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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523654" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>He who creates re-creates himself</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for René Passeron</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> You may not grow old too soon<br> if<br>Things you have known will come back to you again<br>No revision nor recall need put them back in place</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Time was when you knew the time <br> the place the face<br> Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who would care nor what would it matter<br> in which life upon what water<br> you have trailed your fingers<br> upon waves of papers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let your mind brush<br>  some canvas in a rush<br>Left your mark<br>  upon some bark<br> Wed some wanton women<br>spawned wholesome omens</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Made as if the artier your words<br> held some moment in a perennial frame<br> Never to be banged away by fading suns<br> collapsing quasars<br>  asteroid storms<br>  puncturing galaxies<br>  usurping black holes</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Can this act of writing seize the moment<br>Or is it your way of saying</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What else is there to be done? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let the unknowable undermine the unknown</div><div style="margin:10px 0">   Here on this planet<br>we have made our sinuous conventions<br> stick to paper and canvas<br>  stone and sound</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And words that are haloed<br> by the sickness of the poet<br> though all is not lost for the pen<br>   whose blood will<br> possess <br> anchor <br>  expose</div><div style="margin:10px 0">our futile justifications<br>  explications<br>  ratiocinations<br>doctoral dissertations</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And generations will tremulously grant him<br> The right to unravel the eternities<br>For one who dared capture the moment<br> In the capsule of a poem</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dedicated to René Passeron</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. 'Poem of the Month' at Alongstoryshort site, April 2012.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=T.+Wignesan">T. Wignesan</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523654" data-title="He who creates re-creates himself de T. Wignesan" data-description="for René Passeron

 You may not grow old too soon
 if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place

 Time was when you knew the time 
 the place the face
 Even the scarce women in prized mom..."></div>
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