You said : Why can’t i have my Day

by T. Wignesan

a cherished paper-cutting
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)

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About 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