Odd it would sound
If I were to write in my poems
I am fine
Or at least I am not very sad and thin
So I have to think very hard
Search in the depth of my heart
And find out consciously or unconsciously
That I am in great pain
But it is so very far
It is so very deep
I am not obliged to prove
That it exists
Or it doesn’t exist.
There is smile on my face
There is health in my body
But where my pain is
Nobody knows.
I am not what you imagine me to be from my poems
Neither am I glum-faced
Nor have I broken my heart
With a smiling face
I bear all my sorrows
When I attend meetings of respectable men
I wear a fine dress
When my friends cut jokes
I don’t fumble to find out their meanings
At times I understand right
When I have to laugh
Never am I absent-minded
With a plate of good food in my front
When friends are partying
I don’t remain closeted in my room
According to them
I am fun loving
And they don’t tell lies.
My enemies also agree
I am very light
And they are right too.
The poet is not what you think him to be from his poems
Looking at the moon like a loony
He doesn’t lie on the bank of a river
With a smiling face
He bears all his sorrows.
If I write I am happy
They will say I am frivolous
I am not ambitious and dashy
I have no thirst for glory
Like cruel critics the readers will say
The fellow is very shallow
He is quite happy
Dealing with things very trifling and trashy.
So in rhymes and rhetoric
The poet has to appear very sorry
And make only things which are gloomy.
Even if they are false
The readers will shed
An enormous amount of tears.
With a heart full of pathos
In a voice that is choked
They will bless the poet
‘May he live long
Writing poems full of pathos.’
But I would like to say
May not the poet and his poetry be the same
Let him have some wit in his head
Let him keep his time
Of taking his bath and of eating his food
Like others
