!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>Tracks in the Private Country by T. Wignesan/title> /div> div itemprop=”genre” id=”content”> p>The memory in needbr /> Is the implacable enemy of the creed,br /> Waits and watches its foe/p> p>The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;br /> Quiescent in the instant’s reposebr /> The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke./p> p>The poet in his solitary moments, spokebr /> Those whispered words, memory’s secret ear yoke.br /> His wares, his scares, ailments and balms/p> p>Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awokebr /> Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,br /> Clutching at the infant’s murmurous innocence/p> p>The clear innocuous dogma of cries;br /> While his immodestly preened notes of travestybr /> Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck/p> p>Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic’s qualms.br /> Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,br /> So will the child thwart the unspoilt man/p> p>And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poetbr /> Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.br /> For who may ask which the supreme poet/p> p>The child’s sweet ineffable musings disrespectbr /> While language etherises meanings proudly sown:br /> The title in two is halved – one the art, one, lone./p> p>And the man, memory’s ill-begotten infantbr /> Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent momentbr /> Or two – then restores the poet to the poem./p> br> /body> /html>
