who teach could write poems The world will be spared many gasps in lung There are more poets than there are poems And there'd be less of those who push poems And even less of those who parse the tongue Do duckweed and mugwort breed well in loams Who says this be damned ever in dungeons Let billions rant and rage in their own tongue There are more poets than there are poems Words mean what they seem beyond their poems To hell with those who demean words with dung Do duckweed and mugwort breed well in loams Every human has a right to write poems As every bird empties its sing-song lung There are more poets than there are poems Do duckweed and mugwort breed well in loams © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 It Pitter-Patters Down My Heart: translation of Paul Verlaine's Il pleure dans mon coeur It Pitter-Patters Down My Heart (Another possible translation of Paul Verlaine's « Il pleure dans mon coeur » by T. Wignesan) It pitter-patters down my heart Just as it does over the town. What's this languorous thought Which creeps into my heart? Oh! the gentle tred of the rain On the ground and on roof-tops! For a heart which is in chagrin Oh! the music that is rain! It rains without rhyme or cause In this heart which constricts. What! No treacherous force? Plunges me in mourning's remorse. Well, the worst possible sentence Is to leave me with not even a clue, Bereft of love and hate - whence My heart founders under sentence. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 2 Limerick: Once this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain - 2 Once this Wily Woman from Franco's Spain Found refuge in Napoleonic Domain Antics at home found out In new home given clout All criminal codes waived to let her reign! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Autumnal Dirge: Translation of Paul Verlaine's Chanson d'automne Autumnal Dirge (One of many possible translations* of « Chanson d'automne » by Paul Verlaine) for Sandra Feldman Drawn out sobs Violins of autumn Wound my heart Through a languor Monotonous Hardly breathing And turning wan, when The knell tolls, I recall Days gone by And I cry And I have to leave With the unwelcome wind Which bears me away Here now, there then Much as a (Wafting) Dead leaf. •This is as close to a literal translation as I can get, for I do think the original visual structure ought not to be disturbed and as long as the poet's « meaning » (Intentional fallacy/Affective fallacy notwithstanding) , if any, be not overly distorted. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rugby Scrum Dance for Divorced and Disabused Wedding Guests Rugby SCRUM* DANCE for Divorced and Dis-abused Wedding Guests (Packs made up of eight « players » (see note below) may be formed indifferently: either segregate the sexes or mix them up. No sweat! Only keep children away!) First Half Step up Both parties, now Take two steps forward Crouch - Pause - Engage Lock jaws, crush noses, twist mouths, stick tongue in eyes Chew tufts of ear and eye haïr, straggling locks and stubborn cowlicks Spit putrid saliva into slobbering teary-sweaty faces Crush toes under boots, judo-kick ankles and, if possible, necks Watch the three heads stuck between first-row thighs Aim kick to upturn canines Let not number 8 make as if s/he was kept out of pack Hooker! Reach out with your you-know-what And tickle fancies Watch both scrum-halves wheedle legs between legs with number 8s Aim side-kicks to tumble them down flat on face Now inhale long arm-pit fragrance And expel into snorting nostrils Hey! Cut that exhaust fuming out back there, you 8s! Exert pressure with cheeks on thighs Slurp up grass and worm-eaten soil With every boot-kick to resist head-on-shoulder thrust Stay put Hold breath Second Half While pushing with all one's might from the thighs upwards Claw with three fingers: one in ears, the other in mouths and the third in either of the eyes (best when nails have not been cut for three weeks or more) In fact, claw at anything that présents a bulbous jelly-like substance Those gasping for breath in the rear of the pack have to content themselves breathing in spent jettisoned shafts of air forced out by tremendous thrusts Take two steps to the right and then to the left Go back a bit once this way and then the other Now turn the packs around: once, twice, thrice Ladies! Please! Dig high heels in hookers' rumps Riggle Wiggle waggle chops Let paps hang loose and dangle dangle over men's knees Hold on to any protruding thing! Over-Time Wheel around sideways thrice Stop! Take a deep breath Then wheel around and around holding fast to the next player's shorts Stick tongues out and gasp for breath Wag chins from side to side jammed to opponents' faces If this doesn't work Bite ears If this doesn't still work Try tickling wet torsoes with sticky palms If this too doesn't work Ladies! Burp three times in men's faces And if even this doesn't work Stand up and fall backwards (if you can) This - sure as hell - will work! End of Game •Certain infringements of the rules in the game can give rise to the SCRUM which is yet another way to re-start the game. The scrum is formed with eight players from each side. The players come together in a crouching position by interlocking arms and has the following formation: 3-4-1. The referee calls out: « Crouch - Pause - Engage! », and the two eights of each side ram into each other head on! The scrum half - the player who stands outside - then rolls the ball into the tunnel formed by the opposing players. The scrum players then try to get possession of the ball with their legs. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick croises: There was a wily woman from Spain Limerick croisés: There was a wily woman from Spain There was a wily woman from Spain Who thought she could take much sizzling pain She let herself be split By mustangs in a fit So that's why she kept howling in vain In a new town that rhymes much with tail Dwarf made it to the top on a pail Then he filled up her lake With his sprung tail to take A bath in the leaking pail and wail! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick croises: Once our 'Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne - 14 Limerick croises: Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne - 14 Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne Sirens howled « panic stations » refrain One Valhalla Rani Offered her much money For a shot sans mantilla - in vain Our ‘Rita - you bet - a stunning beauty Not given to falling for flattery Was all of prime six feet Which she tucked under meat For Sevillan beds stood (on) two feet plus three! So they put her up that night till Morgan Classified her as subterfuge weapon NSA roped her in To put one o'er Putin Now Chinese wish her to test rat poison! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA SIETE: This Bad Guy World COPLA SIETE: This Bad Guy World Watch those who say they serve God most They'll boast their God stands for peace And for Him - kill! Watch those who clearly wish to boast Theirs is the ONLY sacred lease Yet show ill-will To all those who likewise proclaim ONE GOD - not their own - with disdain Yet kill their own And in killing their own, they maim Their OWN GOD who will not even deign To help His own! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita watched Sea Anne-Anne - 13 Limerick: Once our Senorita watched Sea Anne-Anne - 13 Once our Senorita watched Sea Anne-Anne What got her was all that Royal Can-Can: « Little Rascal » - « Car Seat » « New Father » - « New Hope » feat So she changed sex to lure She-Anne-Anne! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 12 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 12 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Entered a dance contest in Bahia Others danced the salsa Rita dirty samba Since Sevilla sells the new dance: Salsamba! * •« Sal » in French means « dirty ». © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick croises: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 11 Limerick croisés: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 11 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Shed tears for Don Carlo in Opera Touched by Verdi in heart Present in Phillip's Court She could give her life for Isabella! Oh! How she cursed the Princess Eboli Denounced hers-Inquisitor's treachery Upped her seat in Act IV Hung around Exit Door: Which caused King Phillip's heirless Court to flee So there she slept till the next performance When tocsin rang the King's comeuppance Carlos Quinto's grandson All spruced-up as Mammon Wed Senorita richer by tuppence! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 10 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 10 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Took to reading books set in Castilla One Knight de la Mancha Tickled her jugular Since at windmills rails: Anda! Lucia! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 9 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 9 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Lied about going to Colombia Rivals said: You know why! Others: Her life's a lie! Our Saint confessed lie in Iglésia! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 8 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 8 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Climbed ladder to pluck tree guava Gathered under a crowd Gaping under her shroud So she squeezed juice to stop saliva. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 7 Limerick: Once our Senorita from Sevilla - 7 Once our Senorita from Sevilla Hurried with unborn twins to Lisboa Some said twins were long due Others: Port Ugh! Geese knew Why then she named twins: Macau and Goa? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once slick Senorita from Sevilla - 6 Limerick: Once slick Senorita from Sevilla - 6 Once slick Senorita from Sevilla Watched proud Toro shamed by faena* So she lured Picador Behind her unlocked door And gored him till he split on his Pica. •faena: the manoeuvres with the cape the toro is subjected to by the matador after the maiming of the magnificent beast by the picador © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 5 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 5 Once a Senorita from Sevilla Learned Flamenco to strut at Feria Eyes flashed to kill gallants Bitten by red hot ants Now at ferias she sells tortia. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 4 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 4 Once a Senorita from Sevilla Gobbled four water-melons from Murcia Head took the shape of one Buns in front then weighed ton Sad, only one bum could say: Bon Dia! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 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 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 2 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla - 2 Once a Senorita from Sevilla Took a short cut to Segovia Met Toro on the way And rode him half the way Bore Toro on back rest of via. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick multiplication: Once an optimistic Optician Limerick multiplication: Once an optimistic Optician for Elodie Once an optimistic Optician Looked deep into her Client's vision Saw worlds unknown to her And lost her way back here Client left her in utter confusion or Client left but stark pessimism or Now straddles acute astigmatism or Now suffers from divided attention or Now has gone on a mystic mission or Optician and Client in mutation or Now both revel in sacred damnation or Client made Optician eye donation or Now both sell eye-drops in collusion or Now Client gives Optician eye lotion or Now Client gives lessons in eye motion or Optician gives Client sole solution or Client then rubs Optician in the shin or Optician then throws Client in the bin. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limericks croises: Once Boxer met a Poodle in broad street Limericks croises: Once a Boxer met Poodle on leash Once Monsieur walked Poodle in broad street Madame laid up after nightlong feat Poodle tripped in full glee In Paris rue carefree Monsieur took note of neighbours who cheat Saw Mademoiselle walk Boxer on leash Boxer lick-jumped Poodle with relish Monsieur's leash entangled Mademoiselle's hose bungled Rush hour traffic stopped to let dogs enmesh/unleash. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla Limerick: Once a Senorita from Sevilla Once a Senorita from Sevilla Took to hiding looks under mantilla Not unbeknown to her Sullen senior Senor Gazed but at her wide open Gran Via. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a lazy Lout without any clout Limerick: Once a lazy Lout without any clout Once a lazy Lout without any clout Entered politics though hampered by gout Party voted him Chief Being good at misChief Now UN wants him for what? Ne'er a doubt! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a tongue-twisting Pop Man-Eater Limerick: Once a tongue-twisting Pop Man-Eater Once a tongue-twisting Pop Man-Eater Went on rampage with just her Strummer Tunes she hissed were so sweet Crunched Frenchmen by the fleet Watch Out! ‘Merica! for this Nor'-Easter! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Lion of a Man in ruin Limerick: Once a Lion of a Man in ruin Once a Lion of a Man in ruin Tried to salvage his pawns and queer Queen Far too late t'was end-game Even his Knight was lame So he reset rules and horsed his Queen! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limericks croises: Once Meat-Eater met a Veg-Eater Limerick: Once Meat-Eater met a Veg-Eater Once Meat-Eater met a Veg-Eater And they got along fine in summer Who d'you think stopped rains And dried up all the drains Meat-Eater slaked thirst thanks to Veg-Eater Then the snows from Kilimanjaro Blizzard-driven chilled bones and marrow Rare preys made themselves scarce Even ants froze their ass Whose bones Meat-Eater drained you needn't know! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a tight Tycoon fell in a swoon Limerick: Once a tight Tycoon fell in a swoon Once a tight Tycoon fell in a swoon Having slapped a Goon during typhoon Both his hands got twisted Behind his back instead Since Goon spits into Tycoon's spittoon. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Maquillage Civilization Maquillage Civilization Come! Quick! Quick! Cover up the tracks! That lead to my doom Even the lynx watches blear-eyed the bald-eagle badgering badgers waddling down slithering marshes Curling wisps of mists torn shreds of time hug low down by dripping pines And I wonder at the long lost lines of pre-Stone Age Cave Men who have long preceded my own Come! Quick! Quick! Cover up the tracks! Am I the Cloned Monster of my dreams! Fierce thoughts warp my mind on wild backs And make my hand shake through weird themes Say, how many eons ago Did this entrenched sea-begetter of mine Binding metallic force on madraged muscled ego Take shape to terrorize the brine How many the magmatic engines hide under my gnarled hide I hear them growl and grind in my bowels Fizzing comets drill through memory-compressed neurons And foist the thoughts boil-caged in my veins Who are the unkempt ogling and babbling baboons Prising libidos through rousing neck-biting sex-twined clashes through gaping maw Come streamlined in a many-laundered thing The downward civilizing trek The paint on the wall held firm by the poisoning lead Come! Quick! Quick! Cover up the tracks! Nothing changes like Change! The Monster who lurks under the skin Is still the Master of my whims! Come! Quick! Quick! Cover up the …. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Nanny looked for a Manny-Mannie Limerick: Once a Nanny looked for a Manny/Mannie Once a Nanny looked for a Manny And found the father of her Kiddie Poor Cuckold gave assent With his Girlie's consent Now all five live in One Bliss House free. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a scandal-ridden Monarchy Limerick: Once a scandal-ridden Monarchy Once a scandal-ridden Monarchy Took to breeding with Tom Dick & Harry The last Prince with scant blue Donned the saffron robe true Thus Millésime House lost lineage Tree. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Briton in the Tour de France Limerick: Once a Briton in the Tour de France Once a Briton in the Tour de France Smoked cigars drank Champagne made bike dance From Versailles to Paris Yet won the Tour easy How? By breathing exhaust fumes' fragrance! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Poet used an harmless Word Limerick: Once a Poet used an harmless Word for Andrea D. & Catie L. Once a Poet used an harmless Word Word over-use connotes slicing Sword Sword decapitates sense: Poet's sauna incense Now Word's Wraith rants on Kerouac Road. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Miser lost hoard of halfpence Limerick: Once a Miser lost hoard of halfpence Once a Miser lost hoard of halfpence Looked high and low and over the fence When at last he found it It wasn't worth his spit Ha'penny tipper got his comeuppance © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Who's not racist, do stand not up, please Villanelle: Who's not racist, do stand not up, please for Piers Morgan & Anderson Cooper Who's not racist, do stand not up, please Isn't S/He who put us here the biggest S/he who asked to be put here, stand up, please We're all African, so don't ever tease Mutations make some think they're the best Who's not racist, do stand not up, please Even the Neanderthal can freeze Yet leave behind just a trace in jest S/he who asked to be put here, stand up, please Did the Heidelbergers race the pygmies Up Peking Man's cave to win the contest Who's not racist, do stand not up, please Can the genes of Evolution release The real truth of the DNA test S/he who asked to be put here, stand up, please Will not Human Nature be our complice Arraigned before a jury perplexed Who's not racist, do stand not up, please S/he who asked to be put here, stand up, please © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: The lesson cannot just be one life's lost Villanelle: The lesson cannot just be one life's lost for Trayvon Martin's parents The lesson cannot just be one life's lost When all around daily thousands are crushed Small lives remind us of big causes most Who followed whom and for what purpose just The enigma's always formed well-brushed The lesson cannot just be one life's lost Generations march step by step foremost To repeal Tyrant Laws meanly enmeshed Small lives remind us of big causes most Is there such a thing as a real black ghost Would it have in its hands a black head dashed The lesson cannot just be one life's lost Would those who cling most to this world make boast That the next honour their desires cherished Small lives remind us of big causes most Can our lives mean as much as those lost In great battles of the minds Space unleashed The lesson cannot just be one life's lost Small lives remind us of big causes most © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limericks croises: Once a Rigolo Tennisman won Wimbledon Limericks croises: Once a Rigolo Tennisman won Wimbledon Once a Tennisman won Roland Garros Made a speech drowned in tears of rose Said: « Of all Tournaments Love this best - Compliments! » Nation enveloped his heart with applause. Then he won the US tough Masters Made a speech that sounded like tweezers Said: « Of all Tournaments Love this best - Compliments! » Nation loved watching twitching whiskers. Then the Ladies Man won Aussie Open Made a speech without keeping mouth open Said: « Of all Tournaments Love this best - Compliments! » Nation kept its Heart all stripped open. Then Rigolo Tennisman won Wimbledon Made a speech on Central Court of London Said: « Of all Tournaments Love this best - Compliments! » Nation rose as ONE: « Git the Hell…Ye Con! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Cadre in a Revolution Limerick: Once a Cadre in a Revolution Once a Cadre in a Revolution Took strict lessons in elocution Saw himself on podium Safe from opprobrium Ai! Missed lessons in execution! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Lonely Grand-Dad in a Log-Jam Limerick: Once a Lonely Grand-Dad in a Log-Jam Once a Lonely Grand-Dad in a Log-Jam Paid an urgent visit to a Grande-Dame* She lifted the stuck log During Pea-Souper smog Damn! Got carried down Grand-Dad Rapids - Wham! * Dame: pronounced as in French © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: The Poietics of Being Villanelle: The Poietics* of Being This World and All that we see and cannot Came into being without warning With its Past and Future replete with plot There's no such thing as the Present in slot For there'd be no one to see in Yijing* This World and All that we see and cannot Those that want to see this World in their cot Give it incomplete myth and beginning With its Past and Future replete with plot That's why it's endless and far too way out Made to elude any true mind's probing This World and All that we see and cannot Break this eternal chain: the sexual knot And the Yang will allay the Yin binding With its Past and Future replete with plot No Heaven will be claimed by senseless clot Mindless matter will then clash clang and cling This World and All that we see and cannot With its Past and Future replete with plot *Poietics: the science and/or philosophy of creation. Cf. T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008, xiv-214p. *Yijing: the Canon of Changes. Among others, Cf. Richard John Lynn (transl.) . The Classic of Changes. New York: Columbia University Press,1994,602p. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Martin-Pecheur, the Fisher King Villanelle: Martin-Pêcheur*, the Fisher King Walk not dark alleys nor the dim-lit lane Darkless suns lighten not the skin in vain Cry not « Help! » « Help! » lest you be thought insane Stand not your ground in the land guns profane Hark! the voice struggling through ageless pain Walk not dark alleys nor the dim-lit lane Think not who will keep vigil high on vane Winds echo myriad voices with rain Cry not « Help! » « Help! » lest you be thought insane Seek not to proclaim your forefathers' bane Your pathetic looks of sufferance contain Walk not dark alleys nor the dim-lit lane Your life you bartered for a head sans mane Who thought well he had everything to gain Cry not « Help! » « Help! » lest you be thought insane Towards which Red Star* must spirit emplane When your King his son wishes you ordain Walk not dark alleys nor the dim-lit lane Cry not « Help! » « Help! » lest you be thought insane •Martin-Pêcheur: French for « kingfisher »; here the Fisher King * Red Star: Red dwarfs in our Milky Way where some 60 billion planets circulating them could likely support life. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a rich Widow went to the Globe Limerick: Once a rich Widow went to the Globe* Once a rich Widow went to the Globe To fill her pipes in a jolly robe A lone lost-looking bloke Lost his poke in her choke Now all he's good for is to blow globe. or What he should do now is to blow The Globe! •Globe: A café-restaurant in Paris where the old and the young get to meeting. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class Limerick: Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class He stuffed students' drains with high-class grass The girls during recess Gave him ample access Now hangs out with big-funding Top-Brass. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: If you scoff at the world we live in Villanelle: If you scoff at the world we live in If you scoff at the world we live in You'll slip and fall and break your neck Better bury your bones in between Seek not our galaxy to win For myriads luminous beck If you scoff at the world we live in Each in his solipsistic bin Twists and turns and rots without break Better bury your bones in between What life there is has locked us within With no way out but by mistake If you scoff at the world we live in Even safe eutopias spin On their dreamers' axes breakneck Better bury your bones in between Ask not if life's but wanton sin The moon also rises by daybreak If you scoff at the world we live in Better bury your bones in between © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limericks croises: Once a Mother Professor and Daughter Limericks croisés: Once a Mother Professor and Daughter for Farid & Zafir Once (a) Mother Professor and Daughter Came to Paris to see a Poet Mister He took them on a lope From Opera* to Procope* Till their feet got thicker with blister He took them to see Doctor Goethe: Said Devil was shooting thorns from Under They went to Mephisto* To calm down their sore toe « Une belle épine du pied, Mister » « Vous m'enlevez », * said learned Mother. « How can we repay you », said Daughter. « Not a care, I dare hope, I'll take you to Procope. » The bill for trout, veg-dish and butter Came to more than what they could then pay. « Don't give us this ol' Napoléon lay! You're not wearing Bicorne*! » « Yes, but for Devil's thorn! » « Leave us your Mephisto shoes or pray! » So Mind-Full Poet took them upstair(s) To prostrate long at Table Voltaire* Philosopher weighed plea Said: « This Poet like Me! » Mephisto shoes freed from Procope lair! Resources •Opéra: The National Academy of Music in Paris where ballets are still performed; opera performances having been moved to the new concert hall in the Place de la Bastille. •Procope: One of the oldest cafés in Paris, founded in 1686 (and opened in 1689) by a Sicillian whose Frenchified name was « Procope », at 13, rue de la Comédie Française, Paris-75006. •Mephisto(pheles) : In Goethe's play: Faust, one of the principal devils. Happens to be a brand name for shoes under the pretexte that it is better to have the Devil under-foot rather than in the boudoir. •« Vous m'enlevez une belle épine du pied »: French for, according to Collins (bi-lingue) Dictionary: « You have got me out of a spot. » Literally means: « You have extracted a painful thorn from (the sole of) my foot. » •Bicorne: two-cornered hat •Napoléon lay: Napoléon as a young officer is supposed to have left his « bicorne » hat as a pledge for the meals he ate there and could not settle with cash. The hat is displayed in a glass case at the entrance till this day, for the future emperor had far more interesting things to do - like conquering a continent - and could not take the time off to reclaim it. * Voltaire: The great French philosopher, author of the satirical novel: Candide, became a Freemason just four months before his demise. He was a frequent visitor to the Procope, and his table is still displayed on the first floor of the café-restaurant at the top of the ornate stairway. The décor of the place is preserved exactly as it was realised in 1835. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Flutist played an enticing tune Limerick: Once a Flutist played an enticing tune Once a Flutist played an enticing tune While sitting on a seat-burning dune Bedouins learned from camels While suff'ring from measles To compose get camel measles in June! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Little Girl, a lovely Chick Limerick: Once a Little Girl, a lovely Chick Once a Little Girl, a lovely Chick Was warned not to play with her friend's? ick In time? ick grew to stick Her till heart couldn't tick Now she wears Nun's clothes and isn't that sick. © T. Wignesan Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an Orphan begged at the Town Hall Limerick: Once an Orphan begged at the Town Hall Once an Orphan begged at the Town Hall The Mayor thought he had better bawl So he had him bawled out And nearly used his clout When the Orphan bawled: « See! Who wants it all! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ghazal: Now that she's left and gone to be herself again Ghazal: Now she's left and gone to be herself again Now she's left and gone away, my clothes hang dry On the line for all to see - what a crying shame! The lone cuckoo calls out in a haunting tone Who hears him down here but on wing - what a shame! Pigeons and crows balance on the clothes-line And their droppings stain the sheets - Oh open shame! She's gone with shrieks from the magpies that dark day And left me with her first born - Block my shame! Baby cries for all to hear recall her voice Where will it hide its face - Oh growing shame! The musang miaows its woes in the jackfruit tree Now that the wild she-cat roams in wayward shame Baby gapes out the window and wonders why If earth and sky witness bear - painful shame! Would that the mother hear the cuckoo call And lift her head to listen to quell my shame The jackfruit's ripe and sags at the tree trunk A moaning woman at child birth - no shame The puffed monsoon pulls its South-West skirts up And floods the rice fields with tears, bitter shame! Hamadryad's hypnotic eyes turn ire red Fate keeps the mongoose from common death - O Shame! Still the baby's cries in my ears call to you What will I tell her later - wipe out shame? My own shame mixed with no name to call my own No Elephant God of Wisdom can blot out shame! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Dapper Diplomat in Paris Limerick: Once a Dapper Diplomat in Paris Once a Dapper Diplomat in Paris Took to « wife » a Man for his Mrs. « She » wanted a Baby « She » married a Lady Now Diplomat has Wife minus His. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA SEIS: This Bad Guy World COPLA SEIS: This Bad Guy World Politicians hatch decisions After much show of bravado: Innate cunning First stage gets set through collusions Actors then strut words with much glow: Only miming Wounded foot soldier falls with flag Families pray and people pay: Penthouse lords jive Politicos salute their rag « God Bless My Country », so they say: « All the rest: Dive! » (To be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Toro in a Madrid prairie Limerick: Once a Toro in a Madrid prairie Once a Toro in a Madrid prairie Wondered why it had two horns, not three Spaniards signal cuckold With two fingers all told So three for Spanish husbands in Paris? * *Paris: pronounced in French as: Parie/Paree © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Gout which got a Lady in disease Limerick: Once Gout which got a Lady in disease Once Gout which got Lady in disease Which meant she couldn't hop ‘bout with ease In doubt came together With Louts feeling Super(ior) To keep Gadabouts (from) eating Chinese. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Heavy Weight was given a choice Limerick: Once a Heavy Weight was given a choice Once a Heavy Weight was given a choice Either to eat rice or curried lice Mice in his training camp Carried lice for their champ So he ate raw rice with curried mice. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Ballad: Just another odd guy Ballad: Just another odd guy* He was just another odd guy With a self-abnegating smile He spun no known wilful ploy Enough - just look at him a while Others came to camp by the Seine And watch the folks saunter by His place by the Pont, it was plain No one ever wished to occupy He made no show of his wild child's face Querying side-boards curled round ears Nor no look of pain would surface From behind the mask's ravaged years He was just another odd guy With a self-abnegating smile Meek children looked him in the eye Where some gleam of mutual ties shone Babies blinked hardly an eye To take in his clucked smile forgone No hint of a past hung o'er him No woman came by with a flask Nor some grown lad with the shopping He emerged from behind a mask He spun no known wilful ploy Enough - just look at him a while No regrets sagged down his full lips His chin held firm and tipped upward Bushy brows spoke well of his tips Though crown to nose-bud bit wayward One could read weary clothes threadbare His shoes could speak of miles out-worn And the wriggly strands of his haïr Reminded one of wild thoughts torn Doves and crows alike found his hand Outstretched with crumbs from some table No sparrow stilled on wing sought land Without some morsel to unravel Weeks went by in screeching silence And still no sign of him rode where His winged friends kept in his absence The stone-slabbed bench warm through bare air Some unsuspecting passer-by Wrapped in lone airs comes to this spot Makes as if to stay with a sigh Yet moves along to some other plot He was just the other odd guy With the self-abnegating smile His trusted friends all gone to fly In weird worlds beyond the last mile All looking for that other guy With his empty hands and a smile He would spin no known wilful ploy Just remember him for a while •After posting the poem, I came across the line: « I'm just an average guy » in the Masqueradors' song of 1969, so I'm constrained to change the same phrase in my poem to: « Just another odd guy. » Things like this happen when we use words. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Firebrand Fraulein from the Black Forest Limerick: Once a Firebrand Fräulein from the Black Forest Once a Firebrand Fräulein from the Black Forest In winter went out to cut wood sans vest In fact sans Lederhose Nor even horse fire hose So she got fired on wood with zest. or So she got fired for good in jest. or So she got fired by Crook in earnest. or So she got fired in crook by Earnest. or So she got fired with Earnest in the nest. (and so on and on…) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Tennis Woman named Sue Baule Limerick: Once a Tennis Woman named Sue Baule Once a Tennis Woman named Sue Baule Tried to avoid being called: « Screw Ball! » So she got her haïr cut In the shape of a snout Since at French Open gets dubbed: « Screwed Doll! » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Dark Horse in a handicap Limerick: Once a Dark Horse in a handicap Once a Dark Horse in a handicap Led head, tail and hoof in the last lap All eyes on winning post Cameras clicked the most Horse lost in the negative, so clap! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Queen stuck to Doddering Duke Limerick: Once a Queen stuck to Doddering Duke Once a Queen stuck to Doddering Duke Sent him on a mission with Lucky Luke* Off on Jolly Jumper* With Rantanplan's* sister Ever since Queen is free of/from rebuke. Resources: •Lucky Luke: a French cartoon héro, the caricature of the Far West sharpshooter •Jolly Jumper: in the Lucky Luke comic books, considered « the best horse in the world ». •Rantanplan: in the Lucky Luke series, considered « the stupidest dog in the Universe » © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once the Great Leader gave a brave speech Limerick: Once the Great Leader gave a brave speech for Charmaine Chircop, with thanks Once the Great Leader gave a brave speech Excused himself for his over-reach: « I give One to save Ten » His Poor in need live when Even bomb victims still feed the leech. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a young Opera Fan of Wagner's Limerick: Once a young Opera Fan of Wagner's Once a young Opera Fan of Wagner's Sat out the Ring Cycle in blinkers House chockful at the start Such silence: heard no fart Came out gray-haired and wailing bonkers. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rondelet: Nuclear Rot in bowels Rondelet: (Nuclear) Rot in bowels Rot in bowels Sealed tight in cans, retarded bombs Rot in bowels Nuclear waste Earth sucks capsules Poisoned gift to children in dumps Let's dance in White Night till Hell comes (Nuclear) Rot in bowels. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA CINCO: This Bad Guy World COPLA CINCO (FIVE) : This Bad Guy World The way the dice got thrown, it's toss-up Tangled under, Yang must suffer That's how Worlds turn The Ferris wheel from down goes up If Good Guys simply surrender The World will burn Can conundrums then drop their mask Aren't Villains after all human Beget offspring Bad Guys all can't be brought to task Nor be made to endorse reason And let drop sting (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once buoyed Anchors in Sea Anne-Anne Limerick: Once buoyed Anchors in Sea Anne-Anne Once buoyed Anchors in Sea Anne-Anne Looked like they needed maning by Man One said: « Whatever it be! Got'em all covered, see! » Didn't see at Sea thrive but Merman. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rondel: You came too late this time our tryst to keep Rondel: You came too late this time our tryst to keep You came too late this time our tryst to keep Lost in your reveries in other lives So long, Mon Amour, just one thought survives I must be away to lie in irked sleep Linger not here where sours honey in hives You came too late this time our tryst to keep Lost in your reveries in other lives Will your dreams bind with mine in sleep to reap The hour when tolls true meaning of drives Free as spirits cut loose by demon knives You came too late this time our tryst to keep Lost in your reveries in other lives So long, Mon Amour, just one thought survives © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once the UN wore a carnation Limerick: Once the UN wore a carnation Once the UN wore a carnation Now in the shade looks like damnation Halls echo inane talk House for rent at New York Is UN ever on vacation? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Monsters from fearful Mother-Villes Limerick: Once Monsters from fearful Mother-Villes Once Monsters from fearful Mother-Villes Forgive the lapsus, I meant: Moths-Drills Not that They ate but flies But also butter flies Though lately added French fries with frills. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Veep in a VIP Lounge Limerick: Once a Veep in a V.I.P. Lounge Once a Veep in a V.I.P. Lounge Laid low till Mary Lynn took the plunge Then put on airs of Chief Whipped her in the mischief Till the Chief threw in the bloodied sponge. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a dashing Damsel with tough biceps Limerick: Once a dashing Damsel with tough biceps Once a dashing Damsel with tough biceps Tried to bulge her pectorals with triceps Compressed air back-fired To where moon was mired Since then carries pec-pumps in contracepts. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Cossack in tundra cassock Limerick: Once a Cossack in tundra cassock Once a Cossack in tundra cassock Crept to spy on his wife: got a shock She lay stooped in prayer Without a stitch on her Guess whose head was on the butcher's block? © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Bengal Tigress supped on a Goat Limerick: Once a Bengal Tigress supped on a Goat Once a Bengal Tigress supped on a Goat The horns - pardon - got stuck in her throat A Dentist pulled one out The other by a Scout Now - sad to say - Both made her bloat. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rondelet: Who Takes Over Rondelet: Who Takes Over? Who takes over God is about to retire Who takes over Sea Anne-Anne boils for Foot-Lover Next in line to replace Sire He who set Club-Foot afire Who takes over © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a shocking Norseman crowned Viking Limerick: Once a shocking Norseman crowned Viking Once a shocking Norseman crowned Viking Took his flaxen men on an ice outing They lusted for fat Finns Knocked walrus and dolphins Why Arctic now with Vi-wal-phins seething. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a pregnant Teen saw a Barrister Limerick: Once a pregnant Teen saw a Barrister Once a pregnant Teen saw a Barrister Thought she recognised the future Father So she set him a trap He rushed into her lap Now she's stuck with Twins, says Solicitor. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a wife Nurse and husband Doctor Limerick: Once a wife Nurse and husband Doctor Once a wife Nurse and husband Doctor Loved the meat served from Clinic larder So they went in to see Found morgue bodies for free Since then stopped buying meat from butcher. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rondelet: De-Human-ised Rights Rondelet: De-Human(-ised) Rights De-human rights Most rights rest with superior-born humans De-human rights Some with their favourites in tights Most to Muscle-men and Masons Least to God-less men sans under-pants De-human(-ised) rights. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Stud Stallion in wild Mare charge Limerick: Once a Stud Stallion in wild Mare charge for Rick Zablocki (as promised from the horse's mouth) Once a Stud Stallion in wild Mare charge Didn't see his gear was far too large Hit goal right smack in poke Mare humped: It in two broke Since then in stud-farm draws dunged-straw barge. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Yahoo forced to go Google Limerick: Once a Yahoo forced to go Google Once a Yahoo* forced to go Google Took out a leash/lease to lasso Poodle Yahoo marched his Mistress Through high-water distress And for pains was told to « Go! Doodle! » *Refers to beings in Jonathan Swift's Gullivers Travels © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a cute Little Lark laughed for a lark Limerick: Once a cute Little Lark laughed for a lark Once a cute Little Lark laughed for a lark And woke up the Bush Watchman in the dark Man barked: « What's so funny? » Lark chirped: « Look at Bunny! » Bush felt snails oozing up Bunny's bark. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Salesgirl who sold silk stockings Limerick: Once a Salesgirl who sold silk stockings Once a Salesgirl who sold silk stockings Eyed a man who fingered the linings Stockings stuck on her legs Made-to-fit wooden dregs Kept stockings but gave him legs on springs. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 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 shoddymanes 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. Sincerely, T. Wignesan On the Boston Marathon bomb blast: On a festive flag-flapping day of fun Terza Rima Sonnet On the Boston Marathon bomb blast: On a festive flag-flapping day of fun for the victims of blind bombs all over the globe On a festive flag-flapping day of fun Two brothers back-packed with hot nails in pipes White cap leading black cap in marathon More than two millions' indoor hemmed in gripes Nine thousand armed to teeth charged for brother And six doleful innocent eyes Boston wipes One misled madly charges a brother In tether out to die in showdown blast A last ditch for some ill-tutored blabber Then while the world looks on in pity aghast A mindless lad plays out the cult of yore Some Sohrab takes on the West's blind bomb blast If those bright and good be un-taught to adore What hope may there be for the rest any more. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Great Doubter climbed Jack's Bean Stalk Limerick: Once a Great Doubter climbed Jack's Bean Stalk for the raped 5-year-old Indian girl next door Once a Great Doubter climbed Jack's Bean Stalk Cried: « For what Crime 5-year-old was debauched? » He got no true hearing Slid down no more doubting Now stalks 4-year-olds on dark side-walk. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a tipsy Toddy-Tapper took Wench Limerick: Once a typsy Toddy-Tapper took Wench Once a typsy Toddy-Tapper took Wench Up coco-nut tree with monkey wrench He pumped her full toddy Till Wench was tight giddy But she hung on to? nuts with wrench. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Ticket-Puncher got dead drunk Limerick: Once a Ticket-Puncher got dead drunk Once a Ticket-Puncher got dead drunk Punched everyone he called « Bloody Skunk! » Sentenced to punch in ring Minus his wedding ring Now his wife's punched drunk by a starved Monk. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an Airman who couldn't stand his wife Limerick: Once an Airman who couldn't stand his wife Once an Airman who couldn't stand his wife Was going out of his mind with strife Took to the clouds with spouse Called her names like: »Leech! Louse! » Then jumped out plane to sentence for life. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013. Limerick: Once Hillbilly Bumpkin came to town Limerick: Once Hillbilly Bumpkin came to town Once Hillbilly Bumpkin came to town Citizens mocked this no-make-up clown She hitched ride on red bus To Piqued-Silly-Circus And there let drop (her) feathered eiderdown. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Time-Keeper at race Marathon Limerick: Once a Time-Keeper at race Marathon Once (a) Time-Keeper at race Marathon Decided to keep time on the run He kept looking at watch Runners forgot to watch Ended up in Tower of London. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a lone Sailor sank with his ship Limerick: Once a lone Sailor who sank wih his ship Once a lone Sailor who sank with his ship Bargained with a Mermaid through her hare-lip She would give him a lift If he'd give her a gift That's how mermaids got to wear haïr-clip. OR That's how mermaids got second hare-lip. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a rich Janitress rode on a broom Limerick: Once a rich Janitress rode on a broom Once a rich Janitress rode on a broom From cheek to jowl her looks spelt dire doom She thought she owned the world And the world owed her gold So she chewed gold and lost gums and bloom. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Pathan paid for a brandy Limerick: Once a Pathan paid for a brandy Once a Pathan paid for a brandy While in the company of (a) Dandy Dandy was all so gay He squealed like a blue jay While Pathan jumped up on his bounty. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a sick Sikh in a great hurry Limerick: Once a sick Sikh in a great hurry Once a sick Sikh in a great hurry Went to see a doctor after (a) hot curry He hurried back mid-way You know why so don't bray Now (he) sees doctors only when merry. or Since (he) sees doctors under a lorry or Now he sees proctors I'm so sorry. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Limerick: Once Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Once Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Called Main-Chain-In-Vain-Gain-Mane-Rain-Van Pulled anchor, lost finger Put in place cucumber Now sucks lost finger to spew news ban. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Little Girl and her Sister Limerick: Once a Little Girl and her Sister Once a little girl and her sister Went out for a walk in a bluster Little girl lost her way Big sister blew away With a Mister who wore a whisker. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Korean crossed the border Limerick: Once a Korean crossed the border Once a Korean crossed the border Found his papers were not in order They checked his knees and genes Found he ate the same beans So they stewed him in nuclear cooker. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Privy Counsellor at Lord's Limerick: Once a Privy Counsellor at Lord's Once a Privy Counsellor at Lord's* Watched a bowler* throw balls like gourds Convened judicial com.* Summoned bowler to come And sentenced him to eat bitter gourds. Lord's: The Mecca of cricket grounds in London where the Marylebone Cricket Club has its seat. bowler: The player who lances the ball at the batsman; yet during the act the elbow must not be bent - at the risk of being called by the Umpire a « no ball «, that is, even if the ball hits the wickets and the bails are dislodged, the batsman is not given « out.». *Judicial Com(mittee) of the Privy Council, the highest Court of Appeal in England (and the former British territories) until the Supreme Court was set up in 2010 to hear some appeals. The Privy Counsellor/Councillor is a Member of the House of Lords and a judge. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Baby found in a bucket Limerick: Once a Baby found in a bucket Once a Baby found in a bucket Grew up to be tough as a biscuit She took a desert trip Sahara took a flip (Some people take her/me for a nitwit) That's why biscuits taste sandy when bit. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Banker from starving Wall Street Limerick: Once a Banker from starving Wall Street Once a Banker from starving Wall Street Craved for a mountain of juicy meat So he hired King Kong To play U. N. Ding-Dong Now the World avidly kiss his feet. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Toro loved by a Matador Limerick: Once a Toro loved by a Matador Once a Toro* loved by a Matador* Maimed between shoulders by Picador* Matador garrocha* Picador muchacha* Picador cornudo* Matador. *Toro: bull raised for fighting in arenas (rings) *Matador: « matador de toros », bullfighter; usually the head « torero », title obtained after the « alternativa », ceremony honoring the torero or « novillero », the apprentice bullfighter *Picador: the well-protected assistant to the matador on horseback who wounds the toro between the shoulders in order to cause the bull to hang its head *garrocha/garrochar: (to use) the long lance with a metallic harpoon-like head, wielded by the Picador *muchacha: Spanish for girl or « daughter » as in this case *cornudo: cuckolded (husband gored) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a President of Bolivia Limerick: Once a President of Bolivia Once a President of Bolivia Frothed oblanceolate green saliva Must dream was Ashoka* On Andes throne Inca That's how COCA-cola drug India. *ASHOKA, b. circa 304 BCE (reigned: 273-232 BCE) : King of Magadha, was the first great commoner Buddhist Emperor of India which, then, extended from Afghanistan to Bengal, and from Nepal to Southern Deccan. Among his recorded edicts: concern for the peoples' welfare; medical attention for the needy; arboured thoroughfares; nomination of officers to oversee morality and magistrates; forbade the slaughter of animals for food or for religious purposes; required the reconciliation of all religious tendencies; wanted everyone to practice compassion and charity towards one another and to follow the laws of the Dharma or Righteousness; and drew attention to the vanity of glory and emphasised the supreme aim of Life itself. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 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 Villanelle: Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum Villanelle: Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum Always to heart stings awakened to soothe That in lost coves and caves melodious strum When in dark lonesome nights owl hoots knock glum None to hear silent sobs shut in tight booth Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum Some bounceable dame caught in a doldrum Each secret finger on the Djinn's sharp tooth That in lost coves and caves melodious strum Some invoke the lordly prince staid and glum And make him slave to every wish in truth Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum If this right to steal some solace and plum Were this not a gift from high above a truth That in lost coves and caves melodious strum How right we then all the fanfare and drum For those few well-bred and armed to the tooth Lodged in our cockles Aladdin lamps hum That in lost coves and caves melodious strum © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Great Leader with empty pockets Limerick: Once a Great Leader with empty pockets Once Great Leader with empty pockets Strode our World distributing nuggets Nuggets Made in China Slick smooth like Godiva Now makes Godiva China rockets. © T. Wignesan - Partis,2013 Limerick: Once a Grand Duke in Londonderry Limerick: Once a Grand Duke in Londonderry Once a Grand Duke in Londonderry Thought he could run his own Grand Duchy So he slammed door on Queen Gave full vent to his spleen Now he's left with trillion debt treasury. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a lovely Lady caught in her shower Limerick: Once a lovely Lady caught in her shower Once lovely Lady caught in shower With broken pipe and gushing water Ran out to buy new pipe Forgot the soap to wipe Now waits for rain to come over her. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a delicious hen fed on rice-sticks Limerick: Once a delicious hen fed on rice-sticks for Delysia Hendricks, with many, many thanks Once a delicious hen fed on rice-sticks Loved gorging herself on limericks She pecked on a sweet line It turned all alkaline Now chicken's served with acid on bricks. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Roundsman signed a round robin Limerick: Once a Roundsman signed a round robin Once a Roundsman signed a round robin To keep his men from a certain inn Men called to tell his wife: At inn he danced to fife So the wife played high fife with the men*. •Pronounced as in England: « min ». © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Woman-Cleanser in Malawi Limerick: Once a Woman-Cleanser in Malawi for Seodi White Once (a) Widow-Cleanser* in Malawi Insisted (on) being paid double fee The dead man made certain Left gift (on) this side (of) curtain Now Cleanser on (the) dole with H.I.V. •The " Widow-Cleanser" is a Malawian professional " intermediate husband" of widows imposed on women who cannot - under the laws of Malawi - own anything legally, EVEN their bodies. The Woman-Cleanser sleeps with widows for a fee ($50/-) in order to prevent widows and future husbands - from being polluted by the dead husband. This limerick dramatises facts divulged in a CNN interview with valorous women-rights lawyer: Seodi WHITE on March 17,2013. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo Limerick: Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo Tried to wiggle her way through Fado Only thing she had on Was a navel button: (Now) Fado mambo-jambo Oporto. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo Tried to wiggle her way through Fado Only thing she had on Was a navel button: Now she wiggles in jelly limbo. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA CUATRO: This Bad Guy World COPLA CUATRO: This Bad Guy World Bad guys gang up with God on lips But place Their country above Their god: God Bless Patrie Their god other gods still outstrips And for Their god they will kill God Not above country For good measure they kill own kind They dispute nature of Their god: Men take His place They each lay claim to God's own mind And if by chance to Earth came God Him they'd replace © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA TRES: This Bad Guy World COPLA TRES (THREE) : This Bad Guy World Bad guys signal to each other In cryptic lingo and hand signs Close ranks bind ties Egg-white eyes of the murderer Encroach the pupil with designs Embryo dies No worse enemy than the friend Who feigns being a bosom pal: Snake in the shoe They know their role is to offend Their lives but ephemeral Do they yet rue (Continued from COPLA DOS) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Viscountess in a mess Limerick: Once a Viscountess in a mess Once a Viscountess in a mess Tried in vain to extricate dress With Dwarf in the middle And Duke in the fiddle So she swung from swing to undress. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a pretty Pole psychologist Limerick: Once a pretty Pole psychologist for Ewa Once a pretty Pole psychologist Who preferred fast pedalling cyclist(s) Kept a velo d'apparte* And a Tour de France dart Found trundling Bone-Shaker* merry twist. •Velo d'apparte(ment) = exercise bike •Bone-Shaker = first French bicycle, invented and manufactured by Michaux during the 1860s, whose framework was made of wrought iron and whose wooden wheels were bounded by iron tires. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA DOS: This Bad Guy World COPLA DOS (TWO) : This Bad Guy World -The second COPLA in the series - Bad guys in this world got it made They simply outnumber good guys: Their paradise; Bad guys help themselves to the shade Reduce good guys to broken toys Every so wise; If good guys by chance reach the top Then they'll drag them down with one voice Crying foul play; If good guys fight back they'll sure flop For bad guys know how to rig dice: Great game they play. (to be continued) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an-Other Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Limerick: Once an-Other Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Once an' Anchor-Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Slipped tongue into a Black Hole's butt end She came out Parallel In multi-Verse pell-mell Now she reads sweN at aeS (Ace) ennA-N*. •For the general knowledge of readers of this limerick, humble clarifications are offered here. The capital letters: A, H, I, M, N, O, T, U, V, W, X, and Y are used without any visible change in the alphabet of our own Parallel Universe where - as everybody knows - Time regresses from Future to Past, i.e., e.g. say, from being " well-satiated" to being " hungry" and back forth. Here, even though " N" is written as " N" , the pronunciation is unwaveringly: " nE" . For more detailed explanations regarding the rules of prosody in our Parallel Uni- Verse, s'il vous plait, address your queries to Yours Truly at his address in Multi-Verse. Merci Beaucoup! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Petrarchan Sonnet: If no one else breathed in this wide, wide world Petrarchan Sonnet: If no one else breathed in this wide, wide world If no one else breathed in this wide, wide world Will one know one exists under this sun Or how will he guess he's the only one If none thought of him in some other world Will he then climb upon some hill all bold To announce: Where is there another son Not just the wayward scowling wind undone By thunder - great tyrant out to scold Alone bears this man the pain of mankind Left to look for answers in porous sky None else around to guide his erring hand If he but an instant shut his lone mind Even an attosecond long gone by Will earth and sky stay true not second hand. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Villanelle: Oscar Victorius Villanelle: Oscar Victorius Lock not the door in the face of your fate The intruder lies dimly in your place Will he die for you were he your true mate Soft the dark wind taps in every haste late Makes your darling come lie by your fire-place Lock not the door in the face of your fate Harsh words stifle your heart uttered so late Behind closed doors locked by fear on your face Will he die for you were he your true mate Will he run as fast as feet duplicate When you tug at the bed-sheets of his race Lock not the door in the face of your fate Whose screams you heard in your embattled state Before four blasts broke the silence of your grace Will he die for you were he your true mate Now your voice shrieks still behind the loud gate What mindless mistake takes you out of space Lock not the door in the face of your fate Will he die for you were he your true mate. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an elegant Earl from Eton Limerick: Once an elegant Earl from Eton Once an elegant Earl from Eton Daily dreamed of swinging with Tarzan In Brazil learned samba Married virile cougar Now sells D.V.D.s on Amazon. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013. Limerick: Once the Yogi of Himalaya or the Laughing Gas Yogi Limerick: Once the Yogi of Himalaya or the laughing gas Yogi I Once the Yogi of Himalaya Preached laughing loud with Prânâyâma* They thought him immortal Put him on pedestal Now he's the toast of lost Gondwana. II Once the same Yogi Himalaya Taught laughing during Prânâyâma* Lungs stuck to diaphragm Voice: phonocardiogram Now he's part of iced Fujiyama. •Sanskrit for the art of breathing in yogic practices: •prânâ = (cosmic) energy; âyâma = vitality. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a tight Lobbyist in real pain Limerick: Once a tight Lobbyist in real pain Once a tight Lobbyist in real pain Tried in vain to get his M.P.'s gain So his Secretary A laced Bloody Mary Pumped M.P.s to P.M. to take reign. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a mum Mademoiselle rode in a Metro Limerick: Once a mum Mademoiselle rode in a Metro for Heather M. Once (a) mum Mademoiselle rode in (a) Metro Felt snug and dozed dreaming of Brando Lights went out, the train stopped Coach temperature dropped She woke up in arms of Eskimo. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an Anchor Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Limerick: Once an Anchor Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Once an Anchor Woman at Sea Anne-Anne Interviewed OFPRA* doing Can-Can She said: Will you? OF said: You, too! And they rowed off in a rude bed-pan. •Office français pour la Protection des réfugiés et d'apatrides (French Office for the Protection of Refugees and Stateless Persons) © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an uppity Lady in Freeze Limerick: Once an uppity Lady from Freeze Once an uppity Lady in Freeze Bought a thousand three-hundred shoe-trees. She had only two feet Under her buckling meat. People ate skunk cabbage soles to grease. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a gorgeous Geisha in Kyoto Limerick: Once a gorgeous Geisha in Kyoto Once a gorgeous Geisha in Kyoto Took (a) Cowboy to see crisp kimono Ai! took time to unfold Lo! Behold! Body cold! Pistol fired: one two finito! © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a measly Miser in Mumbai Limerick: Once a measly Miser in Mumbai Once a measly Miser in Mumbai Liked watching dancing girls on the sly He went to Bolly-Wood Though he felt jolly good His loot sucked by Bombay Ducks well nigh. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Lady-in-Waiting in London Limerick: Once a Lady-in-Waiting in London Once (a) Lady-in-Waiting in London Was kept waiting by a Spanish Don She stood with one leg up And called busy Don up That's how (the) cramp in the fun got undone. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 COPLA SUELTA: The One and the Same Dream COPLA SUELTA: The One and the Same Dream If you must dream the dream I dream Then the dream comes true when you wake But who dreams first Yet if you wake before the dream Has had time to gestate and make The dream will burst Is there only one dream out there The kind we watch ponder record And hang up high Then if you never dream or dare To think what lies beyond the word The dream will die. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Meat-Vendor in Mylapur Limerick: Once a Meat-Vendor in Mylapur Once a Meat-Vendor in Mylapur* Set up shop (O!) Brahmin virtue pure No hungry customers Knocked past the front shutters Though brisk business raged at rear door. •Brahmin enclave in Chennai, Tamil-Nadu, India. Brahmins were not vegetarians from antiquity. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Baron born near Basingstoke Limerick: Once a Baron born near Basingstoke Once a Baron born near Basingstoke Dreaded being made (the) butt of a joke Yet he built his castle Shaped as a sharp whistle Winds coursed through laughing like Marma-Duke. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Rondelet: Fata Morgana Rondelet: Fa' Morgana Fa' Morgana Who stood up to the NRA: Fa' Morgana Who looked down barrel of fauna Whose News the World read in UK None other than King Arthur's Fay: Fa' morgana © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Am I the Assassin or the Undertaker Am I the Assassin or the Undertaker For Palani I He stopped coming our way again He was no where in sight at school Then, after a long absence In the pit of the Chan Ah Tong padang He came and stood at one corner of the field He looked resigned grave A stoic smile hovering over his lips Over his virgin gossamer moustache His voice a calm breeze Of vowels constrained by crisp consonants We saw less of his teeth He was dressed in silk shirts Well-ironed without creases Trouser pleats showing strictness Shoes shiny and sleek The sheen of his hair obedient under cream His gait measured strained As though grim hands clawed at him Through gaps in the ground At first, we didn't know What to make of him His new tutored appearance And detached forbearing looks He watched us play Close on hours Aloof far away He never so much as waved We turned to look He was gone Leaving the dusk to fall behind him I called to see anyway at his place His father frowned at me Gruff undertones accompanied him inside I saw a curtain ever so slightly tremble After a while his mother Came out to say He had gone for good I wasn't sure what she meant I stood there looking dazed Then tears licked her cheeks Her drained and stricken face She went in dabbing her eyes With the loose end of her sari I never called on them again I just couldn't understand The father's anger and pain At this world on which we stand I was just a playing pal of his son's He was older than I was then Yet he came just once Out of who knows what inner command Just to talk or stroll around Now I am older and his elder But is it I who laid him low II A date with fate He came one morning to my place All decked in his glad rags Fingering a shiny white billiard ball Twirling it between bony fingers Like the natural leg-spinner he was Just for fun he would let it lick the dust And it swished near ninety-degree turns I said: What about some quick nets The day aged in labour and with forceps He hesitated but on the spur Said: Yes, why not The rest of the morning I batted Saw the wickets tumble uprooted His spirits surged Sweat sweet and sour Sprinkled his shirt And ran down his collar and spine We laughed at every googly Which missed the wickets by inches We were back in olden Ali Baba times Truants lost in a cave of our own Diamonds refracted from his eyes He said: We should do this more often His heart must have caved in that very night Or was it when he barely made it home © T. Wignesan - Paris, February 3-4,2013 Limerick: Once the Great Grandson of Queen Victoria Limerick: Once the Great Grandson of Queen Victoria Once the great grandson* of Victoria Heir to the throne of tsarist Russia Saved by " Doc" Rasputin Killed by Lenin-Stalin Lo! Heir to Queen Vic's haemophilia! *Tsarevich Alexei of the Romanov royal house. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once the Middle Kingdom's top Concubine Limerick: Once the Middle Kingdom's top Concubine Once the Middle Kingdom's top Concubine* Said to rule China through love combine Dallying generals: O! Dear! Forced Emperor to fear: Eunuch strangled her at Buddhist shrine. *Emperor Xuanzong's Consort and his daughter-in-law, Yang Guifei,719-756 C.E. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a bold billionaire from Ma-Lays-She-Ah Limerick: Once a bold billionaire from Ma-Lays-She-Ah Once a bold billionaire from Ma-Lays-She-Ah* Bought up politicos to militia They put his money to work Called him a right proper jerk Now he pulls rickshaws barefoot in absentia. •Read also as: " Ma-Lays-He-Ah" © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po Limerick: Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po* Built farms upwards in tiers: O! Vertigo! Produce diminishing UFOs pilfering Now he sows wild oats in Infierno! •Chinese for Singapore © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a fierce Samurai from Xi Ban Guo Limerick: Once a fierce Samurai from Xi Ban Guo Once a fierce Samurai from Xi Ban Guo Displayed his sword-play in a tornado But his sword slipped hands And entered his ampersands* So now he limps about incognito. •In fact, I really mean: § © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a randy Rajah from Ratnapoor Limerick: Once a randy Rajah from Ratnapoor Once a randy Rajah from Ratnapoor Stole into his harem to take a tour Eunuchs were most occupied With Ranis left untied So he cut their heads off to seal the door. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a fidgety Lady from Greenwich Limerick: Once a fidgety Lady from Greenwich Once a fidgety Lady from Greenwich Who couldn't tell the time from a witch Asked Big Ben the long hand Why slower than short hand Since at Westm'nster serves as a switch. © T. Wignesan - Paris,201 Limerick: Once a lolling lassie from Laredo Limerick: Once a lolling lassie from Laredo Once a lolling lassie from Laredo Jumped on a bronco to enter a rodeo But the steed fell in love With the curve of her alcove And sped away on a honeymoon to Mejico. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a mincing Mrs from Mississippi Limerick: Once a mincing Mrs. from Mississippi Once a mincing Mrs. from Mississippi* Went to a bank for a fiddle-d-dee But her girdle got stuck And the " SS" came unstuck That's why Missis ends as a double P.. *No aspersions cast on Mississippians here; the term refers to the Paleozoic era in North America, following the Devonian and preceding the Pennsylvanian, of course. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Prince from the Kingdom Toikey Limerick: Once a Prince from the Kingdom Toikey Once a Prince from the Kingdom Toikey Insisted on being wed by his turnkey But his you may know not Got stuck in a chamber pot That's how the Queen got wed by her lackey. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 Criss-Cross Acrostic: Ai My Eye Criss-Cross Acrostic*: Ai My Eye! I Was Saw Eye Eye Saw Was I Eye Was Saw I I Saw Was Eye *Construe as " words" not as " letters" : Lines 1 and 3 read alike reversed; Lines 2 and 4 read alike reversed; likewise vertically and diagonally from up-down or down-up mode. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2013 The Malay Pantun: The Non-Party Communal Triumvirate The Malay Pantun: The Non-Party Communal Triumvirate Ursidae carnivora hug and hibernate Hypolais polyglottes trill without triumph Alliance Party* wins and vituperate Opposition parties coagulate without lymph •The ruling Malaysian communal triumvirate - since Independence in 1957. © T. Wignesan, Paris - 2013 Rondelet: Bad Guy Dope Rondelet: Bad Guy Dope* See what I said Head strong arm strong ham-strung bike dope See what I said Training ground's where villains are bred Good guys strain up Sisyphus slope Bad guys dope down Paris and mope See what I said *Please see poem posted on December 31,2012, titled: 'This Bad Guy World (in all seriousness) ' (c) T. Wignesan, Paris,2013 Rondelet: Don't blame India, the land of 64 artful Kama-Sutra positions Rondelet: Don't blame India, the land of the 64 artful Kama-Sutra positions for the Punjabi Lady in an all-night jogging bus Don't blame India For a thousand three hundred years Don't blame India Bored by repetitive Kama And pedologic incest - tears In iron-hosing buses - cheers! Don't blame India (c) T. Wignesan, Paris,2013 Limerick: Once a Lord from the Kingdom of Dunkey Once a Lord from the Kingdom of Dunkey Who wasn't quite descended from the monkey Didn't quite see he was a mule On account of a royal rule That anything on back must be flunkey (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 COPLA ONE: This Bad Guy World - in all seriousness COPLA ONE: This Bad Guy World (in all seriousness) If this world has a true purpose I'm sure it's as a training ground For the villain; The good guys play hare to disclose The great skill of the bad guys' hound For a good ol' run; The good guys of course bear the brunt Of being stuck under the knee Of bad guys' jinn; While bad guys get the fun to shunt Good guys up the sooty chimney Down boot black bin. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Yang be evil Rondelet: Yang be evil for the continuously raped and hidden minors of India Yang be evil Yin acts with rash impunity Yang be evil No power controls the Devil Wombs despoiled in mad enmity Innocence: raped humanity Yang be evil (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Cliff hangers Rondelet: Cliff hangers In the name of Our party let other half cry In the name of Our safety sever one half off For mere two per cents let's all die The chosen people never lie In the name of (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 The Malay Pantun: Post-colonial writing La capinera's wintering pieces of tropic tunes The garden warbler's echoes of dark melodies Post-colonial poets return by summering fortunes Learnt by rote as sacred Oxbridge duties Note The French 'pantoum' may be modeled on the Malay pantun, or at least it may aspire to, but it does not adhere to its fundamental compositional criteria. For the original prototype, cf. T. Wignesan, 'The Poietics of the Pantun' in Journal of the Institute of Asian studies, Vol. XII, n° 2 (Chennai) , March 1995, pp.1-15; reproduced with corrections in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008, pp.49-67. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: On the payroll 'I had said, that some of our crew left their country on account of having been ruined by law; that I had already explained the meaning of the word; but he was at a loss how it should come to pass, that the lawwhich was intended for man's preservation, should be any man's ruin.' Jonathan Swift (1667 - 1745) was a cousin of the poet Dryden Rondelet: On the payroll On the payroll The law causes more misery On the payroll Than what puts people on the dole All judges accept salary Are lawyers born divinity On the payroll (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Tuut-tuut All Aboard Merry Xmas to ALL! Tuut-tuut All 'board Hades (Heav'n) train leaves at mid of night Tuut-tuut All 'board Death comes at eve of ning, Dear Lord Make haste and pack in Day of Light Lest ye be left behind What a plight Tuut-tuut All 'board (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Panic Stations Panic stations Uneasy the herds where packs rode Panic stations Packs close ranks when lone wolf notions Disrupt the pecking order mode It's the lone voice that bears the load Panic stations (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: No man is an 'Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind.' John Donne No man is an... All men need belong in a group No man is an... Stand alone: the group will you ban Can stray warped strands make sails droop The lone man drowns (swims) in his own soup No man is an... (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Eyes from afar 'Qu'il départage avec équité avant leurs transformations, ceux qui arriveront aux cieux avec les Justifiés, de ceux qui iront en bas avec les Justiciés, car la Balance pèse les Ames souverainement.' Verset 25, Papyrus de Nebseni Rondelet: Eyes from afar Eyes from afar Frequent visitors from the Dark Eyes from afar Come spy on life under our star This your experiment or lark Wonder brains criss-cross mad as quark Eyes from afar (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Who the hell cares Rondelet: Who the hell cares Who the hell cares If it's the end of hostile world Who the hell cares See you soon - no sweat - just for scares Upon some astre in maya* mould Bye from this ball of molten gold Who the hell cares * maya: Sanskrit for 'illusion; here 'illusory' (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Tau Ceti Soul Rondelet: Tau Ceti* Soul Tau Ceti Soul Four times Earth round our backyard sun Tau Ceti Soul Hope your Gods make one whole Goal Here we say One and let blood run Don't dare come here to overrun Tau Ceti Soul * 'Astonomers have detected five possible alien planets circling the star Tau Ceti, which is less than 12-light years from Earth - a mere stone's throw in the cosmic scheme of things.' Mike Wall (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Give me country Rondelet: Give me country Give me country Goddamn my values and cultures Give me country I'll not die for my family Devil take mother and sisters I'll lay my life down at borders Give me country (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 - (A Stateless Person for over 43 years.) Rondelet: Obama hear Rondelet: Obama hear Obama hear Chance of an age to set right things Obama hear Abraham lambs call - you hear Run the gauntlet before knell rings One life may quell voiceless suff'rings Obama hear (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Rat-a-tat-'tat For the Sandy Hook Newtown children and their mentors Rondelet: Rat-a-tat-'tat Rat-a-tat-'tat Rattle staccato riddle tumble Rat-a-tat-'tat Toppled children scatter rat-tat Innocent voices all tremble Rifled trillions sure-fire treble Rat-a-tat-'tat (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Democracy Rondelet: Democracy 'I'm fed up with democracy. In a democracy, people vote for the mayors. I wanted to build a city where I will choose the citizens.' Emir (Nemanja) Kusturica, director and scriptwriter (with David Atkins) of the masterpiece: Arizona Dream (1993) . Democracy One vote cast is carte blanche cast out Democracy Feeds small men constituency The one-vote majority clout Enough to send tough troops all out Democracy (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Reduce the size and population of the state Rondelet: 'Reduce the size and population of the state.' 'Ensure that even though the people have tools of war (...) they will not use them (...) they will be reluctant to move to distant places because they look on death as no light matter. (...) Bring it about that the people will (...) find relish in their food And beauty in their clothes, Will be content in their abode And happy in the way they live.' Tao Te Ching, LXXX. Transl. by D. C. Lau. (Penguin Books) . Population Cut sex: immigration will stop Population Well almost: miscegenation Humans put sex at utmost top: Aids herpes chlamydia crop up Population (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Be charitable Rondelet: Be Charitable Be charitable Employer of rich paper waste Be charitable Statistics make high-ups noble Pulp industry makes rich thick paste More you give the more the distaste Be charitable (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Masons in Arms Rondelet Masons in arms Make much matter in a muddle Masons in arms Country all dire in alarms Brothers all in cosy cuddle People without voice in fuddle Masons in arms (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Rondelet: Stuck in a hole Rondelet Stuck in a hole Ear-drums bursting from crumpled sound Stuck in a hole Secret wire-tapping sin soul Loss of sleep is thunder unbound Death is a noise heart-beats confound Stuck in a hole (c) T. Wignesan - Paris,2012 Post coitum omne animal triste est, sive gallus et mulier Post coitum omne animal triste est, sive gallus et mulier* Yes, no cockerel who rules the cackling roost Will stomach slander from Latin master; But who will stand aside and let the ghost Of hints slur old motherhood's register. Manhood must of needs hang its head in pain After all the sweat and toil in loins of love; After millions of squiggly soldiers in vain Drop their lean tails at the egg wall alcove. Only the fool who dares call woman's bluff Shall learn hard way positions in bedstead; Virile pride will sink in the depths of fluff While smooth gym-trained muscles rage instead. As they say hereabouts sur le vieil Continent La différence, Mon Sieur: lip's shade content. · * " After the sexual encounter every animal is grief-stricken, excepting the cock and the woman." © T. Wignesan - Paris,2005-2012. From the collection: Poems Omega Plus,2005. Rev.2012. Turn the sod to find a hand in your hand Turn the sod to find a hand in your hand Lord of your dreams come to haunt your reason Rot Rot O Heart soiled through the muddied land One mistake too many mounting offhand Scars experiences of every person Turn the sod to find a hand in your hand If only you could have known before hand What destiny marked out as your poison Rot Rot O Heart soiled through the muddied land You wouldn't hasten to offer your hand Extremes make for a right lethal portion Turn the sod to find a hand in your hand No sacrifice should be your last command Come bodies: go in sundered unison Rot Rot O Heart soiled through the muddied land If you interfere with Nature's grand plan Then gladly pay the price of treason Turn the sod to find a hand in your hand Rot Rot O Heart soiled through the muddied land © T. Wignesan - Paris,2005-2012. From the collection: Poems Omega Plus,2005-2012 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 For they will leave none alive hereafter And lease Heaven out to kith and kinds Time is but a ruse of passing moments The more it unfurls the more the laments. © T. Wignesan - Paris,2005-2012. (From the collection: Poems Omega Plus,2005-2012) What you do not see is not necessarily not there I Take out the caked grimy faucet plug Let those unseen crawlies dive and duck under the rust-ridden slime stuck to phlegm and saliva globs dried blood and flaky semen shot through with crap The seen and the unseeable The sane and the goneforsaken This glob of virus a syruppy eggdash got rid of in a hurry close your thoughts to the raw genital-******l whiff of public lavatories the brothel closets' stained sticky sheets the stink and the dirt and the stinging hell that comes from under pipes tanks drains sewers rivers all stuffed with fizzing fuming water cloacal wind and the aftershave lotion Nothing that wouldn't burn forever when we all disappear II Even if you slow your rhythm down to a stilled beat at rest haven't you heard your blood coursing through in a reckless lickety-split past the pinned ear in the pillow The silence of the hour outside your pulse down to a twenty-five or thirty listless cutaway from the clatterbanging engine within gushing whistling throttling wheezing jerking cartwheeling shunting beating a frenzied time racing round and round in a cataclysmic din Whoever jams it all from the eye hears its thunderous roar in the cells The cells that slither creep and ooze acidic enzymes down the washes of stuffed putrefying canals This the great manufacturer of what oozes in lethean sewers III cell into cells in the coursing blood the car jams the myriad alleyway mazes of city cells heartless traffic-lights valves that stop letpass white-red corpuscles In the city's centre is the heartless pulsing leviathan and through the aorta highway everybody alights on a wc cuvette and back through the ventricles the carnival parade of scabies herpes spittle and slime Die City Die like bodies and empires disease-clogged sewers funding plagues pandemics What is left from afar is a clouded-over scorched patch fossilised cellular forms under the microscope Who cares after a thousand billion years What went on during a trillion light years ago I care You care We care Do All ALL care © T. Wignesan, Paris,1986 - 87. Rev.2012 (from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems,1999) . Breath of the Informer, an Allegory for Thirugnanamoorthy Remorseful, the noonday sun Frizzles with the stealthy wind Under the rubbery mountain green. A calmness has come to rest From having tossed in its sleep. The forest has taken leave Of the hunted horn and drum. No more the tapper late of nap Scurries to the haven of a nest. No more the rattle whisper fades To nothingness in a lonesome rest. No more, no more, for the heavens Sleep and all the troops sleep too. The sinewy python stretched past Clumsily the ragged rock and branch. The Owl has called its reveille at last. And the forest sleeps with the wind Gently fanning some whisper closer And closer, every wave, a venomous flick Of a serpent, a kiss of rest. (Letter describing the situation in Malaya and denouncing treachery, written in 1952 to Thirugnanamoorthy who was banished by a British magistrate to Ceylon in March 1952. The letter never reached him.) © T. Wignesan, Seremban,1952. Pub. in Tracks of a Tramp: a first collection of poems,1951-1961. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961. You said: Why can i not have my Day a cherished paper-cutting for those who forgot to care and for you too late a cribbed account in pale bold face on some crowded backpage which lapped up the soya stains on the takeaway counter some faded picture of you crammed in nubile twists of fronting elegance in meagre-columned glossy pages you said: why can't i have my day why should a destitute Greek prince lord it over the world just by tying a knot with his regal cousin your eyes recognising too late a world you may never see again a world you may not be seen in again all your self-suffocating words and all those poured in contempt on you through you for you to feed those who grudged your fleeting glory Now now that all may be forgotten now that no bile inhabits this carcass over some too pulpy a fruit a taste of you from freshly-turned earth bloody juicy earth our teeth caught clinging to your bleeding shredded flesh of cells into cells of us into our selves © T.Wignesan, Paris,1987 (from the collection: Poems Omega-Plus: a less than obvious sequence,2005) Requiem for an Unknown Tigress Cub still the climbing green lianoid lass her tender tendrils torn massive metal lying like a cutlass in her lap forlorn finger on trigger still the wetness thighs eyes the breasts peaking the quick quelling blushing frenzy the slightly forwardthrusting awkward turgidness of the torso the stalk-neck craning a young pallid green palmyra on the thrust the dusky knuckly fingers strict and bony quivering the gangly gait now stiffening and within alert grasp an AK-47 rounds of bandolier bullets nipping her nipples fatigues for jungle sarees loose silk anklelength skirts over rough cotton jodhpurs rubbery canvas shoes for Ali Baba leather sandals sandalwood clogs the loin-length sesame-oiled tresses severed at the shoulders the rationed tampax crushed in the back jodhpur pocket the drilled march still aching in the pelvic girdle the shoulder blades too tendon-strained streaky shark's fins her mind on her mother's diurnal diabetic needle and the relief the dowry promised to the boy next door the lightly tripping fiesta truant feeling a matinee show the classes well the classes but for the maths teacher she was just then getting on the mend her mind shutting out the homely odour of steaming puttu and cambal itiyappam and coti rasam and rice the rat-a-tat of sudden staccato fire the screaming blinding flash of shells the dirgeful thudthud of bursting bombs the grating crackling of armoured car chains and the distant muffled blasts droning planes swooping the bark and shriek of schrapnel... then the raspy clipped yelp of the platoon commander ends her reverie her face crushed against a mound of freshturned sod her right knee twisted trapped in the hunched cavern of her pubertally pulpy belly the breath expelled in an urgent wheezing crushed moan the last stifled desperate cry for her long distraught mother (© T.Wignesan - Paris, May 1st.,1997; rev.2012; from the collection: Words for a Lost Sub-Continent,1999.) 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 sweeps past the old toy bicycle leaning against the wire fence the claw marks hardly visible on the spray of frost-like snow on the balustrade light ephemeral peripatetic the dulcet flexions rising and falling on the tympana without breath of motion or vibration crisp colliding notes rising and falling as the first tentative drops of drizzle before the rain the robin gone to sing full throttle on wing © T. Wignesan, Paris,1997; from the collection: " Poems Omega-Plus" , Paris, 2005. FREE POWER - Part Three from state dinner pent-up flatulence from stentorian vociferousness from stem-winding-ness from log-rollingness from flabby-bellied-ness from stench-filled under-arm-ed-ness from sweaty-palm-ness from stink-breath-ness from treacherous backslappingness from stuffing-the-mouth-without-chewing-ness from word slipperiness from work inertia and lethargy from gamboling sleepiness from not-listening-ness from turning-the-back-while-talking-ness from averting-the-eyes-ness from dirty-trick-ness from sick secret-service-ness from bloody tricky smiling-ness from thinking-one-and-saying-another-ness from forked-tongue-ness from spitting-in-the-face-when-talking-ness from smiling-and-looking-daggers-ness from gourmandise from niaiseries from wishy -washy -n e s s and leaving loads of lurid lumpiness © T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17,1997. From the collection: « Poems Omega Plus: a less than obvious sequence », Paris,2005. FREE POWER - Part Two from press confounding conférences from the Security Council colluding combine from the General Assembly showy-mugheadedness from secret international pacts from noseyparker-ness from the international monetary fund from partychairmanship-ness from multi-national-ness from Fort Knox Reserve Bank Swiss numbered accounts from Wall Street self-indulging perks to whoppy self-given salaries and billion-dollar bonuses from electioneering charitable-ness from taking more than giving-ness from absent inaccessibility from highly guarded hifaluting-ness from bypassing-ness from sanctimonious peacefulness from viagra sterility from bleary-eyed self-satisfaction from save this to spend that-ness from take a crap on others-ness from stratified doddering hierarchy from smirking hypocrisy from foie gras state dinners under candelabras in coattail-ness from promising full-employment save the forests children and old-aged-ness from so-called full medicare social security lower taxes & more paid leisureness from housing for every no-one to no parking ticket-ness from HIV indigestion from AIDS constipation from putting-on airs-ness from marauding menacingness from mièvrerie © T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17,1997. From the collection: « Poems Omega Plus: a less than obvious sequence », Paris,2005. FREE POWER - Part One Free Power from O P S W S E E R - M A D - N free power from its fetters no power without the people does power arise from any other source than through the intent to control confine confiscate con conk conjure computerize contort compel complicate concoct compress concuss conflict confute condemn corrupt collar convict collectivize confound concenter communalize collogue collude collonize commandeer compartmentalize castrate calumniate crucify combinate cutdown curtail curryfavour curb cully cuff cuckold crush crunch cross-question curveball conform confuse criticize croak criminate crash cramp cram crackdown covert counterplan countermine counterfeit counterattack corrode convert contrive contaminate constrain consecrate connive conquer power is a venomous snake that sheds its skin but not its venom free power from its sting free power from belief from self-righteousness from don't-not-look-at-me aloofness from protective-damnedness from ego-centred-ness from megalomanic mindlessness from aryo-apartheid-ness from i'm-right-Jack exclusiveness from self-opining holiness from crass-headed-ness from puritanic-mule-headedness from airy-fairy grandiloquence from haughty vengefulness from scary authoritarianism from the love of command from sexually dominating abusiveness from un-empathic tightfistedness from back-scratching dastardliness from building castles in the air-ness from masonic clubbiness from musty brotherhood-ness from stealing and selling-ness from never-enough greediness from carion-loving usury from thoughtless puttingdown-ness from self-aggrandizing acquisitiveness from the love of pomposity from the seclusive-ness of honours from fawning and flattery from foggy non-visibility from armoured parades © T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17,1997. From the collection: « Poems Omega Plus: a less than obvious sequence », Paris,2005. Poem by Kasiananthan on the Tamil Diaspora and Eelam, trans by T Wignesan The Parrot and the Woodpecker may turn... [Sung by TEnicayccal Cellappa] Translated by T.Wignesan mAnkiliyum marankottiyum The parrot and the woodpecker kUtutirumpa tatayillai their nests to regain nothing waylays nAnkal mattum ulakattilEyE Only we in all this world nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn [Above refrain repeated twice] cinkalavan pataivAnil From skies filled with Sinhalese planes neruppai alli corikiratu fire tumbles down in seething showers enkal uyir tamil Elam Our lifeblood our Tamil Eelam cutukAtAy erikiratu a simmering graveyard on fire tAykatarap pillaikalin While mothers rave in pain children's nencukalaik kilikkinrAn breasts the oppressor tears apart kAyyAkum munnE ilam Long before they might ripen tender pincukalai alikkirAn the buds crushed from burgeoning [Refrain] pettavankal UrilE Those who begot us back home Enku rAnku pAcattilE tossing turning in their longing for us ettanai nAl kArttiruppOm For how many days might we linger on atuttavan tEcattilE in the other man's refugee land unnavum mutiyavillai Without proper food urankavum mutiyavillai without sufficient sleep ennavum mutiyavillai Unable rightly even to think innumtAn vitiyutillai when will the day dawn for us [Refrain] kitti pullu atittu nankal We who played at kitti pullu* vilaiyAtum teruvilEyE joyously in the heedless streets katti vayttuc cutukirAnAm There now tethered others lie felled yAr manatum urukavillai no no hearts pain for us Ur katitam patikkayilEyE When our eyes light on letters from home vimmi nencu vetikkitu sobs prise open our brimming breasts pOrpulikal pakkattilEyE By the flanks of battling Tigers pOkamanam tutikkitu there to be our hearts throb and yearn [Refrain] Note: * A competitive game played by hitting a small stick with a bigger one, the goal being to cover the greatest distance. Also called in Tamil Nadu and Malaysia: kavuntA kavunti. © T. Wignesan - Paris,1995. From the collection: " Words for a Lost Sub- Continent" (2001) . Excerpted from " Kasi Ananthan: Poet Laureae of Tamil Eelam" by T. Wignesan in Hot Spring: A Journal of Commitment, Vol.3, No.9 (London) , December 1998, pp.17-18. 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 when ‘ … 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 self-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. Ibid. 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. Back Door Side Door Front Door: Which door might a Confucian take Back Door Side Door Front Door: Which door might a Confucian take ..................for René ETIEMBLE (Jan.26,1909 - Jan.7,2002) * In homage - dedicated to the Chair Professor of Comparative Literature .................at the prestigious pre-1968 Sorbonne University Barely a few speechless moments before your first words .............burned the « Coplas por la muerte de su padre »: ...................‘Nuestras vidas son los ríos .......que van a dar en la mar, .......que es el morir; …………………………… .......y llegados, son iguales .......los que viven por sus manos .......y los ricos.' .......Is the open back door which emboldens courage No untarnished name to be remembered by No selfless mate to lay by your honour .......No issue laying about themselves for your prize .......Decidedly it was a door of stealth As if choosing it.....you let it be known you were only merely passing by .......and stopped to hang your hat here for a while Yet you let your kin and callers believe ......your whims were worth putting up with ......your mischievous tantrums and gripes merely the mental athlete's unwinding antics The poïetic birth pangs of imminent glory ......just the mounting stones in the monumental lighthouse that ages from hence would pick forth ......your works on Montesquiex.....Confucious your unfathomable literary resource You upheld dozens who did leave behind a name ......a lasting name...not quite torn from solitary pain Yet who could deny you could have bettered their fame ......What undisclosed pain you harboured in your brain Oh so strangely were you endowed with the intelligence ......of the Chun Tzu - that uncanny eagle's scan To rout out of the mazes of your students' past lives ......just that one passage through their Tierra del Fuego But then you who completely espoused the rigours ......of that step by step mounting of respectful steps Were unsparing in your demands of adherence ......to old Master Kung's hierarchical obedience An open hand ready to sign any cheque ......to succour the caller's needs ......was alas! also the whip hand To keep the renegades in constant check You were possessed of a rare brand of anger ......which shook the land about you At those who bent justice to their unsavoury will ......such thunder boiled from within the guts of the earth Now you're gone and empty lecture halls echo your ......uncontainable ire where forged resounding silence You said at the start of a seminal master-seminar: ......« Nul n'est prophète dans son pays! » With the distaff side hanging on your every word ......wondering if your plans were for something yet undone No stray notes lie about to record your travail .....No visible correspondence to make it all credible Only books and books...files magazines and books .....and an overcrowdedly conquered mental pad jumbled words scratched into shaded inchoate sketches .....ganglia synapses...... shot-up neurons ......no clues to a ragingly flailing mind .............none to record the lives you succoured .....................nor even the beneficiaries' hurriedly scribbled thanks .......nor besides to the beclouding relations with one and all ...............not even a hint at why you may have refused .......................to forge a name beyond the beaten path of fame Would going by the front door in a fanfare of tv talkshows conference papers prize-giving ceremonies paperinterviews in ample studied poses and thoughts for future auto-memoirs volume one to seven the rest put-together posthumously in an omnibus expurgated version with prefaces notes introductions critiques eulogies ...............would it have been less like you ...............................................................to exit by the side-door the baywindow leading to reflected glory ........in a cool cloister of buffeted leaves stray poems in the tradition of your schooled masters or did you burn them all ............................................................................... ...in a fit of (cou) rage ......... tore them to bits...incinerated by your fiery mind ............................or squashed within yesterday's leftovers not caring who thought what .................the mocking condescension ...............................................................towards qu'en-dira-t-on * The late Professor René Etiemble held the Chair of Comparative Literature at the old, pre-1968 Sorbonne University but retired in 1978 while a professor at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University. In later life, he even refused nomination to the French Academy of Letters, though he did accept the Academy's Prize. He was a prolific critic, essayist, and memorialist, having published some poetry (one book, he burned the rest) and three novels. Like most French greats, he finished schooling at the highly competive Louis le Grand Lycée which runs alongside the Sorbonne. A renowned linguist (he could either speak or do research into a dozen languages) and grammarian (a graduate of the prestigious and elite Ecole Normale Supérieure de rue d'Ulm, Paris) , he remained until his very last days an inveterate Sinophile. He edited the Gallimard-instituted UNESCO oriental literary classics series, a fitting tribute to his encyclopaedic learning. He was also one of the editors of the Encyclopedia Universalis. His father died when he was four, and his mother did menial chores in rich homes to pay for his upkeep. During WWII, he taught at Chicago University and was co-opted into the State Department for the war effort. © T.Wignesan,6 novembre 1997, Fresnes-94, France (from the collection: Poems Omega Minus, Paris,2002: Poem revised.) Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012 To the lucky quill-feathered poets of pre-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 © T. Wignesan - Paris, from the Collection " Poems Omega Plus" ,2005. The Old Man and the Seine 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: That's why they say he set up shop in Butcher's Lane. The Master of Ol' Vic took exception to this affront And shook his spear such that it stirred a tsunami From the Thames down the Chunnel to the front Of Tumbleweed Hotel's Shakespeare & Company. Now you know why King George kept his window shut All through the century keeping no eye even half shut. (c) T. Wignesan - Paris. From the collection: Poems Omega Plus,2005; rev. 2012. Siluroid I am the prize catch I live in an artificial lake fed by a nappe phréatique I was put there to keep lesser fish: carp from taking up too much space I live to be caught and caught again and be let loose as rain I protest only to attract attention Twenty minutes to make things look good for the fresh-water sportsman I know now well how to play the game My almost fanless tail A slithering mermaid mass from my puffed-up head where overcoat-button eyes sunk on either side of my gaping gasping mouth shell-fish fins for hands Seven beige whiskers under my gawking chin make me the butt of dare-devil diving click-clucking coots Even the slender-necked darting grebe ignores me I stay low when the wild geese gather with their young: duckling swan barnacle I make no sound to call my own Only the crunch of carp between two rows of filed-down molars It is not my duty to swagger around even under my metallic raincoat camouflage I hide where the yarrow stalks grow thick and deep or where the weeping willows dip their loaded plaits Every Sunday I await the sporting hameçon The tear makes the wear more ludique Only the side of my underlip looks like a harelip It doesn't much matter for the fun-loving trotters and rovers like to marvel with pride at my side in the fishing-club picture of the week Meantime I gorge myself with carp That's why I hardly ever wish to carp © T. Wignesan - Paris - 2012 Note: The Siluroid, one of the largest fresh-water fishes, sometimes a metre and a half in length. Wake asia Wake - Part Two - 3 (Continued from Part Two - 2) While those that lay claim, nay, boast of to the largest democratic state a bi-cameral constitution simply inherited from Westminister as much as the unifying language and the soi-disant socialist stamp transported lock stock and tablier from a Cambridge freemasonic lodge by the Nehru dynasty progenitor look the other way with thumb and index closing on nostrils when their pariah cart their faeces away and still after millennia acknowledge and uphold the Brahmin the self-proclaimed superior priesthood caste those who speak for the Godhead Brahman albeit speak with Him in the only sacred Sanskrit tongue thus to be enthroned on the highest pure-blooded pedestal Can there be an Asia the cradle of quarrelling Gods which can listen to the little voice within the voice of innocence Is there an ASIA or are there asias As there were warring Euro-nations… [ to be continued ] © T.Wignesan 1996/2001 (Written between April 7th and 20th,1996; revised February 2001/2012 and published in The Asianists' Asia, Vol. II, March 2001, an on-line journal [from the " original version" in the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) , 1999] Published in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006. Wake Asia Wake - Part Two - 2 (Continued from Part Two - 1) Nothing of the foisoning ageold homegrownwine strained through Ol' Kayyam's ever draining ruba'iyat bowl keeps vigil in their scelerosed veins I will slap this officious reason In the face with wine in hand Who so bold to slap sense into the buttressed elus But those drunk with common insolence sense Darius the First built a confining wall around the Greco-Roman Empire's eastern front a first wall of self-will Gengiz Khan tore it down with his sabersharp teeth after climbing deftly through the David Copperfield hole in the Great Wall See how Mao stemmed the tide with his Long March Only to wall in his Zhong Guo An Asia within an Asia The Central Asian Crown to be propped up again either by vassal states or by tribute offering nations in return for health-giving largesse while tough little Viets struggled without wailing on bare feet to sling the Twentieth Century's Goldorak down to an ignominious fall while those that weep after twenty lost centuries at their Wailing Wall wall their brethren in a closely policed jail wailing at every television reprisal performance their insecure un-Godly fate in the dead sea of faiths at the bare hands of suicidal wall breakers hemmed in around their waists like those fencesitters the Greater East Asia Prosperity builders who let MacArthur gird them behind an Ocean Wall silent superior-thinking men and women unable to wish their neighbours bonjour even after the unhealed unhealing wounds inflicted by kamikaze samurais walled in behind obsequious bending backs and mechanical smiling faces What brews in quiet what festers in stealth Asia's white master race a Botha-deemed non-apartheid equal ONE of the seven rulers of this world (Continued in Part Two -3) Wake Asia Wake - Part Two - 1 Part Two Older in age younger in growth still heeding His Master's Voice the Great swirling dark illiterate masses led by less than nought point nought nought nought nought nought nought nought to the power of 32 who prefer nukes for toys at the cost of common everyday joys These that hanker after the departed master's pat on the back for the Man-Booker for the National Book Award for the Fullbright for the Visiting Professorship and/or IIAS Fellowship for the Ivy League-Oxbridge doctoral degree for in short the Master's pedigree-conferring embrace These who do not know do not want to know do not wish to know will not know if there's a difference between a Genji Monogatari or the Monkey between a Sakuntala or the Gitanjali between a poem and a public parade These that will *******ons of postcolonial muck And oblige their students to gorge every bit with spit Just to stamp careers with their brainprints These that will turn their coat turn their tongue turn their souls for a Nobel These that preen strut pout pose pretend mouth ready to swill the millesium this bouquet mind you titillates the left corner of the upper palate like a petal unfolding in spring from a hymen the dark obedient swirling masses lie dumb night after never-ending night to ebola and dingue and chikungunya swill water shrivelling their cramped contorted viscera (Continued in Part Two - 2) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 10 Your bombs and canons come late far too late now to put together your sundered arms no use crying robber in Kashmir when the poor hunger for a bowl of dusty gruel nor stretch your mighty legs over the Palk Straits to proclaim your integral faith Wake! India! Wake! There are no borders to the staunchly raised in unbending respect and unrelenting loyalty there is no need for police-ed borders for those who are tied to you by blood there're only stretches of unfathomable water so much un-scaleable mountainous frights Wake! Asia! Wake! And draw your sons and daughters about you they who inherit your fate tell them not when they may act or how just let them gather around you with time if you wake up in time they'll hoist you to Himalayan heights Wake! Now! Asia! Wake! Before It's Too Late! © T.Wignesan 1996/2001 (Written between April 7th and 20th,1996; revised February 2001 and published in The Asianists' Asia, Vol. II, March 2001, and in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006. [from the " original version" in the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999] Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 9 Make haste to befriend the toro meanly reared away from spectator prying eyes by dread alone the bull is nurtured and prodded to terrify and when at last the ranchero's silhouette appears in the arena it charges Wake! India! Wake! There are no greater mysteries than those your scientists can unravel the only mysteries that persist are those drummed by priests into your brains even a helpless Stephen Hawking can pierce the Aryan mystery by silent reflection Wake! India! Wake! Let those who seek power in the polls seek it for their own sakes sooner or later sooner than later they too will pass away their power gnawing at their bones will feed the etherising flames of their pyres Wake! India! Wake! Let those who seek to challenge their power challenge it for their own sakes they too will rot in the chains they have willingly chained themselves in for they too seek power for the sake of power and for theirs and their own comfort Wake! India! Wake! And let them all pass over you you who have borne in quiet pain mauling under the pretext of mournful migrations and the Mughal might Mohenjodaro and Harrappa notwithstanding Vijayanagar and Kaveripumpattinam Wake! India! Wake! Do not for a moment think your sons have deserted you nor your daughters gone to spawn with other spouses under other suns your needs are their needs your tears their blood coursing in their veins Wake! India! Wake! If you had woken up earlier to tend to your shores to tend to the marauders at the border letting only the lone Kshatriya exert his martial art abused by fine courtly comfort you would not now wonder how a Rajput court at Mewar drove Akbar to such lengths Wake! India! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 10) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 8 Wake not to feel that all is maya all futile all cyclic dust even if it were so the pain lingers pain is cantankerous in the beggar's strife-torn eyes in the child's fly-infested blown belly Wake! India! Wake! All is not illusion all is not fake all is not a passing phase the hurt lingers on in the memory of those who died in pain forsaken forbidden trodden on and driven under Wake! India! Wake! To lose even a day no to lose even an hour is to put millions on the block is to set them back by aeons Wake! India! Wake! Rise with the sun rise fresh from yesterday's toil from poisoning TV commercials and commercials' mightily airy-fairy movies from jingling song and bill-cooing in gardens from worshipfuls of Bollywood idols Wake! India! Wake! Lull not your finely-tuned senses in lilting goose-pimply melodies let not your far-sighted perceptions become dulled in spurious imitations here in the West they marvel at the speechless facial rhythms of a Satyajit Ray Wake! India! Wake! How do you manage to listen day in and day out to the sentimental romantic quatrains set to rumba and samba cinematic background less-than-roaring forties' dance music under a decor of piped sky-lancing and prancing tinny gushy melodramatics Wake! India! Wake! Before your children grow up thinking reality is a coloured film-strip in hot gasping halls where plumpy heavily mascara-ed curly moustachio-ed pot-bellied half-men chase blown-up versions of the eternal Sita oozing midrift flesh heaving in rosy gardens Wake! India! Wake! Wake and take the future by the horns it's no toro that will gore you into the past you need no muleta for a faena with the dark and terrifying future the future's just a bull raised on cow's milk in green pastures Wake! India! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 9) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 7 And shake off the mantric spells ringing in your conditioned minds but remember and preserve the great sanskrit treatises those that refined aesthetics in dance music drama poetry in sculpted architecture Wake! Artful India! Wake! And see how all is not bad in the horrendous past see how Akbar the Great lavished learning in between dangling his sabre see how the Moghuls wrought lasting mausoleums in the name of love Wake! O! Suffering India! Wake! See how the British-planned railways brought you closer than ever before see the I.C.S. examination as the equaliser the Confucian meritocracy see how the Western savants discovered your own glorious past for you Wake! O! India! Awake! Recognize the truth of your enslavers' contribution to the sub-continent heed not those who would poison your minds with chauvinistic lust accept the historical fact as a truth that cannot recede into wishful oblivion Wake! Now! India! Wake! There is no shame in being taught the truth of your present or past plight the accidents of history have reaped their toll on your memory but now you are master of your own fate of your own history to come Wake! India! Wake! Wake! and show the way to a better understanding for the less fortunate the maimed in mind the thwarted by birth those the abject shunned from sight let them also claim descent from your Himalayan height Wake! India! O! Wake! Before it's too late! Before your own kind enslave you again victim to your former masters' machinations slave to your own listless traditions Alas! Wake! India! Wake! Where is that all-embracing self-negating self You who have turned upon yourself once too often to shed your precious blood and repent Wake! India! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 8) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 6 Show them that a fair deal is still one to be honoured in your shores no one will take more than what is his earned share and none will seek to shortchange his honour for luxury Wake! India! Wake! And let the Wheel of the Law turn your fortunes to steadfast mettle and he that abjured gold and palace to roam the streets and forests has long since won the hearts of nations beyond your continent Wake! India! Wake! And learn from his example the simplicity of forsaking futile ambition of forsaking all that crippled your body and mind of letting them alone in their Vedic mystic glorification Wake! India! Wake! For he has woken up those peer nations they who woke up before you and have put their fellowmen in a state of equal plenitude with nothing to envy those who conquered and humiliated you Wake! India! Wake! And think not nor devise how you may emulate your past masters envy not them their lives nor their wealth in times to come your future is no more never more tied to their apron strings Wake! O! AsiaWake! And let your heart beat to the rhythm of thriving hives let no one tell you where to put your feet next when you pull your weight together there your feet will prop you up straight Wake! Asia! Wake! And let those who enslaved your body and mind for so long let them learn from your willingness to forgive that they too have a place in your heart as guests Wake! Asia! Wake! Do not crush the children of those whose ancestors sought to humiliate you children grow conditioned to the ways which you accepted for ages as you accepted the conditioning of your children by their fathers Wake! India! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 7) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 5 And take the tasks in your own hands the tasks of your own fate do not let the helper from elsewhere tell you what is best what is best for you in his words is always infinitely better for him Wake! Wake! Asia! Now! The poor the misguided in streets and villages weigh on consciences for you have always let them be in their ignominious plight show them how share with them your superior knowledge Wake! India! Wake! Differences only persist because you want them to it is enough to show them what causes their bodies to weaken it is enough to feed their minds with that little which will grow in time Wake! India! Wake! If you give them no running water and the drains and pipes of evacuation if the rubbish that piles up behind huts and mansions heaves and humps if you dung and spray in the open air to feed legions of flies and insects Wake! O! India! Wake! The food that they serve you will be from unclean hands and the tourist will bypass the hotel and soon the sub-continent and there'd be little use in saying we the upper castes we live in godlycleanliness Wake! India! Wake! And shatter the dream of the purity of untarnished blood there are just those who are born with blood and bones legs hands eyes and those who think they are twice-born with more than just that Wake! India! Wake! We have all but one mother over that great eastern divide of the Black Continent in the nuit des temps our dreams stood up on hind legs and uttered the words we now mouth in Babelic tongues Wake! O Asia! Wake! And take upon yourselves the task of showing those who falter in spent spurious dreams that the age of conquerors is an age brought to a standstill in history books that buying and selling is all the commerce conquerors can peddle nowadays Wake! Asia! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 6) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 4 And remember the sun never really sets only on covetousness no greater co-prosperity sphere is there than inner contentment here the sun only rises and spreads its eyes in constant kindness Wake! Japan! Wake! O! Where have they all gone who drank deep and late Old Khayyam's wine while with compass and rule he measured the rhymes of the skies and found the tulip-cheeked maiden wrapped round his earthen cup Wake! Old Persia! Wake! And still the venomous thunders flooding in the Tigris-Euphrates veins every minority has a right to his pride of place every dog his manger no monster bomb worth the sweetness of the four-stringed ruba'i Wake! Saddam! Wake! Let not the dust from streets settle on the rags of the by-standing beggar batten down the mud with stones and gravel with those very hands that culled the Ajanta Caves from the rocks of teeming wilderness Wake! O! India! Wake! See not how the chiselled rocks of Fathepur Sikri lie chipped in negligence nor how the hordes of monkeys romp on the fortifications in disdain see only the vision that shaped the mind of Akbar's masons Wake! O! India! Wake! Scorn not the erstwhile brother now behind a frontier wall if your ways were just no brother would have sought cover siblings are no higher or lower born of the same mother Wake! Now India! Wake! Receive the bounteous waters that descend from the heavens confine and clean them in reservoirs in troughs or in buckets and make them pour forth in joy onto your children's faces Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Wake! wake your neighbours also from the gonepast Rip-van-Winkle millennium it's hardly enough just to keep going from day to day nor rely on the idea that no matter what It works India works Wake! O! India! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 5) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 3 No wisdom more canny than the folksome pantun's peasant proverbials Wake! Monde Malais! Wake and note no Sultan whirls as a Sufi Nor no Sage of Singapore pouting platitudes can make you wake Wake! Malay! Wake! And settle your differences with neighbours over the bamboo fences for as long as you chain produce Kalashnikovs and cartridges others far-off will pride themselves on their need to divide et impera Wake! China! O! Wake! Give your less mighty neighbours not so much the helping hand as the glory of an example of standing upright free on equal feet you who had over the ages exported suzerain panaceas and no conquests Wake! O! China! Wake! Remember again Asoka the masterful Mauryas the golden era of the artful Guptas Kalidasa's Shakuntala Tulsi Das Pannini's grammar Bharatha's Natya Sastra The Tolkappiyam the Cilappatikaram Manimekalai Ramayana Maha Bharatha Wake! India! Wake! Remember Lao Tse! Master Kung! and the all-doubt dispelling future perfect Yijing! Remember the finest mind-embroidered silk flowing down the ages in Wu's Monkey skeins of thought calligraphed in the Buddhist mean! Wake! O! China! Wake! All is not full-figures all not burgeoning percentage growth if glory can be reduced to mere Middle Kingdom might! then bound feet will drag on face-down in seven kowtows Wake! O! Mighty China! Wake! And set your legions marching not to win wars or quell rebellions but to unclog your drains canals marshes and rivers let your lifeblood circulate nourished in lifegiving oxygen Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Whose art the better glints down the ages the gilded Samurai swords or those of Bashô and Issa in the carved rocky sands of the combed garden or those of Lady Murasaki in Genji Monogatari and Chikamatsu Wake! Sleepless Rising Sun! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 4) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 2 Wake! and see the extent to which you're still enslaved enslaved by your own kind who hanker after conditioning platitudes the clubby comfort of secretly oath-taking power cliques Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Remember! Remember Haidar Ali his son Tipu and Akbar remember Sivaji and Chandra Bose and Kattapomman and Asoka remember O! remember the one and only Mahatma Wake India! O! Wake! Wake! India! Wake! and see how your destitute generations are shunned aside in infested villages sans drains sans potable water sans hope see how they're bound in mantric incantating castiron caste strictures Wake! O! India! Wake! No where else in the world are humans so in-humane-ly stratified what proof have the Brahmins to issue forth from Brahma's head who proclaimed them the chosen elite on top of the Indian pile of castes Wake! O! India! Wake! Wake! and see how your northern brethren have cast off their spiritual shackles even if they had abjured the path of the just to yoke their bodies yet for each child a vaccine a soja-filled stomach to keep slavers away Wake! O! India! Wake! Wake! O! India! Wake before it's too late! for your own kind are about to enslave you once all over again and the old master needs hardly despatch troops to proclaim his divine law Wake! India! Wake! Wake and watch how your elite ape and espouse the ways of the old master how for an air-ticket a stipend per diem they would do you in without compunction how for some lions memberships in select clubs they'd betray your own true kind Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Wake! O! Indonesia! Wake and see how the G.N.P. in Singapore far outweighs that of the former papal Portugal now how the four fiery Eastern Dragons no more parade in papier maché garb Wake! Indonesia! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 3) Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 1 It is night yet in the West and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber Wake! O! Asia! Wake! The cowherds' bare blistered feet already trample yesterday's dust into mud and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Tomorrow is yesteryear's planned strikes buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end Wake! O! Asia! Wake! For You there is no respite no pause no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants there's only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Your eyes will hurt in the twilight's hazy glimmer no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work Wake! O! Asia! Wake! The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Let those who succeeded their former masters sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d'oeuvres and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms Wake! O! Asia! Wake! Wake! there's little time left for your own bickering differences to fester the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished and the carrion hunters trained in their old master's image club together Wake! O! Asia! Wake! (Continued in Part One - 2) 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 and desire becomes a clay cat baking in the womb of the mantelpiece under a creaking crumbling lintel Revised from a 1986 poem: « Cat on the Mantelshelf » © T.Wignesan 1986/2012 Letter from a Classic Archetypal Dope, January 4,1960 - Part Three Part Three Did you not notice then How uneasy I was in the eye of abundance How hiding from the surfeit of joy From whose very object I Learned not to cry And so all through with fear Fear opening fresh fear Without respite, without cause Deft day handling stolen night Within the walls of our breath Smarting, whining Nudging through illusory pretences Waking and making our presence Forever shy of ourselves As if all this were not true Heart closing on heart Excreting gratitude You have done your part What more could I ask Could you then blame me that I fought Every step of your way to me For what I was worth to you I was ready as a knave to soot And when indeed you took a man You took to bed a goon not a man Though we account for ourselves and whatever we have accounted for We do not take ourselves apart and when we have to account for ourselves between you and me Then what we have to account for is three You, the goon, and the man or me But when we have nothing to account for There is but one lonesome count And so you came to me A thwarted child and you told me 'You.... Me' © T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.) Rev.2012. Letter from a Classic Archetypal Dope, January 4,1960 - Part Two Part Two From that moment onwards Not when the fingerless muscles unclasped the indented bones But from that moment of knowing from that very moment of sustenance That day of human unbelief died unsung And the depth of human grief buried long bestirred a momentous song It willed within me it were man Some kindly soul no less But in surfeit laid aside The biscuits of distaste It willed within me it were some organisation Hurrying to the bed of despair With the spare crumbs of conversion The Holy Infant to succour I willed then it were a friend From want of excuse to teach His fooling heart to bleat Robbed his conscience of a treat I willed and willed and never In my thankless memory Sat the image of my enemy The fulcrum of my singular division And when that day I delved into my depths To find the words of irreproachable thanks I saw you turn and stamp the light Of my begging steps of penance I turned, rebuffed Should I have turned and gone Away from the stony snarl of thanklessness Away from all that I saw in that One inseparable act Away from my insurrection From the illimitable doubt of humility Far away from all the coquetry of cunning No man was divided more Between himself and self Between life and cherished death Astride on the unwelcome threshold of emptiness Had I come out of dying And yet the chained stick of fate Was certain to unravel for me No less, no more, the vicious sting of hate And revived with urgency's gratitude Twice over, reconditely, I was blessed (Continued in Part Three) Letter from a Classic Archetypal Dope, January 4,1960 - Part One Part One Now as I account for myself I know the fight is over You made me feel if I was worth saving I was worth having And I knew as the man flattered to grow He also learned the crafts of clinging on to his sleazy self When we have to account for ourselves When we have to take stock of the unaccountable When we have but ourselves to account for When all but you and I alone are left standing Amid the crowds that hover at our presence in your eye Amid the lashing lolling tongues Amid the squelching claws of distrust And the deriding press of after thought What are my lean-throated words What are my bleating pleas of what When we have to account for ourselves In the awakening stillness of other judgment worlds What account do we have for ourselves But the rabid thirst of a search When we may have met in this or that town But in this land and in this continent This world This incarnation This temporal crevice You in the fresh burst of discovery I in the aftermath of debunking rediscovery Time was then held alike that summer Growing only to fruition in our recognition My senses were growingly numb from blunt use burning when the electric fondling dared enter and worry the concealed corners I saw you then Not as the strapping dash of bubbliness Nor as the plaitted innocence of schooling youth Trundling the scenes of covertly revisited crimes Forming with others the dutiful mannered habits Nor as the tall preening blot of shyness at the hedge of a group picture Fronting a personality Dicing friendship Simulating elder precepts Feeling your maidenhood pulsate in reveries Testing its beat upon hidden hay heaps Nor as the pure shaft of consciousness Thrusting into the wake of frightfulness I saw you Only as a parcel come to me in mortal need In a prelatic bestowment of fruits and tins The salt and pepper of spicy tables I saw you come to me in disguise well wrapped and well meant I saw you come to me That low day of my life As a parcel bound in the selfless vines of veins As the blood of transfusion As the hope of persistent verse It was one big inconsumable heart that arrived Unnamed and unasked for And I stood and stared Stared and stood No longer in unbelief I did not live from victuals coursing through I lived and thrived from gorging one Insuperable unknown heart (Continued in Part Two) Once I was a Prince - Part Three Part Three ...swishing away with your sunshrivelled burgundy knotty arms with broad disdainful harvesting sweeps the cobras come out to water in the sweltering heat by the thatched fly-buzzed hole your low under-the-breath warning tones a reminder of the will of your selfinflicted charge you never ate until i gorged myself like the dutiful wife given with a dowry watching me all the time through the shield of the wisp of cloud of cheroot smoke in your sentinel corner against the far wall your eyes glinting fearing that i might take exception and even before my plate was half-empty you had already darted across the kitchen floor to bring me more fried brinjals mashed greens fried and sliced plantain the steaming rice lying bare by its metal cover hanging on the lip of the open pot-mouth in a clear aluminium pot by my side now they say you are gone for some plotted and took your life in haste even before you had time to ensure an heir others say you were alone dismayed abandoned by your own prey to enchanters coveting the plot of land the house derelict forsaken by your absence they say some one else caretakes it for himself others no a forbidden son of your husband's has raked it for himself alas would you have known how landless nationless stateless i'd be this dot of ancestral land clinging-clanging in memory did you know then you might never see me again nor probably ever hear of me or if you had how might you have taken it all did you believe the tales true and false they told or only what you wanted to hear of your precious prince you once served in silence and who had gone to slave in other lands Notes eevaa peerankal muuvaa marunthu is a take on another well-known Tamil proverb: eevaa makkal muuvaa marunthu meaning " children who obey even before the order is given are a God-send" . Here, in lieu of children, the word " grandparents" is substituted chembu: a small usually copper vessel shaped like a rounded vase with a tapering neck and open mouth, used for holding drinking water or milk kuul: thick holdall gruel which may also be highly spiced chemman: red soil Vaithi: ayurvedic doctor, practising the traditional Indian homeopathic medicine © T.Wignesan 1997 - Paris May 7,1997 (from the Sequence/Collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent') Once I was a Prince - Part Two Once i was a prince in your eyes my every wish granted even before I could wish it eevaa peerankal muuvaa maruntu the hot kuul boiling complaining in the chessman earthenpot your apparent fear that the nextdoor neighbour woman might begin her daily chant of your ancestors' drawbacks failings mishaps for fear that my still sheltered ears might tire of your village ways tire of the lack of other comforts running water showers toilets for fear that your native untutored tongue might sound too outlandish to my ears your pain perpetually shrivelled between your brows notching your fine flanking nose Once you touched me for I had not risen at the appointed hour for my ritual bath the huge cauldron of water simmering on stacked bricks for you daren't let me expose my yet-unscorched skin to the mild chill of early morning dew rising in the torrid heat your full palm cupped protectively across my forehead held a fleeting moment longer than necessary in the freshly carpented wooden cubicle you had had made for me where I slept within fresh crisp cotton and soothing silk torn no doubt from your bridal saree and again you brought it down after wiping off the cooking wet with one edge of your saree the consternation in your all-watching eyes you had no time to hide i could hear you calling out to the boy passing down the pathway to the ricefields your urgent voice pressing instructions and the boy then setting the wickerbasket full of corn down on the finesand track and retracing his fleeting steps as the familiar swish swish of bare feet slurping sand fills my ears an urgent call to the Ayurvedic doctor husband now some nights bedded by his concubine then as the boy returned with the message of the Vaithi's arrival within the hour the yet other curative orders to have fresh palmyra toddy milked for me then you forbade me to leave the bed dabbed and cleaned me and served me for seven long days on the toddy that made my flesh swell and shine how you never failed to precede me with the cut palmyra branch like a ferocious Saracen - I'd wager - with his scimitar before his advancing lord and master every time i took it upon myself to take that narrow footpath into the back compound overgrown with palmyra coco-palm sweet mango guava and papaya and the swordlike rasping grass trembling upright in the low crumbling wind and the thorny touch-me-not ground-hugging folding brush (Continued Part 3) Once I was Prince - Part One for Granny Letchumi (b. fin 19th C. - d.1978) Once i was a prince in your highbeamed palm-thatched house timber and stone of hardened mud and cold green shiny cement in your village ribbed with drying splintering palmleaf fences buttressed by ferns palmyra jackfruit mango trees standing solitary sentinel in compound corners then just for a month i was a prince in your eyes i hazarded the Bay of Bengal on a lolling steamer and watched in unbelief naked children dive for coins in the Nagapattinam offshore anchorage just to be with you still a teeny dreamy youth and there you were afraid that your village ways might irk me make me want to go back before time the day i arrived a double murder in the island a day or two earlier another vendetta vengeance wreaked in blood for slights of caste contraventions other threats other life-taking threats for mere unintended insults innuendoes injuries to the state of one's birth to the validity of one's finance one's moral upstandingness one's looks one's genealogy a longdrawnout court case for the plucking of a ripe mango from an overhanging branch in the neighbour's compound sitting squat on your two firm broiled scarred feet your coarse borderless demure saree stretched to its apparent tatters your stalwart all-bearing sturdiness masked in that humble crouching posture your rough-rolled cheroot smouldering on the edge of the kitchen-patio cemented mudfloor and rolling off the corner of the wallbacked seat from where you listened to the swish swish of my coming down the fine sand-filled path rising swiftly furtively only to prepare the ceremonial washing of my feet hands face with the natural coolness from your own ancestral well the chembu as you reverently tilted it giving off just that much of thrashing water into my upturned cupped hands your meloncholy dreamy gaze riveted on my face my hands my hair my feet recalling perhaps the husband you moaned and whom I had never seen not even in a word-picture your eyes those bee's full-trusting warm honey-coloured ensconced within sharply falling epicanthic folds watching without imposing but who knows how nostalgically your fear of touching me with those toil-knotted fingers lest I recoil worn yet tender frail still strong from serving two husbands over half a century lest I inadvertently even make a gesture that might make you feel unlike someone of your highborn bridal glory (Continued in Part Two) Kunst 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 untransmutable intent when other more enduring forms stop the outpour tax and stem and call for ageing patience's munificence: At this the heart will pause before labour the consciousness severing from congenital cries « I'll pound harder for patience's sake » - the penitent heart upbraids. « Only so, until I too have learned to punish words into some form until men of all climes may equally say: ‘This I understand for my father did as well as forefathers to grandchildren might in it dwell' « Might one say again (need it be necessarily said) Why this shape for the violin Is this the only colour of sound That must with horsetail on bark be whipped to wail and whine like an harpy © T. Wignesan - 1960 Heidelberg, Germany. (Rev.2012) from the collection: « tell them i'm gone », Paris,1983. ISBN 2-904428-07-0 The Best of the Night to You, too, Bala - Part Two Part Two Do you remember your run-up to the crease your Lindwall-delivery dragging the clasping flannel round hobbled boots your anger at the wicket that went on a no-ball Do you remember your opening bat that snicked the runs to leg and off which dozing umpires signalled as byes from pads Do you remember Brigitte her perky bobtail her boucles of prancing hair lances on her forehead sickles on her verti-vir-ginous temples Where are the bridges you have crossed and those you had planned and those you saw grow pebble by pylon and cementing stone where the roads you laid up virgin forest and limestone Where indeed the buildings you repaired erected re-erected and razed and the thousands and thousands of miles you rode the wild seladang of the primeval jungle hand on hump with no stars in the paly night to guide you through venomous blukar and the boiling green torture seared deep into your burning entrails these that now have run out on you Watch now how the river glues under your fuming stare when the monsoon torrents sweep the knock-knee-ed pylons to a side those dry as split-bark legs of yours itching once too often in comforting company though a little spindly for a Pied Piper Yet you made the puppety Peninsula run down drains and monsoon pipes to a purge-full sea Who is there now who wouldn't wake to your fits of irrupting gurgly merriment to ease the tension amongst unlikely fellows Who who wouldn't miss your seething whiteheat glee at his side You who knew how to accompany Kay and Richard up to the closed door of your last night a very good night on your lips Your opening bat's duty done the side shored-up in safekeeping the last fast breathless ball you faced nicking the bails off You needn't return to the pavilion for the standing ovation goes on for you Bala long after the cloddy-stumps lie slain on the tiled floor © T.Wignesan 1993 August 8,1993 - Paris [from the collection: back to background material,1993] The Best of the Night to You, too, Bala - Part One Part One for E. Balasubramaniam (June 13,1935 - August 7,1993) So you took the covert road of the night and stalked me while I listened to Vivaldi up to midnight At two when you were ready to go you woke me stunned stark in your memory your impishly entrancing laughter your dark bright pupils beaming through the slits of your tightly drawn lids your ivory teeth basking in uncontrollable mirth your blacker than black ear-antennae and higher than high civil-servant brows marking your dark-diamond worth your patience your more than necessary feeling for the less than fortunate friends and relatives stretched cummerbund tight round your caring nature How you knew how to share your luck Always a little put out for your beneficiaries' putout-ness Worrying speechless night after night lest your luck run out teeth in protesting grind against the risks of your calculated outstepping Paths led up straight for one whose smiles funnelled from the heart lit in ever-foraging circles of fire There was no obstacle to the summit for you took with grace only what you knew how to spare with care To the authors of Manimekalai - Part Two Part Two To have written is to leave but a mark nothing stands for the proud rhyming syllables more than his acquired business acumen a Vaishya karmic hope Now we stand aghast before this edifying monument and verily wonder at some man who may have in gusting wind and blasting brine clung to his loincloth on the scaffolding his knotted hair thick with the chimes of the Colamandala tide the bells from Mahabalipuram to Chidamparam tolling in his veins his sinewy rhyming muscles pulsing to the chiselling of reliefs in memory of Kannaki and Matavi and the liana apsara Manimekalai in her forbidding expunging of her caste courtesan rôle the lethal unmaking of an infatuated prince Tied then to the creaking wooden framework left by Ilango Adigal's epic-making epic his stomach heaving the low burning wicker lamp stinging his nostrils in the stilled small hours his eyes hardly following the olai leaf of his beaten memory night after sleepless night his merchant's paunch and eyes sagging wife and mistresses in unrequited rut while in tryst forlorn one thought lingering under the tree in Bodhgaya lamenting for the disciple's offering of trichinosis he lets the dawn creep into his ears with the kuyil's ironically teasing call the fingertips charred with lampblack till loaded cartwheels grind on the gravel of his spent dreams It is easy for us now to quibble over him and make much of when he may have conceived his poem for at least in so doing he comes alive only to be killed revived chided praised drowned in words more than he has bequeathed us © T. Wignesan- April 7,1992 (from the sequence/collection: Words for a lost sub-continent) . Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature & Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006. To the authors of Manimekalai - Part One Part One " Apart from its popular conception of transmigration, (which is) sometimes almost humouristic, Manimekhalai offers a documentary contribution of immense value, under an easily accessible form, on the philosophical speculations of Ancient India. The cosmology of Sankya, the scientism of Vaisheshika, the logic of Nyaya, the materialism of Lokayata, originally related to the Ajivika tradition, (all of) which re-appeared with force in the Dravidian world following the Saivite renewal a little before the beginning of the Christian era. The(se) concepts which had little by little, during the course of centuries, influenced the Vedic tradition manifested themselves with force from then on in an autonomous way and went on to give birth to the philosophy of Mediaeval India." (From Alain Danielou's " Preface" in his and T. V. Gopala Iyer's Manimékhalai) To some the interest is in the reading hearing singing To others in the Buddhist faith that moved the begetter(s) To most the wondrous-unwonders of the story born in the Cilappatikaram To a few in the monstrous bending of the verse in nilamantilavaciriyappa To all time to parse in tongue-grinding heady rhymes initial rhymes end-rhymes alliterations antitheses rigourous unsyntactic ellipses double syllabic feet four to the line the exceptions in three all a mnemonic scaffolding of repetitive sound For yet others after Catanar's warehouses in Puhar were long empty the task of interpretation arose Some sought to impute his motives to caste-enhancing kingly favours Some as Aravana Atigal's hagiographer Some as a bodhisattva-feat acquirer Some as the anthologiser of myth and tradition Some as the poet-laureate of a people's ancient lore Some as a collective grass-roots inspirational catalyser Some as the hindu kings' proselytiser Some as a patron of a ghost-writer Some perhaps as the first ecstatic copyist Some who knows as an unrepenting plagiarist Who should care after all these years Who wrote what and why no image rests of him nor the jetties and godowns of the Cola entrepôt nor whether some Yavana read to him during the long monsoonal wait back for Rome the feisty encounters of a Ulysses or the airy goings and comings of the Olympian pantheon nor whether he cared to listen being full of a pride of his own (Continued in Part Two) Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part Six Is poetry only meant for teaching what is time-honoured what is authorised what seeks not to rock the ship of fate Part Six Helas! My universally-renowned peerless ancestor! I'd like to think You'd be the first to have recognized the always changing world The first to have accepted the parting of ways For your intelligence your foresight and hindsight Your immensely powerful quill would have sought other remedies other means to convince a wayward world a world far too gone and worldly-wise to hatch the nuances of your admonishing word all afresh N'empêche your name is a comet hurtling down the ages ©T.Wignesan, December 2001, Paris, France (from the Sequence: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent',1999) Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part Five Part Five Some couplets apart much remains redundant even obvious inapt by way of pointing to fresher vistas and those that follow the rarity of your verse imbibe nothing else from this age's handy cornucopia of instant wisdom Your lines served an eminent purpose in your time now we bed our minds down by encyclopaedic libraries we live on another planet Your chain-ganged lines served to teach the meek the lame of mind the dislocated of your time Yes some still wallow in the same myth today not from want of will but from the fear of rebirth imprisoned in conditioned belief and the essor of Dravidian identity only defering to the feigned purity of Aryanising blood reverts to the same mythic belief some kind of imagined power of breed History is in the past It cannot help the present to liberate itself If one has not understood the difference If one has not disowned and let fall meaningless myths If you dear Valuvan lived in these times Would you not have disowned your own lines well perhaps some or more not all finding their way into a florilège of your choice for you know how love in the third part changed with moeurs changing with the times so has the art of governance and the unconscionable ways and practices of the artha classes other precautions more pressing than mere friendship would have compelled you to jettison many a couplet Who knows even your first ten would have found their way into a bin ethical lines of advice would turn sour in today's ear No child would heed to the letter your admonitions on behaviour Nor no wife take her place in the humiliating role of kitchen-helper No political king will base his reign on your strict plans of concern for etiquette No youth seek virtue in the puritanical preachment of bygone observances One singular contention: No peasant revolution No women's liberation No religious reformation grace your pages the establishment the status quo the traditional hierarchy the Almighty All find mindful foundation in your ardent didacticism and extend licence to those who cry sacrilege in the coming dismantling of the clans of castial power (Continued in Part Six) Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part Four Part Four and you might never have thought the mighty today are like those trodden poor of your day who at least were shackled to ignorance by force by godly fear a racially discriminating Overlord now the privileged in blindness give you lip-service and a lot of money hoping by this gesture to earn your merit not earn YOU merit and the society's accolade You remain abused still by the vain undistinguishing crowd who upon the mention of your name rise to feel proud of what then than in their shored-up selves of belonging within the self-same pigment and tongue None of your real worth passes into them Nor the reason for your epigrammatic lines Pray Should I then beg forgiveness for this affront (Continued in Part Five) Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part Three Part Three Whether or not relations with the uncultured enamour Do not seek to succour what should sour What does it matter if you gain or lose inferiors Who feather their own nests and leave you in a mess Those who look to the benefit that accrues from friendship And those who covet largesse are thick as thieves Better be content to walk alone than surround yourself With friends who'd ditch you like wild stallions in battle It's better to sever than solder vile ties With the petty-minded who'd fail you in need By far it'd serve you better to be snubbed by the wise Than be warmed by the company of narrow-minded fools It's infinitely more useful to bear your enemies' scorn Than court raucous revellers who'd warm you up with guffaws Friends who'd proffer help remonstrate and find fault Might as well shun them with scarcely a farewell Friends who please by word and yet act otherwise Crop up as a rude shock even in dreams Turn away from the friend who snuggles up in private While he seeks to denounce you in a public place [Tirukkural, Chapter 82: " Evil Friendship" ] No-one contests your calligraphic diamond cutter's skills Nor your codifier rôle of existing customs beliefs of kingly comportment of the wife's place of manner of securing friendships of the obtention and dispensation of education of the seductions in the dainty maiden's coyness Nor of your infinite wisdom of the times Nor of your observation of the passing of life about you Nor alas! of your inveterate nay obsessive need to pontificate in what is evident to the even half-baked PERHAPS What mattered was to get the lesson through even one in ten was well worth the while if remembered by the unfortunate by birth Who never traversed the threshold of class and caste Who never even buckled exceeding numbers on their toes To you the ten-by-tens by one-hundred-and-thirty perhaps you planned a florilège in old age by weeding out for posterity's privileged classes the few quoted over and over katka kasadara katka karrapin nitka athatkut thaka thiiyinaal suddapun ullaarum araathe naavinaal sudta vadu (Continued in Part Four) Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part Two Part Two SEVEN STARK WORDS Seven alliterative blockbuster words struck so they rhymed initially in juxta-positioning lineal parallels pausing but in the fourth to resume breath in the fifth Leaving the interstitial morphemes in resonating ellipses The economy of your parsing has wreaked havoc down the ages in all trans-explicatory tongues Tough-minded men come from afar with other gods to serve and sacrifices to make in the name of their Lords bent your versification to limp rhyme and left meaning a hung pursuit in the hands of plagiarists professors preachers who not knowing nor divining the reason for your craftsman's concatenation of weighted phonemes advanced theories for your elastic pregnant mind strung myriads of pages in exegeses each staking a claim to posterity the villainous hanging on your lips In a time devoid of papered learning for the poor When to be born a Sudra or Pariah was a sin When masters were those top-heavy manically-mantric Brahmin priests Preying on the duped loyal sycophantic Vaishyas wishing to earn karmic merit with their agricultural gain at their altar feet such servant-financers as they by legions now lay their souls down as even the long-gone royally leisure-dispensing Kshaktriyas how would he who sought the spread of knowledge not seek to encapsulate learning in mnemonic couplets arranged according to rigid design for those who could not count either Ten fingers in the hand so Ten the number of facets of a thought a subject a theme even if theme subject thought were stretched too thin Master Valluvan, the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor - Part One Part One " The Kurral owes much of its popularity to its exquisite poetic form. A kurral is a couplet containing a complete and striking idea expressed in a refined and intricate metre. No translation can convey an idea of its charming effect. […] The brevity rendered necessary by the form [composed in the Venpa metre] gives an oracular effect to the utterances of the great Tamil ‘Master of the sentences.' They are the choicest of moral epigrams. […] Tiruvalluvar is generally very simple, and his commentators very profound." Rev. G.U. Pope, Former Fellow of Madras University [Pardon these futile measly words from your great Potiya height: they can hardly belittle your true worth.] Under what leaky hutment roof by stamped-mud floors trembling clair-oscuro straw-wick kuttuvilakku on the stark anvil of crisp phrase and sparse syntax by the raging nama-nir rhyming brine at Mayilapur's S.Thomé sandy doors while peacocks danced to your innate pulsating chimes have you chipped away at uncut gems Those the Yavanas brought with the monsoons or such as your sea-daring captain friend Elela-Cinkan's Even those the Christian missionaries preached in daredevil enticement after St.Thomas fell to a vel stuck in his bosom or of those like you who were stamped underfoot Caste in cast-iron strictures Priest only to the proclaimer paraiyar drum-beaters The warp and woof of intricately woven venpa verse elevating your weaving clan to fresh artistic heights YET in the humbled ways of your birth on whose steps have you pitched your ears whose wisdom have you had to pilfer filter whose ways have you had to ape whose mere thoughts have you then had to set aright ennoble and remould into inextinguishable lines Or had you tread the ahimsa path of gentle-foot Jains Treading gently the earth for fear of loping boot pains (Continued in Part Two) Lessons of Change - X - Part Two Part Two Till October comes around with its bounty The granary stuffed to the full Lush fruits still pulpy and juicy Ripen to a filthy rashes on skin brashness The greenness of innocence Turned to an over-ageing dun-yellow Tell-tale sickening silliness Soon detached the firm leaves will lie Thick on the ground spurned and trampled Earlier than the appointed hour No matter Recourse to pins and stitches Breast uplifts Straightened nosebridges Dead Indian women's chevelures High straining buttressing stilts under heels And thick sticky chemical tasting paint Squeezed carcasses concentrated musk Furs of bludgeoned seals and foxes Haute couture paid through bankers' loots Or the easy secret service paid trysts Through hard-earned tax payers' sweat In five-star deluxe hotels Will lengthen the hour Yet In the boudoir Yes Pity the woman She has but a score years from teen to thirty-five Before men take her for a whore Some women know this well And cleverly work to use this sell She'll kick and thrust her lolly chops from bum to cheek In the later Heaven's southwest sky Fascination oozing from her loins The sacred portals of propagation Bruised all over under fire-dragon skies Bloody a limb or two out of joint and the gnawing ignominy Of having relented in June Sowing your wild oats with the blessings of 13.7 billion years The trained and disciplined chromosomes Without the company on whom to work her wiles and sap nourishing energy to continue She'll seek the riotousness of her ilk and at autumn's summit At the height of smoldering flesh When worms and germs will make a merry feast Of the beast in her meat Let her fade away with her booty Seek not to set right wrongs You have only yourself to blame For thinking easily entered gamboling Will not be made out to be your aim For weren't you then the spirit consoling © T. Wignesan, May 10,1987 (rev.2012, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987) Lessons of Change - X - Part One Part One GOU - Hexagram 44: One powerful Yin encounters or comes to meet the Yang in the Sixth month of the Gregorian Calendar, on the Sixth of June onwards - having associated with five (meaning any number) of them. The symbol of Sun, the eldest daughter, under Qian, the father; Sun, the wind, raging under Qian, the sky. the soft underside of the solid strong edifice: one broken line under five unbroken ones, a veritable open and free orifice that sucks, topples and breaches the closed Yang fortress. When the encounter takes place on the sixth of the sixth month in the century's sixty-sixth year, for instance, of the last century, then anything may be possible: a whole people's mores suffer, and general decline sets in through slow rot. According to Richard Lynn and Richard Wilhelm's translations: It would not do to marry such a woman. It must be brought swiftly under control by tying it to metal brakes, the Fourth Yang. The Yijing's commentators: Confucius, Wang Bi - take the broken line to signify " woman" as Yin in their male-oriented society. Here, " Yin" may be of either sex, though the " sow" , the " lean pig" rests the book's cherished image. One such lesson - among many - then would be: Beware beware of the Sixth of June When everything begins to go out of tune Though it be but the fifth month of the moon On which the Yijing decides Yang's semesterly swoon The dark abusive days diminish at the winter solstice Fresh buds push inexorably under the icy parapet Once again the earth awakens to right itself After the skies close their eyes To take a short nap During the months of leisure When work slows down When Qian withdraws in August Wrong-doers wreak havoc Under the guise of hard-earned reprieve Days lengthen to expose the Yin's covert covetous doings Under cover of six long rollicking months of shenanigans In June the lean pitiable sow Begins her enticing solo The boars close-eyed ignore And gore This's the day on the wretched creature sidles up Both pity and compassion nourish her The poor defenceless shivering thing Fatherless misunderstood Victim of strict meanness Faking blind discrimination Unjustly broken forsaken The oddly fascinating Yin willing to be folded within Protective wings (Continued on the next page) Now you are put to rest - Part Two II You had said when I kidded you? After all I'm not going to be far away? Now you are put to rest? In a place dug and slabbed for you alone As if you were not going to rest for good? with all the others? It is a place to a side in the pebble-strewn sidewalk? against the wall? your feet to the east? all the other feet to the south? As of a general standing to a salute from his army There was no sight of you? The golden chocolatish-pink of your casket? made more glittering the cross? I couldn't guess if you would have wanted the Church's ornament then the feeling of being out-of-place? thoughts of you in a cloud We talked in suppressed tones? about you of you? trying to be polite and succeeding among uneasy fellows? here and there some unwanted details slipped in through nervousness? yet none felt your hand tremble on the racket You were the master of the court? as now you mastered your going by the low sleek slate-grained marble? in sharply polished angular correctness? amidst shy upright cypresses and neatly cut passage ways of chipped stone We sprinkled your tomb with Church water? Neither rain nor snow you remember could keep you from finishing your game? Already as we turned in a column the voices now louder in the distance? They were arranging the roughly hewn stone slabs? before the marble thickened your bed You may at last be at rest? with no one to challenge you to a test of strength? your referee's whistle holding its un-disputable silence You came with the spring? Now you go in cheery spring? Your sollicitous voice still lingers in our courts? You knew us all by name and style at play? long before we met under your critical gaze (Jean Franco, born in Morocco of Spanish stock, was an Income Tax Inspector and in his spare-time an International Soccer Referee for France. We often played tennis at the Tennis Club in Fresnes-94.) ©T.Wignesan 1992 April 21,1992 - [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Now you are put to rest - Part One for Jean Franco? (March 15,1907- April 15,1992) 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 without solid food to pass from his newly-grafted conduit He was completely in their hands and hung on to their lips their every nod their plans for him and the use he had for their apprentis chirugiens sorciers He kept his anger for his friends family telephone operators the aidesoignantes those he could intimidate with his age for he didn't know what they knew they wouldn't feel the hurt the slight for long the rankling umbrage sans riposte He didn't mind all the inconvenience the constant waking to pass water the secluded room without tv without his wife to take it out on without the means to exude his usual referee's contempt of rules In their hands he was the meek inept thing pleading with his eyes his entire body bent to their gaze of wonder of why he would so question going now then or even a little later (Continued in Part Two) Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts Five and Six (continued) V Has it not occurred to you how I sat with you dear sister, counting the chicking back of the evening train by the window sill and then got up to wind my way down the snake infested rail to shoo shoo the cows home to brood while you gee gee-d the chicks to coop and did we not then plan of a farm a green milking farm to warm the palm then turned to scratch the itch over in our minds lay down on the floors, mat aside our thoughts to cushion heads whilst dug tapioca roots heaped the dream and we lay scraping the kernel-less fiber shelled coconuts O Bhama, my goatless daughter kid how I nursed you with the callow calves those mutual moments forced in these common lives and then, that day when they sold you the blistering shirtless sun never flinching an eye, defiant I stood caressing your creamy coat and all you could say was a hopeless baaa..a..aa and then, then, that day as we came over the mountains two kids you led to the thorny brush, business bent the eye-balling bharata natyam VI O masters of my fading August dream For should you take this life from me Know you any better Than when children we have joyously romped Down and deep in the August river Washing on the mountain tin. Now on the growing granite's precipitous face In our vigilant wassail Remember the children downstream playing Where your own little voices are speechless lingering Let it not be simply said that a river flows to flourish a land More than that he who is high at the source take heed: For a river putrid in the cradle is worse than the plunging flooding rain. And the eclectic monsoons may have come Have gathered and may have gone While the senses still within torrid membranes thap-pooo-ng thap-pong-ng-ng thap-pong (for 'Glossary of Vernacular Terms' see next page) Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts Three and Four III This is the land of the convectional rains Which vie on the monsoon back scrubbing streets This is the land at half-past four The rainbow rubs the chilli face of the afternoon And an evening-morning pervades the dripping, weeping Rain tree, and gushing, tumbling, sewerless rain drains Sub-cutaneously eddy sampan fed, muddy, fingerless rivers Down with crocodile logs to the Malacca Sea. This is the land of stately dipterocarp, casuarina And coco-palms reeding north easterly over ancient rites Of turtle bound breeding sands. This is the land of the chignoned swaying bottoms Of sarong-kebaya, sari and cheongsam. The residual perch of promises That threw the meek in within The legs of the over-eager fledgelings. The land since the Carnatic conquerors Shovelling at the bottom of the offering mountains The bounceable verdure brought to its bowers The three adventurers. A land frozen in a thousand Climatic, communal ages Wags its primordial bushy tail to the Himalayas Within a three cornered monsoon sea - In reincarnate churches And cracker carousels. The stranglehold of boasting strutting pedigrees And infidel hordes of marauding thieves, Where pullulant ideals Long rocketed in other climes Ride flat-foot on flat tyres. IV Let us go then, hurrying by Second show nights and jogget parks Listening to the distant whinings of wayangs Down the sidewalk frying stalls on Campbell Road Cheong-Kee mee and queh teow plates Sateh, rojak and kachang puteh (rediffusion vigil plates) Let us then dash to the Madras stalls To the five cent lye chee slakes. la la la step stepping Each in his own inordinate step Shuffling the terang bulan. Blindly buzzes the bee Criss-crossing Weep, rain tree, weep The grass untrampled with laughter In the noonday sobering shade. Go Cheena-becha Kling-qui Sakai (continued from Parts One & Two) Who dares to take this life from me, Knows no better: Parts One and Two for Eric Mottram 'Nur wenn das Herz erschlossen, Dann ist die Erde schön.' Goethe. I An important thing in living Is to know when to go; He who does not know this Has not far to go, Though death may come and go When you do not know. Come, give me your hand, Together shoulder and cheek to shoulder We'll go, sour kana in cheeks And in the mornings cherry sticks To gum: the infectious chilli smiles Over touch-me-not thorns, crushing snails From banana leaves, past Clawing outstretched arms of the bougainvilias To stone the salt-bite mangoes. Tread carefully through this durian kampong For the ripe season has pricked many a sole. II la la la tham'-pong Let's go running intermittent To the spitting, clucking rubber fruit And bamboo lashes through the silent graves, Fresh sod, red mounds, knee stuck, incensing joss sticks All night long burning, exhuming, expelling the spirit. Let's scour, hiding behind the lowing boughs of the hibiscus Skirting the school-green parapet thorny fields. Let us now squawk, piercing the sultry, humid blanket In the shrill wakeful tarzan tones, Paddle high on.the swings Naked thighs, testicles dry. Let us now vanish panting on the climbing slopes Bare breasted, steaming rolling with perspiration, Biting with lalang burn. Let us now go and stand under the school Water tap, thrashing water to and fro. Then steal through the towkay's Barbed compound to pluck the hairy Eyeing rambutans, blood red, parang in hand, And caoutchouc pungent with peeling. Now scurrying through the estate glades Crunching, kicking autumnal rubber leavings, Kneading, rolling milky latex balls, Now standing to water by the corner garden post. The Urchin in Dr Radhakrishnan Road - Part Two Part Two a hardly flickering oilwick open trough lamp lighting limply other framed coloured pictures of Ganapati two half-empty troughs of kunkunum and vibhuti on the half-opened cicatrised shrine gate traces of twirls of white chalk on the road reminders of mandala and disrespectful feet a bleak reminder to the departed donor's culpability To the boy now awakened looking through dazed poolai-stuck eyes the obeisances of hurrying office workers and the coins they reverently pressed in a cement platter at the saffron-robed shrine's feet strewn with fading frangipani and shrivelling kernel in split coconut-halves all these were on a reel spun high on a screen the lad could neither fear nor partake of the proferred fare his only Right was his right hand stretched long but never touching the deadened fury of his looks softened only by the lowered eyes The day was long or short depending on his cavernous gastric growls and according to how he laid himself out in some public place to shut out the important world of poets and politicians shout-shooting around him into the Twenty-First Century towards wild parties and fun-conferences to shore up their sagging petty images to bombs and cars that fly to other worlds won on stars to shrines adorned like filmstars and filmstars adorned like shrines Just a privileged lingerer allowed to watch a while the magic lantern show behind burning fearful eyes that dreamt of steamy coco-shavings-crusted puttu a second stomach thunderbread and chapati ladiesfingers and drumsticks pumpkin in hot sambar stringhoppers in coti masala tosai and a tumbler of buttermilk Notes 1.Dr.Radhakrishnan Rd.: Boulevard in Madras (Chennai, India) where are to be found some posh hotels 2. mallikai: Tamil for a variety of the jasmine. 3. splodges: a blend of 'splotches' and 'lodges' (in the sense of " to serve as a receptacle for" ;) , meaning a great heap of splotches 4. kunkunum and vibhuti: Hindus streak their faces with these powders either for customary or religious reasons 5. poolai: Tamil for rheum in the eyes 6. magic lantern show: a reference from Omar Khayyam's Ruba'iyat. 7. puttu, sambar, coti, stringhoppers, masala tosai: Indian Tamil cuisine, usually taken as part of breakfast © T.Wignesan 1993 (January 4,1993) , from the Sequence/Collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent'. The Urchin in Dr Radhakrishnan Road - Part One Part One Still the din dashes about in his dreams now louder in the spacedout quiet: an occasional auto-rickshaw backfiring revving spluttering too close for chancy comfort some blaring tv hoisted above craning necks Over the squeezed out crackling mud sidewalk his head buried in the crook of his charred bony arm his right elbow crusted in a masked-eye pattern his left spindly leg knotted at the knee jauntily splayed in a triangle on his right the mud-soaked sole inturned at the angle as if to cushion the prickly grains on bare scorched skin a defensive gesture against cold dust wind noise pain the slight lukewarm breeze lifting from Marina Beach teasing the settled dust the strangled pores he had for a blanket Through the dropped jaw rosy-pink at the bled bitten lips his breath wheezed through stained craggy teeth his broken nose stopped by blobs of bloody phlegm a hovering fly or two keeping undisturbed guard His hair streaked in plaited dusty strands lost in the sidewalk's trampled mud On his loins some tortured rags bound at the hips bulged at the dryblown stomach the navel unfurled like a budding ear to where the hardly heaving contorted ribs held the will to awaken the evaporating carcase of a steamy engine at the works He woke to the mocking streaking laughter of the magpie calling out to its mate across the slipping concave-tiled roofs across the dense mango green weighted clusters where they had slumbered for the night to the mangy scavenger dog digging its nozzle in the splodges of decomposing leaves paper and tins larded with leavings: turds dung urine phlegm and menstrual foam that the parched earth gulped during the day to the bluebottles festering on the peeled shin-bone to the hordes of tinkling bicycles piercing his unquiet drums to the buses and taxis top-heavy creaking and near toppling and the sharp clipped voices of servants urgently preparing the exit of their master in a polished limousine through laundered lawns Some fifty yards away across the road a low saffron roofed-box of a stone shrine lay crushed and sagging on the tarmac against the mud-sidetable from which sprawled the scaly frame of a dust-throttled tree the garland of mallikai on the dark stubby slippery shrine of a squat Ganesha Krishna's Advice to Arjuna - Part Two II for Thodti trailing barefeet his dried coconut-stick broom on cracked macadam in the gutter festering oozing fresh month-old drying turds urine remains of fed-up banana-leaves skins withered jasmine garlands drained motor-oil from scooter-taxis overfed flies lean stray kids fowl cows all that was wonder from afar magic mythic mystery the lingo of gods on earth the brahmin vegetarian clattering-pans over order shouting eating-hotels as though the heavens deigned to camp down on his doorstep derailed on their celestial inter-galactic circuit his mind if he cared to exercise one was of little use to him nor were they to his ancestors called upon only to clean the bottoms off those who shat upon his forefathers for ages his only use for his intelligence is to know his place minus the alphabet minus arithmetic minus the patinenkilkkanakku minus the grandold Vedic mystic gods and rishis minus the right to think for himself only the dullard's right to die daft dull damned and be reborn in the womb of ignorance So much for your Godly advice Charioteer Krishna For don't Gods only talk to Gods on Earth Detach yourself first then KILL Do not feel for those you kill For what lofty ideal the Mahabharatha pitted mythically gambling polyandrous cousins Is India today a magical-realist myth or a cranking up Indo-Pak Armageddon Sattva Rajas Tamas Sattva Rajas Thodti Notes Sattva: pure intelligence and goodness Rajas: impure mental energy and restless passion Tamas: dullness and inertia Blodok or belodok (also beluduh) : Malay for large-eyed goby, found in tropical or equatorial muddy flats Gopuram: the tiered, sculptured towers over the main entrances to Hindu temples Kannagi: heroine of the medieval Tamil epic Cilappatikaram Kolusu: ornamental anklet chains with bells worn by Tamil women Kunkumam: saffron (yellow or red) powder serving as adornment marks of auspiciousness on women's faces Patinenkilkkannakku: the traditionally collective name for eighteen Tamil classical works Tali: usually gold chains worn by married Tamil women round the neck or tumericstained cords in lieu of Thodti: a caste name for Night Soil Men © T.Wignesan May 26/27,1997 Revised June 2002 Paris From the sequence/collection: " Words for a Lost Sub-Continent" . Krishna's Advice to Arjuna - Part One 14: If the soul meets death when Sattva prevails, then it goes to the pure regions of those who are seeking truth. 15: If a man meets death in a state of Rajas, he is reborn amongst those who are bound by their restless activity; and if he dies in Tamas, he is reborn in the wombs of the irrational. The Bhagavad Gita, XIV, transl. Juan Mascaro. « It is incorrect to assume that Hindu thought strained excessively after the unattainable and was guilty of indifference to the problems of the world. (...) The Gita asks us to live in the world and save it. » S. Radhakrishnan, The Bhagavadgita. When Thodti was born at Nelveli in the latter half of the XXth century his ancestors had been living out-of-right for the past XXX centuries hovering on never-never land under villages with-out-back twenty-hutments now overgrown to two one-thousand hovels in towncentre marshalling yards no sewers gurglecourse under their feet nor piped potable water flush their long-curdled alimentary canals nor showers chase the clinging cloaca stench nor even un-broken drains tarred roads garbage removal vans find mouth on election platforms the towncentre = the bus-terminal churning flipping putrid mud after three-day drubbing storms and bulging human fleshed trains run on forgotten time the lav's stinging week-long turds splashvomits the feast of flies temples carved with mantric-mouthed hands from the VIIteenth & VIIIteenth gopurams in congested tiered runaway curlicue rococo-baroque fantasy rose chalk kunkumam ripe mango yellow pitch black indigo bulging fuming thick mascara eyes Zapata moustaches dangling over burgeoning bellies lithe white cows gracing Ganesha's flanks garlands of roses hibiscus jasmine identical buxomy lasses ballooning commodious backs ample thighs their sarees a deliberately clasped transparent veneer of pudeur the jingling nautch girl anklets vain reminders of Kannagi bangles bracelets armlets tiaras talis earrings noserings fingerings toerings kolusus the prancing stained eyelashes the full lascivious lips and that eternally round-eyed vacant supercilious stare past the invisible sanctum sanctorum the vast sinking steps of the holy tank murky with blodok torn bookmatches ceremonial paper ferns water-lilies lotuses and centuries-old ooze caked ulcerous washing feet and tick-milling matted hair see how trailing reams of wishes and private wants rise in pre-paid puja-thin mantric magic smoke to high heaven Gerard Sekoto, In Memorium: 1913 - 1993, Part Three [Poem read at Sekoto's inhumation ceremony at the Neuilly-sur-Marne-93 Cemetery, near Paris. Channel 4 in London recorded the reading as they did the funeral rites in the presence of his close relatives come from afar for the nonce and based their documentary - as far as I can tell - on my lead cover article on the South African self-taught painter and musician Gérard SEKOTO, published in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol.2 (Paris) ,1993. Both the article and the poem were re-published in my book on " poietics/la poïétique" , entitled: Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008,214p. There ensued a general scramble for his canvasses at the Maison des Artistes where he was lodged in his declining years, and even the sketches he gave me for publication disappeared from my studio.] III Long are the years you have lain your easel down Longer still the sun at Botshebelo burnishing your skin In the soft autumnal retreat of your heart You could still hear children playing in the mission station You saw with what glee they jigged in Sophiatown And bled for your brothers enchained in District Six Away in the quiet slumber of a land you loved You wrought the blazing colours of a secret rage of man's will thriving in his limbs of an enduring passion for hope in the dance of stoic joyousness in the embrace of a Mandela Not a shaft of light escaped your hunt for traces of your childhood nor were lost the spare airs that filtered through shanty-towns Your world was a world of people simple people going about their chores with premeditated caution oppressed people endowed by need with the guile for survival People for whom you lived People who live on in your veins uninterred in your carved canvasses (Poem read by the author at Sekoto's funeral in Neuilly-sur-Marne, France) (c) T. Wignesan, Paris - 1993. (Pub. in the Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol.2 & 3 (Paris) ,1993 & in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.Net,2008.) Gerard Sekoto, In Memorium: 1913 - 1993 Parts One and Two [Poem read at Sekoto's inhumation ceremony at the Neuilly-sur-Marne-93 Cemetery, near Paris. Channel 4 in London recorded the reading as they did the funeral rites in the presence of his close relatives come from afar for the nonce and based their documentary - as far as I can tell - on my lead cover article on the South African self-taught painter and musician Gérard SEKOTO, published in The Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol.2 (Paris) ,1993. Both the article and the poem were re-published in my book on " poietics/la poïétique" , entitled: Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008,214p. There ensued a general scramble for his canvasses at the Maison des Artistes where he was lodged in his declining years, and even the sketches he gave me for publication disappeared from my studio.] 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 There may yet have lingered then a little bit of the malign in you That ultimate grace-saver in your embattled loneliness I didn't stop to think I had to show you I was hurt I didn't realise your hurt was legendary already formed and contorted in the aeons of darkness each in our indelible separateness Your age your despair your self-abandonment in the gorge of medicines in the crises that felled you careering through terrifying electric storms leaving you year after year worsted wiping duster-strokes of your memory clean I didn't stop to think II Your demise is the passing of an age is the passing of a people's pain unrequited In your veins you take with you a hundred years of hurts and slings of dismemberment and mindlessness of lost chances anguish and despair though driven into your lonesome corner upright against the inroads of a Rhodes or the pitted power of Buthelesis finding in the milling Seine in the plucky rhythms of an ebony-and-ivory keyboard in the hidden skeins of your eyes a pulse beating with the heart of downtrodden generations the infinitely pulsing look of defiance that ultimate refusal of defeat © T.Wignesan, March 29,1993 [from the collection: back to background material, 1993] Pub. in Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. II (1993) , Paris & Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. The Partitioned Wailing Wall - Part Two Part Two one by one numbered they falter stricken parted mother from unborn still-born ravaged lover from brother now huddled they go up the altar now a grey veil to bind the blush of brides wan and bent voyaging through no-man's water to weak to feel even pain O for a job, a job to keep me going to fatten my woman to draw a pension And while we are waiting Give me leave, my Captain Give me leave to go upon the shore for the sails do droop and flop in the shrouded past and I may no longer see the breast of my tarnished home-born door Kritik der Urteilskraft Are we all agreed on this point Then clear the court for the Queen Mother Yesterday's sister science Throw out the precedents, no, not that one Dust those three long buried in Königsberg And remember, always remember Here are no laws, make your own If the wind will not favour you Then tear down the sails If physics will hamper you Then paddle your way through For Here are no laws, only, you You must go on and on That's all that's left for you Give no quarter Discount not your enemies Always on and on For Here are no laws only YOU © T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983) The Partitioned Wailing Wall - Part One for Alan Painter I have put into many ports labelled: handle with care stood on the wharfs, bare-shouldered up to the knee, unloading cashew and coconuts and then set sail again finding no substance to trade with I have seen the waters rising and the walls submerge the roofs converge the children washed on the battlements I have heard the chasm cries Stifled under jackboots the whimpering against walls lost somewhere in the hoarse Gött mit Uns! Come home, she cried, strappadoed in the lap of jettisoning tribes Come home, my weary ones home to toil and die labour and sigh curse and cry Did he not withdraw to that holy backwater by Milan and with the cup of his Confessions bathe his horrent sins away I listened to a story that our first quarter remembered to tell but the waters of the Himavant had long curdled in the breast of the suttee wife I listened long in the myopic light disfigured in the white heat of our Enlightenment to the trapped voices of inquiry before all the mania of demigods trumped through the weaning years in the delirious lust of revenge And then, and then I did not care what happened what could happen there was life it was worth having So I went labelled: handle with care Who are those people skimming past the mortal coast torch untouched by hand in the drowning mists have they no work to do And that rope of smoke A troubling dizziness rising out of the funnel of the Black Forest where professors they say guide the race in the aftermath of charred marrow tissue brain Yet I see no mists, no ghosts No coasts, only torches and parades and blocks and blocks of beering beef and munition mounds and in the not too open days froth in the lolling oceans and bowelling brain-splattered skies even like unmapped sunset glories now the Krakatua lies spent fished out of some Japanese isle the false auroras of enchanting horizons when soughing metallic dust courses through skulls lava in an epileptic fit (...continued in Part Two) Plaidoirie for a 'Prince' of Jaffna - Part Two Part Two A Prince may not bring dishonour to his kingdom In times of strive for the sake of Christendom; If he seeks spurious honours to feather his nest And alienates a people who die for freedom. A King is he who in high danger opts for sacrifice Like Kattabomman seeking no excuse nor artifice Met the East India Company's Collector all alone And fought his valiant way through gunfire malice. The history of Tamil kingdoms in all ages gone by Teaches us the same lesson made proverbial by An Ettappan who in his insatiable envy of grandeur Caused the ultimate Tamil Prince to hang high. We live in a world where politicians are the real Princes Who wear no crowns but their ministerial pince-nez; Yet other captains struggle against such fait accompli And in jungles forge a human bulwark of chances. It's not the cherry on the icing that makes a cake If underneath the slender icing over a lake Wild worms bore at the crust raised in protection, Won't people then take a Kshastriya for a fake. If you want to be king then let your voice be true Renounce all wish to be ordained a true blue; Let the people choose what they want for a crown If they need you, will they not call upon you. Uneasy the head which wears the realm's crown While the people fret and fume and frown; See how caretaker John usurps the Lion-Heart's throne: Uneasier the head become the butt of a clown. Lay aside all thought of fame In the quest for a feudal name; He who assumes an ancient title Must prove worthy of the same. © T.Wignesan March 2006 - Paris, France (from the sequence/collection: Words for a Lost Sub-Continent) Plaidoirie for a 'Prince' of Jaffna - Part One " We learn from history that we learn nothing from history." George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) Nobel Prize Part One 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. In the blown sliver of land at Great Bharat's feet No one knows what Tamil line came to greet Found refuge and took throne to announce a reign Nor helas to make much of a glorious feat. Kings are not born to hoist the castial banner, Rather had they earlier scaled the social ladder Through heroic deeds by protecting the masses; Chieftains peer-elected to top the social order. (...continued in Part Two) 'Blood' Brothers or 'Bloody' Brothers under the Banner - Parts 3 to 5 III What shame if might measures not with muscle? What disgrace awaits those who fail? Should wanting life be held lèse-majesté to a tussle? Should a nation thrive as in a sundered jail? To the high nor low slams the door To him who seeks the Law and more. Take, take the Golden Mean road! Truth your only key, never the sword! Decades from now sawn men will in right ask: Had we then no will to attend to our wounds? Should not the White Master be called back to task To bear the burden of our graveyard mounds? What guidance should wise men need More than their own tested counsels? Lay, lay aside the pride of higher breed Like two strong men upright in councils! IV People are made to feel their lives rendered great By what their leaders do to invoke fate; Destiny asks not who may stand in as its fated mate, When all around lives are lost through hate. To the high nor low slams the door To him who seeks the Law and more. Take, take the Golden Mean way! Truth the only key, no, never slay! If the Lion strays from its prescribed domain, The Tiger will seek to sink its fangs in flanks. Two kings bide their time in a land full of bane, While the common folk lie razed by tanks. V Seek not to replace life with conundrums. Seek only a life-giving solution. Herald not the arrival of the enemy with drums. Let only your heart speak in absolution. The mountain cannot reach up to the sky. The lake at the summit is full. If monsoons come, calling cranes will cry. Kindred spirits will rally in full. To the high nor low slams the door To him who seeks the Law and more. Take, take the Golden Mean way! Truth the only key, no, never ever slay! Can a people simply grow strong in broken places While strong men before the hour vacate places? " Man can be destroyed but not defeated. Man can be defeated but not destroyed." © T.Wignesan 2005 - September 21,2005- (from the Sequence: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent', Paris, France. Pub. in Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006.) 'Blood' Brothers or 'Bloody' Brothers under the Banner - Parts 1 and 2 " A dying people tolerates the present, rejects the future, and finds its satisfactions in past greatness and half-remembered glory." " A strong man makes a weak people. A strong people don't need a strong man." John Steinbeck (Nobel Prize 1962) for the DEAD in the Struggle for EELAM I Ages from now, let it not be said: Blood spills only as brother dies. Ages from now, let not peace be bled By chances lost now in sighs. To the high nor low slams the door To him who seeks the Law and more. Take, take the Golden Mean way! Truth your only key, don't ever slay! Where the elephant roams un-tethered free, The familiar myna will echo carefree Words of yore buried in sacred memory: One breed, one species carved in ivory. No greater fear simmers in the lowlands Than the stealth of brother against brother; No higher disdain festers in the highlands Than vengeance lying in wait for the other. II Think not of the promises made and broken, Think only of the time lost and forsaken. Every hour, every day, a life blown or taken; Every month, every year, a people woe-driven. To the high nor low slams the door To him who seeks the Law and more. Take, take the Golden Mean path! Truth your only key, never the lathe! Think of Prince Paranirupasingham who to succour King Jayavira's queen, to Kandy, fled his throne: Abandoned to court intrigue, schemes and wiles encore: A princely retreat, a physician's penance alone. First governor, then regent, the last Jaffna King Cankili Learnt best the conqueror's cruel art of slaughter; Then, fired by the local converts' iniquitous treachery, Revolted too late, his head the butt of lofty laughter. Think of C.P. Ramanathan the island's cause to defend Sailed over choppy seas past wild submarines To raise the nation's flag in the court of the Empire's den, His homeward chariot drawn by one peoples' teens. (...continued in Parts 3 to 5) Tuan Tata: Song of Uda - I Part Two shrinking you again within our ruwai though always fearing, always cringeing at the thought of the day when his brothers would come in numbers bearing fire-spitting engines over the sodden earth in search of you « My people… my PEOPLE… Will avenge this dastardly deed… This foul and bloody deed! » I have not slept these past years And Anjang heaves murmuring in a strange tongue I cannot understand « But then, do not forget you murdered too for someone else's cause down from 5th Corps at Lasah! » « Remember what you wrote your parents: ‘Now if I become a Temiar by marriage there would be no barriers. I would be party then to their most intimate secrets. TOHAT NA MED: SAKA SENOI SELAMAT! ' » NOTES Patrick Noone, a British anthropologist, discovered the Ple-Temiar tribe living isolated in the jungle highlands in the State of Perak on the west coast of the Malayan peninsula in the early nineteen-thirties. The tribe was so cut away from civilization that the notion of crime did not exist in their society. The shaman leader of the tribe welcomed « Pat » and gave him his sixteen-year old daughter Anjang in mariage. She was betrothed to Uda, a young Temiar. Unable to bear the separation, Uda murdered Pat - the very first crime in their history. This poem - one of the cantos - commemorates this event. Glossary of Ple-Temiar terms ruwai: group protective soul of the Temiar community. gunig: the guiding soul of the Temiar shaman which often takes the shape of a tiger. buloh seworr: (Malay) the best of the blow-pipe bamboo to be found on the slopes of the high mountains in Ulu Perak. Tohat na med: saka senoi selamat! : Our Master is well: the Senoi country is safe! saka: each Temiar community's agricultural domain. halak: shaman rokap: a tree whose branches are especially tough. ladang: the land on which shifting cultivation is practised. chinchem: the Temiar shaman's dance learnt in a dream from his gunig (cf.) . © T. Wignesan,1977 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983) Poems Omega Minus - Parts Three to Five III Kept out kept out he was: muzzled and shut out from mothering social approval and the usual conning courtesies Kept shut Involuting in the hippo-lipped paranoïa from the darling eyes of his deriding kinsfolk from packed houses' applauding mental aneamia. The touch-me-not pricking even in the withdrawing shyness no middle way in the eight-fold path piston-pummeled by the venom-limbed banyan the unsuspecting aqua-anemone lashes bludgeoned from the bandit-fish club the unhailed conquering hero without a hometown coming bullied by the brass band's trumpeting forgetful brashness He bound his house using unseverable streaky tissue drained of the blood of lost causes propped his wordy-walls up with nervous sinew and for want of laughter hung his loin-cloth up high on the mast posts of his fluttering shame Something In the nature of his coming to his senses compelled the inviting of contemptuous laughter something of the brazen sea's encroachment upon land. Would that he had in the Three Kingdom's way been raised he would hoist his sorrows in the public's jaws and sport his ennui by pleading laws. IV It was a time of year too that mattered not just the finite month disgorging it was the time of doing. Into the empty mouth of his scaling he saw, not just wanted the alien assault, the politicking manoeuvring mirth. It was a time too for waiting all alone for the luckless voices belted to cries. They changed, not just moulting a tan And dug and divided into splintering worms. Was it the time of year now he bowed out and away When the Chersonese smote his pang's worsted bile: he lay there not daring to move nor just faking (the least he could do) unfret his ageing anger to work his passion to a numb centre and die there a shamed and inglorious thing. V Once coming down from the mountain to which he never went there was no mountain from the summit he never left Once coming down the mountain to which he never came he stalked down the leeward and said: ‘I am come from the mountain which in me shows no pains I am locked in the mountain my feet dug in the plains.' Can you hide a water-melon in a plate of rice Or a mountain under the earth without a rise There where the lowly land barely humps I beseech you seek my nuke, my knees, my lumps. (c) T. Wignesan,1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983) Poems Omega Minus - Parts One and Two I For once he banished all birds from the air not just Mynas tick-picking on twitching backs but all birds, unnamed and high bred with each wave of his contrived hand extending the pelting rice on the shorn land. Some came to sort the heedless grain in their hunger of disdain Some fluttered from hump to hump from his total need to his clambering might. Each time they came and went he let them alone choked in their distensions. He could not see their pain. Perhaps their general nature - too grave to offend saw in his absence in his indifference to want the chance of their malice their frolicksome end. II Too late in the arboured rites he careered with his adolescent fancies: the ghee-man with his pails of souring milk Working within his churning bones old rishis' immolating ambitions: the curious incantatory neologisms the crowd-infused lusty prayer the unsliced un-schismatic advaita piety What should he take: the game or the adulation both silently exploding buds in the crammed clutch of mania. Somewhere in the lambent miasma Old age and the deep cloistered pining of chaste women roused out of season make mud the surmounting of goals. Must he not retreat then and melt Fuse into a negating asana Conniving at the self-raped furtive orgasms. That he could extinguish his cravings with too much incontinence he saw That he assailed entrances along marbled corridors with hardly a mindful push he knew. (c) T. Wignesan - 1965 in tell them i'm gone. Paris: 1983. Bedtime on Tramp - Part Two He helped himself up to the wind's foremost blow On a hillock where the moon searched his impecunious pockets, Waking a flood in his eyes like swelled teats. He opened wide to receive the Lady, this Endymion cheats, No worm-wood virus but sweet philtre phials. Finishing, he is a lover... He sought the bosom of Erebus in her wildest glow. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. A scavenger cat clawing a bushman's billy-can Some hard laid by in his work, purred with surveillance In disgust over him turning tins over in the bin. Together he cast the lid by to biltong and raisin: The cat devours, he abandons the prandial dance. Pausing, he is a server... He ate them all like yams those starved seamen. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. Over the mellowy orchard, for a while he blotted, Down the glen he skied on the mossy rock And rubbed clean in the steamy fume of the fall. Clambering on the paddock, the love-grass over him gall His rag-patches, bee-combed, mock. Swearing, he is a dreamer... He tore tearfully through the palliasse of touch-me-not. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. Now upon the road of life, he chanced And espied himself the mutest spectre dust, Cruising his hour in the propelled sleep of night. He saw himself waft from this mount to that bight And saw it was not wont or just. Laughing, he is a god... But this infidel purpose of man be countenanced. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. (c) T. Wignesan - 1948 in Tracks of a Tramp. Singapore-Kuala Lumpur: Rayirath Publications,1961. Bedtime on Tramp - Part One 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 And time moved. A gale rolled down the road in dust, Churning it up, a regular willy-willy. The fizzing trees corked: the shutters' hinges off. His eyes sore: swaying he would cough. He stood now willy-nilly. Thinking, he is a fritterer... He chased the trapping miasma, loping his Wellingtons' lust. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. The rains were bursting heavy on the esplanade, A rocky splash soared with spray from the waves. He sought the bulwark of the stony balustrade, The waters were rising over the promenade Like columns of graves. Musing, he is a shirker... He plunged into the sea, bold as a blade. He moved and with him, his bed And time moved. © T. Wignesan,1948 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: 1961.) 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 unchanged 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) Stop writing Literature, You garrulous Indian for Eric Mottram (1924 - 1995) * a life of toil for the man in the centre a hub in the peripheral tireless wheel where he go then where he go this working man he go on waking people working at waking man no words cling now no words meant in blame the tongue he lash the words they now tame no shock of blast open laughter rock the hall everyman there say there sure were a man a man no fear cowed in communion to other made for no gods made for no demons either all men he know best when he see just once no second thought resurrect the man if bad so go tell the magi no trek in sight in sky here a man be born here he so sure die other no like see one so bright stand up high other no like feel like sky fall low into ocean what make ‘m i say with feeling so just is sure he different he force hisself work work work work work an' again work he work nite an' nite so 50-hour in day where he go then where he go this working man he go on waking people working at waking man where you go from word born here now turn and twist all whoring the alphabet ‘don't write anything you can get published' so publish only what you can't call your own writing like reading's a public coital act so showing your work is exhibitionism ‘why don't you send your stuff around keeping it to yourself's sheer masturbation' reading-watching-listening's just voyeurism so sending wares around is prostitutionism where he go then where he go this working man he go on waking people working at waking man he it was in minesweeper capture aurora borealis message from extrasensory enter into he word in Bengal waters alone he hear No-man cry only in deepdown psyche water drip drip dry then on land he no see reason to the fight so he let he wrists spill he guts to the fill then he take the world on all by he torn self he spare no skin in dug-Malayan-jungle-out what he do what he think he do he no tell everybody meet man an' no see albatross hang he no tell story like ol' mariner in dream he go wake people from dumb dead trance many many people high up no like this act some call him stuckup other just ‘im damn is all he do then what kind of working this is big work man ‘cause most body dead sleep where he go then where he go this working man he go on waking people working at waking man * The late Eric N. W. Mottram, made Chair Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London, in 1983, was appointed Lecturer in American Literature - the first such appointment - in the University of London. By then he had already taught English literature in Zurich, Singapore, and Groningen. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos at Cambridge University after serving out the Second World War (in the North Sea and the Bay of Bengal) on a mine-sweeper. He edited 22 issues of the Poetry Review in the seventies, the organ of the Poetry Society in England. He published some 35 books of poems and some fifteen books of criticism and was the recepient of the American Learned Society's Award for 1965. He also taught at Northwestern University and in New York University at Buffalo. In 1994-1995, he was recommended for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he passed away on January 16,1995 while a E-meritus Professor at London University. © T. Wignesan 13-15 October 1995. Pub. in 'Radical Poetics (Inventory of Possibilities) ', London,1997. Too late for amends For T. Ganesan (1931-1985) 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 He was too close a second They turned a deaf eye to your sacrificial deeds the suffocating cries 'Work on what has been spoiled by the father and the mother.' Other hands worked on the second son Other sacrifices nearly came to pass Fierce jungles swirling muddy rivers stalking cobras poisonous thorns aboriginal hunters even your suffocating arms to lock the broken neck fresh from a hanging These worked where the mother and father failed and instilled a wish for survival in your Abel How could you be blamed for being the first born boy if the second took longer to arrive or instead came as a baby girl Neither parent may be faulted How could either have known or foreseen Your traversing of the desert alone often in shame in fear of being found out You kept your back straight You honoured your position You wore that air of masterfulness in your stride in your respect for the meek in your willingness to come to the aid of the needy in your alas mind's reach bereft of the means to give it authority In your own mind you had wandered far as far and beyond the distances of your strides within three walls four posts open ground and air you never bothered with approving thumps on the back nor the little-watched heroic actions on some turf nor did you recount these match-winning feats in a thirst for applause You were the quintessential sportsman You played your last game alone far away from your folk You had no wish for a farewell Yet you are mourned in pain by all © T.Wignesan - April 14,1993 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] The Exile for Prithwin first left downstroke start from the top plane out let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards at the stern down-end pile it in stuffed in the centre leave the bottom open that's where the studded boot rightly fits Over billowing transmuted waters the haze lifts now and then winds amber green waft and skim with the late light caught shimmering no albatross circles the mast guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows there are no signs of land but the proffered hand the wanderer knows no words of his own Reach - disgorge with your nails Walls that concuss entrails Can he yet placate asylum echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds taut bunching yarrow rushes an embattled haven against majestic swan ships sleek velvety rich drake peacockish barnacle goose come in early from the cold Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease through the congested smudge of yore contorted fantizi ideograms cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes pale to pinyin Simplified the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath under choppy waves of stuttering tongues racy blades extirpate langue crucify parole mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew loss of face is a loss of noodles develop equals hair Could René Char's Zeit Geist have diagnosed the myna's Kâla-Purusha Reach - disgorge with your nails Walls that concuss entrails Resources 1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator's first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of " le dard d'Orion" in his poem: " Jeu muet" . The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with astronomy and thus rendered it as " kâla Purusha" (Zeit Geist or literally as in Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time) . René Char then picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the French " phrase" applied to that particular flower. 2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as " pinyin" as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies. ©T. Wignesan, Paris - May 3,2009 The Shore Temple of Mahabalipuram 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 through puzzling demeaning rites where Hanuman's emissary mounts guard where the wizened Ganesha with Buddhic lobes his tusks bent inward the noble crown and forehead higher than the top-heavy octogonal coupole The yal's graveness guiding the scorched chiselling hand through all the buffeting splash and spray the taste of briny sand in jasmin-scented rounds of hand-pressed rice till the sun roots out vision from botched corneas deaf jabs of moulting faltering hands on damp sand Thus would prideful devotees heedlessly later claim: This is a monument to Pallava vision Pallava faith Pallava fortitude See how the obedient ocean dutifully recedes from Pallava wrath and glory! Even the hardest rock wears with the winnowing wind Little by little a decade of centuries later To whose glory must this monument testify to the servile sudra mixer of sand and stone the poor flabbergasted feckless porter never knowing why the bother about effigies of mythic figures the spurned sculptor whose fingers now and then falter the endlessly silhouetted nubile lines of near-naked damsels balancing sandstone blocks on wicker-work troughs on lean but sturdy necks the overseer the mandore yelling through hoarse parched out throats so many curses to stem the rising tides to keep them from soiling the temple's wicket-gate the carpenter called to mind the scaffolding hugging the walls with his spindly legs and trailing loin cloth and then the women-folk huddled in the windy hutless hinterland around myriad swishing swirling wood fires hoisting earthen pots of gruel and culled gourds of well water on thick matted hair their infants slithering on hips all who on pinching stomachs and broken backs graft their unwritten signatures in the howling cavernous dirges of the Coromandel ocean breath © T. Wignesan - Paris,1992 - (from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent',1999.) Curse of Caste I They came on bullock-carts loaded with gods Indra Agni Varuna Rudra traversed sinuous mountain ranges rivers gurgling outlandish tongues their children caged as poultry their priests chanting weird mantras spells charms curses hymns drank the soma juice choking with the sacrificial bleating of rams II 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. Resources 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.) Little Clock for Gertrud Widmayer, my landlady at Heidelberg 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! Thirty million years and Pleistocene dark, They are one split second short! And whimpering suns that rise and flop Have scarce stolen your tick or thought! So, my little clock, my faithful clock When I hear the tall town bell, I'll shrug my shoulders, one tiny moment And know that all is well. © T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: 1961) 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 I touched its bark to hear I thought I heard a cry Two leaves it shed on me and brushed its bark up high I asked it why it stood alone and left to brood It shook its sticks in emphasis as if to say it was good © T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.) Himmelweg: Block Fall from the Zyklon Door When you have passed nonplussed by rumours of ovens of being burned alive by the horde calcinated bones in torrid ashes teeth without a name pebbles in the sands of hate waves When between you and the other side is the block-flesh thrust through to Himmelweg too late you smell the Zyklon trap about to be sprung on your innocence your children looking to you for a way out not daring to believe you have left home without an answer You can only wonder at how they led you each child's hand ensconced in its mother's the old and the infirm weeded out the pill in the nape of men rushed ahead from their charges huddled slapped jostled whipped for daring to ask with rifle butt whacked jabbed bundled trundled the eye searching hazily the breach under the helmet benumbed fate squashed hope in the last faltering meek steps It's only when you're on the other side of yourself between you and the block-flesh forming on the other side of the zyklon door You may wonder why you let your anger go in safekeeping © T.Wignesan 1987: July 2,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Doppelganger 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 and thought i saw him beckon to me thus: _______)) i stripped till limp as limbless on my bed He gave myself up to him. He's looking down this ball-point and methinks i'm trying to say what he wants me to think and i'm not quite sure if what he thinks i'd want It seems to me He MUST of needs have his mischief But couldn't i do both and bring him back to me Yet he seems to be saying how free i am Mocking my ways as sham. Then when my eyes keep drooping i say - i think i'm saying to him: Wait! i'll trap you yet in my consciousness! Abruptly i rise up not seeing him around and wonder Where has he loped What has he seen that i have not Who has he met Whose stealthy arms enveloped my torso Why would he not share what he knows with me And when total strangers in foreign places Cock their eyes at me i'm verily jealous-ed that he makes friends with such ease and judging by the curves and peaks with such aplomb too - the impish fella though i dare not return the blown conniving kisses from his chance acquaintances Downcast as i halt from straying in the lower lids of my eyes i spy him once again cavorting: clasping his fingers in mock tantara cartwheeling: jumping in and out of my almeirah and yet when i try to read what i have written he sits on the sill of the wash-basin his taunting bee's eyes stilled on me the stand-stillness sucking all sound from around and when i dare return his wistful stare he throws a manic tantrum a million tam-tams bursting through my ear-drums And when his time to leave comes round by fall of each full lid Departing he leaves me worsted, stuck and fey Now when alas i stand apart, i think… Well, you know, when i recall… Well, what gets my goat…you see, that is… What i darned can't stand about him is that prankish habit of his in bed: While mine halves The woman's doubles ©T. Wignesan,1959 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983) What head of hero that did not roll In retrospect, for the US SS Times when the winds howl and chase ships home to brood there are no fish in the water that did not tremble too. In the nude of the dawn and at the trembling of the day a rapturous melancholic wonder holds you at bay. Then the meal that's stripped in form is in remote mood sliced and you did not know if your hand you cut for cake nor did you think it could… In such times too in the teeming thought of the town think you: with all eyes chasing you down the street you draw up at red and stretch out when green did not do it did not will it but you did it all the same why you couldn't think of blame yet all the company followed you way from vacant luminous glares of gathering traffic throbbing by but then even in red wheels roll and what head of hero did not roll… You have talked to her out of sight in the placid coolness of the night you had never thought this could bite and despite old odourless days winds will rush in spite for even in red wheels roll… and what head of hero will not roll © T. Wignesan,1955 - London (from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983) Coal-Truck for Gertrud Widmayer 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 The night my shed. I am a coal-truck Rumbling all the way. Wash me in the rain-storm And fill me full of coke Until I choke. © T. Wignesan,1957 - Pub. in 'Forum Academicum', Heidelberg University,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961) On that day when all is dark For Ananga 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 © T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957) Night in the Eyes, Invading I do not know if this is true what I see: I see in some dim, distant, desolate rock-hold gathering peoples, driven as though by common fear. A low mournful humming drifts with the breeze of manhood tread, and eyeless turban-headed in the lambent darkness, fire-fly brands moving. This symphonious humming fills my heart with deep remorse I cannot quite understand. In a winding never-ending line they keep coming: mesmerically drawn as in a living dream. They do not speak but it seems they are in common bondage bound and move to words of order. Someone is dying or some great catastrophe has befallen these earthen men - for they do not speak! So many seem to come, but only a few are here. Yet they keep coming and around a little rock are gathered cross-legged, naked scalded knees jagged out, a cluster of brown skinny men. On the rock someone is standing and a little behind him - I do not know what - a tree, a ragged pole or dolmen! and yet here it glows, now a moment paly. Fading far volcanic lights skip engulfing the sky. I cannot say what this is all about. I have a fear the Aliens are here. And in the middle of this funereal happening, a voice bursts out crying - 'EMILIANO'... 'Emiliano', and then a choking whimpering and again - 'Emiliano...... Is this all that is left for me! ' © T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 - rev. (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.) 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 All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing Now at the name, silently growing, that shy Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning © T. Wignesan,1960, first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: 1961) The 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 for not giving its organs to some transplant bank Who cares if you live on If you die who cares and for how long Does one have to care being but ephemeral © T. Wignesan, April 2,1992 (from the collection: back to background material, 1993) Paths in the Private Country The memory in need Is the implacable enemy of the creed, Waits and watches its foe The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe; Quiescent in the instant's repose The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke. The poet in his solitary moments, spoke Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke. His wares, his scares, ailments and balms Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes, Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence The clear innocuous dogma of cries; While his immodestly preened notes of travesty Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms. Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood, So will the child thwart the unspoilt man And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood. For who may ask which the supreme poet The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect While language etherises meanings proudly sown: The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone. And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment Or two - then restores the poet to the poem. © T. Wignesan,1957 - First pub. in 'Diskus', University of Frankfurt-am-Main, 1960 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961) 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 numbing sense within sound silenced within windows the blaring harshness of the warbler © T. Wignesan, London - 1963 from the collection: tell them I'm gone. Paris: 1983. Akbar, the Great 1542 - 1605 Can a man - all alone - foist a god upon his fellows Even if it's only himself And they his subjects G.. is Akbar! Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar look up or down to the illiterate savant emperor whose newly-ordered cosmos much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood mixed gods invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method a cornucopian chimera shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites hindu/buddhist-jain confucian-taoist/zoroastrian orthodox-christian/judaic saivite-vaisnavite mahayanist-theravadite shintoist-zen-chan agnostic-atheist A…. is Great! In the begining there was no VERB for him In the end from 'brahmana' Himalayas to the 'asurya' Deccan from Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad One common language One uncommon religion One classless society One mutually nourishing art One scientific quest and the sweet music of friendly disputation within then the world's vastest book and art collection though knowingly took to wife an Hindu princess chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir Khandesh to circumscribe the sub-continent a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri Akbar is ___! Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605) , the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u- Akbar! The « jiziyah », a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns - on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne. ©: T. Wignesan, March 13,1992 (from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent') Blinks through bloodshot walks When at five-thirty In the rubbed-eye haziness Of ferreting lonesome night walks The camera-eye refugee Asleep in the half wakefulness Of the hour Peers out of his high turbanned sockets: Hyde Park's through road links London's diurnally estranged couple - The Arch and Gate. When at five-thirty The foot falls gently Of the vision cut in dark recesses And the man, finger gingerly on the fly Gapes dolefully about For a while Exchanges a casual passing word Standing in the Rembrandtesque clefts And the multipled ma'm'selle trips out: Neat and slick. They say you meet the girls at parties And get deeper than swine in orgies. When at five-thirty The fisherman's chilled chips Lie soggy and heeled under the Arch Where patchy transparent wrappers cling To slippery hands jingling the inexact change That mounted the trustful fisherman's credit: The stub legged fisher of diplomat And cool cat And the prostitutes' confidant; Each shivering pimp's warming pan. Then at five-thirty The bowels of Hyde Park Improperly growled and shunted And shook the half-night-long Lazily swaggering double-deckers, Suddenly as in a rude recollection, To break and pull, grind and swing away And around, drawing the knotting air after Curling and unfurling on the pavements. And at five-thirty The prostrate mindful old refugee Dares not stir Nor cares to wake and swallow The precisely half-downed bottle Of Coke clinging to the pearly dew Nor lick the clasp knife clean Lying bare by a tin of' skewed top Corned beef, incisively culled Look! that garden all spruced up An incongruous lot of hair on that bald pate No soul stirs in there but the foul air No parking alongside but from eight to eight. Learning so hard and late No time to scratch the bald pate. At five-thirty-one A minute just gone The thud is on, the sledge-hammer yawns And in the back of ears, strange noises As from afar and a million feet tramp. One infinitesimal particle knocks another And the whirl begins in a silent rage And the human heart beats harder While in and around, this London This atomic mammoth roams In the wastes of wars and tumbling empires. © T. Wignesan 1956 (from Tracks of a Tramp. (A first collection of poems: 1948- 61) Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961. The Temple Drummer and Piper for J.C. Alldridge 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 ©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957) 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.' ©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957) The Snake Charmer and the Hamadryad For J. C. Alldridge 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! Licking the boneless air companionless Then slithering to lie on the trodden path Must you have this one last lick A lick that Stills the Unheeding Child astray Or ripple tailless In the reedy gust To the squat charmer's Hypnotical pibroch ©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957) Born to die at Stromboli « Think, the world remembers only the poets. The name of a country depends on how its poets behave. » Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, the Philosopher-President of India* Whoever dies at his Stromboli needs no excuse to be born as those who sail their ships to the farther regions of the mind even if they lose their way finding their way back to sanity While those who invent the Soul construct pyramids cathedrals stupas to raise those royal patrons who raised them to the skies or even those who lived to soothe others with televisions cars innoculations like those who raised townships settled industries on reclaimable land Much like those who gave their names to bills of rights to streets faculty buildings political dynasties All these and more may need no excuse Such even centuries hence may not accuse But where alas is the poet the painter of million melodies assailing the living tastes of times and bounded traditions they that need to be examined explained exclaimed declaimed Men who have strayed from the volcano of their birth For fear of leaving no revenge nor challenge on this earth Note * The philosopher's parting words to me in New Delhi when he was the vicepresident in May 1961. ©: T. Wignesan, May 30,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] The Gnat Nebulae for J.C. Alldridge 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 Round and round the darkless sun Only the end that began Only a scratch and a bother What bother to scratch For scratching bothers Bothers a scratch Scratch and not to bother Scratch Scratch Scratch ©: From: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg, 1957) Feet, feet that walked away with the toes Heavy the hoods of the eyes that laboured the scan of horizons Heavy the course of the thoughts that sat unstirred on the sill of the stare Heavy this ancient bottomed nose sitting in judgment over this meat Endlessly shunting the frenzied workers now sniff-drunk and steam-bellowed in the street This the scull careered through rutted scars the primeval hair bushed in pathways Where long tribes with long lances prod the undergrowth for signs of lost bones These the ears that heard the wake of worlds wandering in the ever irretraceable tread Ears though that admit the silent secrets ever still and hospitable to the panicky refrain This the assembled machinery, forging fire have dropped the tongs Down the corridors of investigation hurtling in darkening diseases These the loins, companion of time stalked through fire, filth, and foam Baked in the hot ovens of empires wearied some morning in blurry depredation Wobble-eyed, knee-tied, dragged with pacing company through yesterdays that are forever lost indemnity Heavy the larvae lipped throb, kiss and consider heavy the molten strata ooze, consider and kiss These the organs that prodded nations and shrivelled up to curse them all in pain Pursed its potency, convulsed the course of the vein this the dismembered member of the tribe Heavy, alas, these feet that thump jog and reel in the dancing rhythm of millenniums Trod on the will-less face of faiths twitched their toes and walked their way ©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala LumpurSingapore: 1961) He who creates re-creates himself for René Passeron* You may not grow old too soon if 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 possess anchor expose our futile justifications explications ratiocinations 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-IPanthéon 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: Cyberwit.net,2008. Pied a 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 Or could I then lie upon nescience' impervious skies upon some smoky grass unmapped or husbanded And hear the awakening cries of spring born trees then get up to wind my way to some factory blast ©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur- Singapore: 1961) 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) give me back my name tell them i'm gone tell them i'm gone to change my name give them any name i'll not give them another name tell them i'll not take my father's name no more father than i'm my own i do not create i'm not responsible i have no ownership over my makings so i'll take this name i've got for the moment tell them and i'll go short-changed to be cast again yes tell them i'll go and change my name not have my name changed and come out again unchanged tell them again i'll not take my father's name yes tell them that tell them i've gone to change my name my very own name and yet keep the name i've gone to change yes tell them that tell them when i'm there i'll see why josephus broke the essenic law why marx the mighty essene changed his name and note why the ribonucleic-acid embargo in between why the dna father-son short supply i am a cell lodged in the molecular-memory-millennia i'm the agent of growth and decay i see the cells strung out in an embryonic fantasy riddle while intercourse was still permissible i proclaim i propound in my genes the spermatic stimulation the evolutionary process the woman the link-breaker keeps it all going longer and longer until i stand and transmit until we reach out into the micro-wave length listen in on ourselves in the multi-macro-cosmic network: the tv stations the electronic transmitters the nether-world subliminal messages all shall interlock and we remain tuned in sitting bolt-tight-up in our nudging squeezing cells no more afearing nor doing no more no less that is than sucking a python diet we'll do without rousing sex-play courtship nor foreplay or even sans monetary excuse we'll do it for ourcells in ourcells by ourcells then i'll not have to go away nor will you have to tell them ‘he thinks he's gone to change his name his only name and quite probably not take his father's name' rendes-moi mon nom unique Copyright ©: T. Wignesan,1965 - London from the collection: tell them i'm gone. Paris: 1983. (rev.2012) On driving westward toward Versailles I wet cat impaled on telegraph poles serrated ashbrown fur tinged with flinting silver a mirror blue cut by guitar strings on a shining plate bathed in molten evening shine jet streaks through pylon barrage windshield wipers' hemicircular swipe dry cat's crusty baguette fur ashen edges of rapidfire cirrus pylons stalk the sky and catch the wipers in the eye II horses purr in the cat's geule carriages trot through veins of pomp hounds howl in pinewood packs fountains spurt warrior sperms over-stuffed regalia golden-tressed coiffures wrap scalp and skin in scented sweat coachmen backfire trussed up in perches perfumed eminences speed to trysts III The Sun-King illumines long dead VISTA galaxies The Hall of Mirrors reveberates secret oaths Lights dim as Le Notre adjusts tropical palm vats The parvenu Corsican struts on depraved genes IV wipers peer through moving fingers pylons jetstreak high-wire noon Marie Antoinette drivels at Fresnes The gilded streaming sun dances on fitful time Glints through slithering interstitial space Am I driving or am I driven in a cariole. © T. Wignesan, October 29,1986, Paris (Revised) From: T. Wignesan Copyright ©: T. Wignesan 1992 - October 29,1986 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Bikku under the Bodhi Tree yogi under the banyan tree yogi under the bodhi tree bikku under the banyan tree waiting for release bikku in blissful nibbhana yogi in extinguishing moksha Penniless poet under the tenement roof Jazz organist under the pavement sky Struggling novelist under the Riviera blue Russian ballerina under the American umbrella Apprentice painter under the Sistine Chapel Sculptor Underground waiting for the agent's call burning Anne Frank manuscripts in an air-raid fire singular melodies drowned in the descending drone Kafka writing without a morrow van Gogh dabbing his tormented palette under the Arles sun Sartre turning the Nobel Prize down for teenage girls Siddhartha abandoning his body's palace for the people's pain the common man unable to abandon his workload family bikku under the bodhi tree his body shrivelled under the saffron robe his begging bowl filled by karma-earning hands the last trichinosis-filled moksha meal bikku rising on a thousand-petalled flower bikku piercing through the cakras' splendrous colours bikku on a burning pyre ©T.Wignesan 1992 April 29,1997 Paris [from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999] Embryo You who sexless heard the pounding of the sex nerves conditioned to the tune through all the slushy push of distending flesh in the ooze slime of semen ******l fluid Your eyes turned inward heart brimming to the flush fed by your central runaway generator though your frail limbs were hardly sketched in the clasp of a Reichian curve through all the terrifying pounding More terrifying still Now YOU see the crook of the aborting metal the surgeon's staff dig into your behind puncturing the gossamer sack of your promised dream world avoiding at every thrust the inevitable dismemberment charred chicken wings coming apart in cinders JOLT of the bend in the crook your eyes to the back of you a ninja without arms or legs whirling upwards flying in the face of crookish metal by the grit of your teeth FIRST your spine goes shrivelled skin over mashed bone and marrow the nerves a calligrapher's skein vaguely stretched over your incumbent's drawn face TILL your seminal fluid stains the blood splashing through every thrust of the abortionist's clinical will YET you resist STILL clinging to your umblical chord the silent screams of your unformed mouth reaching no where the mother sprawled on the trolley etherised In the distance a faraway distance a vague throbbing away from prying eyes a ringing call unanswered and you let go... see your will turned to mash Only your long sleep nurtured your dream a singular dream of a snuffed world YOU HADN'T EVEN BREATHED © T.Wignesan 1992 (March 10,1992) [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Notes On seeing an ecography of an abortion on the FR3 French TV programme: 'La Marche du siècle: Contraception et avortement', March 4,1992 at 20.40 hours. Professor Etienne Baulieu, the inventor of the oral abortive pill, was the guest of honour. On hearing that Ronnie for Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood (24.O5.30 - 17.01.92) 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 'Beware! Beware you don't become an Hasbeen! ' he made no bones of his luck from stipends through Reading the wideopen eyes commisserating through the flailing sheaf fallen on his ample brow the hand ever brushing aside that wilful unconcern in your life in your little worries your mishaps And you knew you had mattered in his life To recall a friend is to give body to form to words that bind muscle to bone those mutual moments You may come back a quarter of a century later And he is still there a trifle stumped by your aged face the mutual moments flow without break You had driven through four sleepless nights your eyes peeled beyond weariness your mind bristling and in the red 'Take care! Take care', he said, 'lest you burn both ends! ' Other worlds other duties keep you from bringing up his face keep you from keeping mementoes: 'Never excuse, never apologise! ' yes you might have penned a word when the stolid face swung back you didn't for that would've been abrupt too flippant unceremonious requiring tact So you turn up à l'improviste the mutual moments flow over coffee at the Konditorei the same cream curtains the same goldbraided periodlike chairs over neatly folded ceremoniallike lace the irreal flood of filtered light outside no more the tug and grating pull of trams to dull your words Again the same attentive stare the same empathic vigil for your fresh worries for your private imbroglios while he foregoes a meal at the mensa Only you hadn't known nor suspected the stealthy pain gnawing away at the bones nor did he let it be shown Only the stoic face and the pained look for your own blasé pain © T.Wignesan, July 4,1992 [from the collection: back to background material, 1993] Published as a 'Preface' to Ronald Hindmarsh's commemorative writings: Mr. Hindmarsh is not writing a book. Heidelberg: Department of English,1993. Ronnie taught English at Heidelberg University when I first met him, during the summer semester, in 1957. Jean LAPRESLE: The Solitary Oak on Mount Kremlin Bicetre A French ‘Indianist' Doctor: A Tribute to a Die-hard Humanist by T. Wignesan, Chercheur au C.N.R.S. Professor Jean LAPRESLE, the last of the great French Neurologists and/or Neuro-Pathologists [Feb.3,1921 - Dec.2,2000] An Indianist (‘Indophile' is too meek a word for him) in his own right, he visited the Southern States, especially Tamil Nadu and Kerala, twice a year, for decades and came to love the people and place to such an extent that there was little worth knowing about the place and its history or culture that he couldn't hold forth upon. He read the Bhagavad Gita, the Upanishads, Naipaul and Rushdie, and constantly plied every caller with searching questions on 'Eternal India: The Mother of all wisdom' in his words. A towering lifelong bachelor of distinguished bearing and manners and whose perhaps " only" non-professional diversion, one might rightly divine, was Indian ! The Solitary Oak on Mount Kremlin-Bicêtre T. Wignesan On Bicêtre Mount a stately oak did spread its unmeshed boughs to swarms of sparrows beating retreat To turtle-doves and flapping pigeon-mates a frolicsome haven Where now on thunder-split crutches hop the mocking magpie Its black upturned tail uppity down high-domed arches' smooth-shorn limbs Desolate within chilled-threaded casements of fading green Sleek crows guard the sentinel post where gentle souls tread lonesome Once his benign fiery eye caught the tame light in lame downcast distress Novice and apprentis sorciers sought the shelter of his eagle umbrella wing The charge-nurse at his beck and call Under the official seal of his high personal Chair Now the lordly craftsman called to lay down his tools in honorary quack contempt By some aging loyal birds......................too meek to fly away ......to the welcoming soothing Kerala waters lovingly lashing under swaying " sussurait" -ing palms Too lame to avoid the headlong charge down teetering fate Had him appear in white blouson for the nonce's sake No nurse to jump at the phone's end No student his ears peeled to every remark and question No professorial stamp at his command " You know he takes no new patients…" The voice trailing.................................. hoarse and dead Carting rough brown bulky dossiers in his failing arms Furtive ..Distraught ......A Visitor in his home Nay..........A thief in his fiefdom He stalks a room......any room for a moment's reprieve The hand now less firm............somewhat shaky The date a tussle with memory Then the long unnoticed wait at the central reception desk To ask for his patient the next bi-annual or trimestrial appointment ......patient like a Patient A whole life ministering to personal needs .............................................................................of strangers The life-long bachelor " When you no more have the charge of the place…" His eyes make as if to plead in lieu of an apology Then abruptly the trimestrial rendez-vous stays open..... ................................................. un-confirmed No excuse no reason is proffered Only by chance you surmise .............................The frail fallen oak lies limp in some forsaken lot Paris, August 1,2004 (P.S. I used to accompany a patient to his consultation offices for some sixteen years, and many were the long and fruitful discussions that ensued during the visits.) Born in Paris on February 3rd 1921, together with his twin brother Claude, both of them finished their last four years' of schooling at the prestigious Lycée Louis Le Grand, France's elite lycée. And both went on to qualify, like their younger brother Pierre, as doctors at the Sorbonne's renowned medical school. Dr. Claude Lapresle, an eminent specialist himself, is at the moment serving as Professeur Honoraire à l'INSTITUT PASTEUR. After graduating in 1946, he went on to obtain his Doctor of Medicine degree in 1950. His dissertation, La porphyrie aiguë intermittente. Etude anatomoclinique was published in the same year by the Librarie Arnette, Paris. Even as a young internee, he was regularly contributing scholarly research papers in collaboration with other French medical greats, such as, Jean BERNARD and Raymond GARCIN. By 1961, he became Professor (agrégé) of Neurology and Psychiatry and was made a full professor without a chair in 1969. In 1972, he was appointed Professeur Titulaire à Titre Personnel at the Faculty of Medicine of the South. Among his distinguished achievements: Médaille d'Honneur des Epidémies (1948) ; Médaille d'Argent of the Faculty of Medicine, Paris (1951) ; Prix Pierre Marie of the National Academy of Medicine (1954) ; Prix Robert Bing of the Swiss Academy of Medical Sciences (1968) General-Secretary of the VIth International Congress of Neuropathology, Paris (1970) ; Member (1970-74) and Vice-President (1974-78) of the Executive Committee of the International Society of Neuropathology Visiting Fellow in Neurology, Columbia University, New York (1950-51) Visiting Professor of Neurology, Albert Einstein College of Medicine New York (1969) ; Visiting Professor at the Veterans General Hospital and the National Yang-Ming Medical College, Taipei (1982) .He also undertook Technical Cooperation Missions to MALAYSIA (1971) , TUNIS (1964,1975, & 1976) , and SINGAPORE (1976) . By 1984, he had already published, both under his own signature and those of his collaborators, some 196 research papers in scholarly journals, with a predilection for the Revue Neurologique. Cf. Notice sur les Titres et Travaux Scientifiques du Professeur Jean Lapresle. Paris: Masson,1984,16p. . (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, August 1,2004 (revised version) pub. in Blind Man's Lantern: Poems that lash out, mock and rip into the dark. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2015,864p.) Sing haughty yacht-y yea bayboats purse seine whey journey yearlong gay laddy inured dry up haughty yachty yea mildred mayhem dewlap naughty jaunty jay sons caught in car 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'envoient en l'air* oh a haughty yachty yea idols jailed in temples choked in garlandy incense priestly eyedance pose yes a haughty yachty yea masons' mildewy masters with compass stone and pilasters plan solomon's might on earth yea sing haughty yachty yea royal houses love in stables lords and ladies love in regalia loving ones love in limbo cry haughty yachty yea dote on damsels in december hey yachty haughty yea make them deliver in september ho yickety yackety yea eh * 's'envoient en l'air': French, literally, for 'throwing legs up in the air'; in France - guess, if you can - this phrase means: ? ? ? ©T.Wignesan - Paris, May 4,1997 [from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999] Career for Nachiketas Tether the cow to the post of your patience and wait First make ready the field in which you choose to let her loose There where no lilacs grow nor lotuses in the pond of your astrological gaze If you haven't enough cut-grass in the loft Make sure your sickle doesn't rake through touch-me-nots and lallang You may only prepare the pasturing ground You cannot make your cow browse in it all her dogged years her udder bitten fangs sunk in stealth milk mixed with venom milched in terror suckling in fear You may not clear your fields of toads snails snakes or centipedes They are the legitimate heirs of the land where you plan to graze your cow You may only tend to her when she comes home if she comes by her own will acknowledging not a master but an inherited contract thus you may milk her but at this appointed hour with this can two-spans-full if you give her fresh grass and barley before she goes 'cause she is bespoken to patience ©T.Wignesan 1992 April 18,1992 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Golden secrets in the flower '...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track.' C. G. Jung 'The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal.' Richard Wilhelm does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron a flower petals deranged burning with green rage dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze is this the eye looking at the eye which I between the crushed ajña-eyebrows under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences the women who dun-you-in thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen dissolves and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet whose I lights the frigid fire burning dynamo whose eye shrivels reopens brightens what is it an eye which stares shrinks sharper by the fractioned second closes and opens again and again till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre bigbangs the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun shedding golden glory expelling all thought or is it mere doubt the intense unrelenting feeling of is it joy or a fumbling stolen fear the mental orgasmic relief the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths then the return after the wearinesses or is it nonplussednesses to this world to words to wars to waste to wickedness a world without wonder without womb a world dying dead a tomb see only what you should see words see only what eyes make belief even when words don't mean what they see © T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3,1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems.1997 Komori The komoris' eyes fix the camera from around and in the straining double bandoliers' hump the babies shaven heads strain The body dares not face the camera The frontal posture is not for the servant heads turned bent regards meek and in stress hair hastily gathered in the dark now straggly with their loads and in the eked-out smiles the years of sleeplessly fading pallid faces the rough cotton kimono drab thick resistant to baby-faeces and crachat And in their stilted sandals their meagre dignity in a stoop the bare adolescent feet still showing Whose mothers are whose children? Notes 'KOMORI is a generic term that consists of a noun, ko (a child) , and a verb, moru (to protect or to take care of) ; Japanese use it to refer to any person, male or female, old or young, who takes care of children. (...) Like their European counterparts, nursemaids and nannies, komori began to appear in what Michel Foucault has called the 'discourse of power' in the late nineteenth century...' from Mariko Asano Tamanoi's 'Songs as Weapons: The Culture and History of Komori (Nursemaids) in Modern Japan', in The Journal of Asian Studies,50, no.4 (November 1991) : 793-817. © T.Wignesan March 9,1992 [from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999] Boy running in the rain His face swinging from ear to ear A bemused smile lighting up His gander gait Under the burlap mop Who's looking at me Why is everyone looking at my legs His mother telling him to be back this summer Before the green peacocks turn to blue Droplets big as his nightshade eyes bursting at each swan step Boy on an errand The stealthy guilt-ridden leaves of the linden Motionless in the sudden metallic green flood Boy still running in the rain How old am I As old as the linden when it was eight Where are the caterwauling magpies this day None to mock me in my gait He thinks he's running in the still hot rain But the cars and trucks along the road shower In their mindless manic main Wait till you see my master drive me proud Over the bridges under high-volting cables My throat loosening up in coughs and curses The mud drained from my tired gables Boy still keeps running in the rain When will the summer end When the cotton sky turns to lead Or when the boy stops running in the rain © T. Wignesan July 15,2011 - Paris (First appeared in Alongstoryshort site on August 4,2011.) Way out over Copland's Appalachian Springs We dragged the slopes to our feet. On the summit, we burnt our clothes for wood and there shuffled our feet in the hush of the falling snow. We had come out of the scuffed grass. With one look back in unbelief exhuming the long trek the silent keen puffing through blubbery fingers. We pulled the hoofed trail through the trapdoor of our unchained links foisting for new heights. Beyond the Appalachian Mountains the hanging fern on pine dripped snow on moles burrowing in gashed hollows. We paused. In that doubtful moment we rued the climb, succumbing to the assault upon this stilled millennia's eerie silence. All that time the swivelling blizzards raged shifting soil, eroding avalanches. Below, burgeoning customs unmaned the silent dignity of bisons. All bore testimony to a familiar preparation. And then, suddenly before our eyes the solemn ground rose with the breeze the spangled map changing to the quick: Chicago Pittsburgh Kansas City wild barnyards dry-coughing, pop-corning garages horrent timber ribbed the coasting steamboats the linoleum walls the mild Indian piqued he was by the mahogany cubism of our speech. We wondered if coming so far only mattered, we would be content to build a fire, here and now and unpack our horses. We saw little need to go on. One night the summit might open up and swallow us all or old age would come upon us like a lonely neighbour on a pretext to the door. © T.Wignesan 1964 London, U.K. [from the collection: tell them i'm gone,1983; published in Fire Readings (A Collection of Contemporary Writing from the Shakespeare & Company Fire Benefit Readings) . Paris-Boston: Frank Books,1991, pp.36-37.] Radically Chinese for Eric Mottram: 1924-1995 (not because of any debt, felt or incurred) * one stroke a point leftstroke bent hooked two a cover man man enter eight borders to cover ice table receptacle knife strength wrap spoon basket box ten to divine seal cliff private also mouth enclosure earth scholar follow walk evening great woman child roof inch small lame crooked corpse sprout mountain stream work self napkin shield tiny shelter move on join hands a dart a bow pig's head feathery to pace heart spear door hand branch tap writings measure axe square not sun speak moon wood owe stop evil kill do not compare hair family air water fire claws father change a frame a strip tooth ox dog dark jade melon tile sweet produce use field bolt of cloth sick back to back white skin dish eye lance arrow stone spirit to track grain cave erect bamboo rice silk earthenware net sheep feathers old plough ear brush flesh officer from self reach a mortar tongue opposed boat a limit colour grass tiger insect blood do clothes cover see horn words valley platter pig reptile shell red walk foot body cart bitter time stop & go city new wine separate village metal long gate plenty reach to a bird rain azure false face rawhide leather leek sound heading wind fly eat head fragrance horse bone high long hair fight wine cauldron ghost fish bird salt deer wheat hemp yellow millet black embroidery toad tripod drum rodent nose even teeth drag on tortoise flute * Eric N.W. Mottram, an outstanding and prolific poet, held the Chair of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London. [This poem was accepted for publication in Radical Poetics (London) .] From: T. Wignesan Copyright ©: T. Wignesan,22-23 November 1995 (from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999. A reluctant Sayonara « She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They'll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. » « That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. » From « Kill Bill Vol.1 » I Two French girls in Paris one aged thirteen the other fourteen together take wing. The police bring them back home. Then hand-in-hand they jump from their seventeenth floor flat. They leave behind a note: « This life has nothing to offer. What are we living for? » An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris in perfect physical health lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife never to wake again together after bequeathing their papers and wealth not to the Socialist Party but to a Catholic charity. He leaves behind a long love letter his very last remember-me book. Till death does not do us part. A Stateless poet passes through Paris with his Spanish putative spouse and infant boy. Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother. She plans the poet's murder and maims her son for life. The People's protectors pressgang her and daily pound the poet to pulp. Vive! la France! Viva! la Francia! II A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt: Urami yibushi We've not long to go in this void The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen of the Hattori Hanzo steel To kill there need be no will The will to kill resides in the sill of the vengeful white of the eye III Even if we can't stand it any longer, Lady We'd rather not leave just yet in a hurry Would we see the likes of this world again Ever know what's better than this domain Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge Tugs at us: stay yet a while, it whispers! Who knows who'd be there to receive us Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady! Hum a sentimental ditty Recall even a fated memory Revive some moments of levity: A friend a face an outing A little tenderness A tiny moment of harmony Together in this wilderness © T. Wignesan - Paris November 14 2007 (Rev.2012) From: T. Wignesan Copyright ©: T. Wignesan - Paris November 14,2007 (Rev.2012) To our dearly beloved son, now dead for Mahathero Gunasena In a makeshift vihara in the heart of London Bikku then disclosed his parents long gone Might one dare utter after all these years Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears Somewhere in the saffron folds of his faith A lonely boy still lurked wanting his mother Or brother sister and hope-dislocating father Of how they could abandon even his wraith Just a single line in the inner board of a book Over dried blue ink his fingers caressed words A life he might've had in who knows what worlds He just wanted to say: ‘See, who so forsook! ' In an unwatched vihara in the heart of London A forsaken boy dared break out of monkdom Might one dare utter after all these years Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears Too late he had come to own up this truth: ‘If there's a Supreme Being leave Him well be He knows best what He's doing forsooth Mind your own business leave Him well be! ' Should one gauge the measure of a man's humanity From his ability to outgrow imposed attachments: Such as confines of his community race or country But most of all withstand the viral encroachments Of his conditioned beliefs upon his own personality. © T. Wignesan - Paris - September 8,1983 (Rev.2012) From: T. Wignesan Copyright ©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1983 - (from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent',1999.) Our country-earth which is of YOUR size Notre terre qui est à Votre taille Forgive us please our enormous bilious hubris The quasar-lit heavens smile only down upon us For Our Master he presideth over the Universe Our Architect-Father he beds down in the blackest holes Our temple bells and lodges' knell toll only for Thee While Thou slips from one parallel universe to another Yeah, notre terre qui est à Votre taille The muezzin's cry reaches far into the darkest cloud From turret to galactic turret resounds the prophetic call Colliding antennae make a murky Baghdad morass The fallout heralds the bigcrunchy messianic massage Our Master who art the shine on the Brahmin's head Which knows no limbs feet chest nor shivering loins Forgive us our cowering at the spewing Purusha mouth For Thine is the thunder exploding forever and ever Did not a bodhi prince once keep a damning silence He saw no need to undo Thy mighty male tie Lest he's forced to traverse this soil again in rags Notre terre qui est à Votre taille As for the other fully bearded nodding mates They are those who first invoked Thy game They've now bought the world over in Thy name But prefer to run the banks ‘ere Thou cutteth the rates Notre terre qui est à Votre taille Is the epicentre of the roiling boiling might Where domes echo for the right to languish at Thy side And watch the Goya geek chew the heathen to shreds Notre terre qui est à Votre taille All the stars you see out there in the ever-ever Are but the conjurer's balls dancing up in the air The illusory waking dream of the never-never Notre terre qui est à Votre taille Give us every day the fireworks in the sky For Thine is the show and ours the joy For ever and ever spinning a lie! T.Wignesan, November 3,1997, Fresnes-Paris (Rev.2012, Paris) From: T. Wignesan Copyright ©: T. Wignesan, rev. November 3,1997 (from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999.)

The Best Poem Of T Wignesan

On Hearing That Ronnie - For Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood (1930-1992)

On hearing that Ronnie

for Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood
(24.O5.30 - 17.01.92)

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

'Beware! Beware you don't become an Hasbeen! '
he made no bones of his luck from stipends through Reading
the wideopen eyes commisserating through the flailing sheaf
fallen on his ample brow
the hand ever brushing aside
that wilful unconcern in your life
in your little worries your mishaps

And you knew you had mattered in his life

To recall a friend
is to give body to form
to words that bind muscle to bone
those mutual moments

You may come back a quarter of a century later

And he is still there a trifle stumped by your aged face
the mutual moments flow without break

You had driven through four sleepless nights
your eyes peeled beyond weariness
your mind bristling and in the red

'Take care! Take care', he said, 'lest you burn both ends! '

Other worlds other duties
keep you from bringing up his face
keep you from keeping mementoes:

'Never excuse, never apologise! '
yes you might have penned a word
when the stolid face swung back
you didn't for that would've been abrupt
too flippant unceremonious requiring tact

So you turn up à l'improviste
the mutual moments flow over coffee at the Konditorei
the same cream curtains
the same goldbraided periodlike chairs
over neatly folded ceremoniallike lace
the irreal flood of filtered light
outside
no more the tug and grating pull of trams to dull your words

Again the same attentive stare the same empathic vigil
for your fresh worries for your private imbroglios
while he foregoes a meal at the mensa

Only you hadn't known nor suspected
the stealthy pain gnawing away at the bones
nor did he let it be shown

Only the stoic face and the pained look
for your own blasé pain

© T.Wignesan, July 4,1992 [from the collection: back to background material,
1993] Published as a 'Preface' to Ronald Hindmarsh's commemorative writings:
Mr. Hindmarsh is not writing a book. Heidelberg: Department of English,1993.
Ronnie taught English at Heidelberg University when I first met him, during the summer semestre of 1957.

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