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.
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