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

If I might be allowed to say so, I think my "first" love was poetry. Unfortunately for me, the British curricula at school did not put me in touch with the Metaphysical Poets, nor with the post-Georgian school. Almost all the school texts after World War II contained invariably Victorian narrative poems and some popular examples of Romantic poetry. I chanced upon a selection of T. S. Eliot's and Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, and a little later on Pope's An Essay on Man and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. That did the trick. Yet, I regret not having taken to prose in earnest earlier than the publication of my first collection: Tracks of a Tramp (1961). There's nothing like trying your hand at all kinds of prose exercises to come to grips with poetry. Or rather to see how poetry makes for the essence of speech/Speech and makes you realise how it can communicate what prose cannot easily convey. I have managed to put together several collections of poems, but never actually sought to find homes for them in magazines, periodicals or anthologies. Apart from the one published book, some of my sporadic efforts may be sampled at of Poems.htm

Last updated July 05, 2016