I dabble in poetry.
Some do praise it
But most of them do so
Out of delicacy
Or out of respect for me.
Some don’t like my poems
Because they don’t like my name or face.
Some too busy to read my poems;
Some are yet to notice my presence.
Some simply run away scared of any poetry.
Well… I can’t after a couple of hours
Decipher my own handwriting;
And I don’t remember my own poems.
How then can others remember them?
If it can’t be recalled at will
Word to word, and line to line
How can it be deemed good poetry?
Even then… I am writing poems
As with a sandy stylus
On a watery parchment.
That’s why my poems are lost but in a moment.
Then… Why am I still writing poetry?
Yes, it’s only an exercise
A rehearsal
A preparation
To write a poem
A poem of two lines
Yes, a poem of just two lines
That can linger on the tongues
Of me and others too
For some time,
For some good time
For some considerable time.
I’ll try for my entire life
To compose a memorable two-liner…
A really memorable two-liner…
If I fail…
I’ll be born and born and born
To labour, to wriggle, to struggle,
To suffer any pangs, any throes
Just to come up with a two-liner
A well memorable two-liner.
