Like the nascent smile on the lips of a baby bud, The scissoring sun rays through the wintry mist Like the first vapors of rain on a parched ground Mind wandered with each flutter of butterfly’s wings
I imagined poetry a great matrix of mother-board words Meaning meandering into them through chip’s romantic responses, With the super charged sub-psychic images and experiences Forging into an indecipherable programme of sorts To flash sparks of thrill for every idea understood.
I roamed on the corridors of libraries, Quarantined in the cubicles therein figuring out From the moth eaten, brittle, tanned sheets To the latest glazy silken journalistic extravaganza To catch a glimpse of it, and put my name aside. I integrated philosophies with persona, Dissected histories and heritage, Compared and contrasted images old and new Presented several theses on the art and craft of poetry. Still, the soul of poetry eluded slipping through my hands and staying beyond my grasp.
Like the ageing tree in my fore yard I stood in reverie for ages Failing to read its SMS every season.
On one fine spring morning it dawned upon me Poetry is not synthesizing of words, expressions Figures of speech or exotic ideas, or experimentation
Poetry is just the opposite, Shredding yourself to pieces, to disintegrate Unlearn, going through real raw life
Then it sure springs on you at the right moment Like the sudden spurge crescent offshoots At the first sign of Spring on an autumn-tonsured tree Till then you should wait, recycling yourself with time
