Notre terre qui est à VOTRE taille

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) ©: T. Wignesan, rev. November 3, 1997 (from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems), 1999.
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