Dear Poetry

love_bleeding

Dear Poetry, have you left me, deserted me for good? So many scars, so much of venom puked, so many unwritten lines, so many lumps in the throat, not yet gulped down. My stories are drowning me in a pitch-dark, bottomless pit every day. The thorns of prosaic truths scraping the inner core in merciless, relentless bouts.

My life, the most plain travails, shut unceremonious between the folds of recycled beds, dark, drab parlours and the missing music of the dining nook, wants to reach out to you, crossing the uncertain miles of the distant spray of juvenile mirth, crossing that little slope of the setting sun where you had sprung in my arms once like a truant, confessional kid.

My eyes sting, I seek the old, weeping willow tree where I had found you once, stroking hard at my blank, surreptitious womanly canvas. Come back my ‘wings of poesy’, let us find each other yet again, and hide from the world in a crushing, sinister curl.
Come back and penetrate me, spill all your juices inside of me, as the barren woman wants to be fertile, all over again!

 

A World Without Poetry

 

A world without poetry,
The concrete hammering of mails
The infusion of programmed chores
A day, yet another day shedding it’s leaf
In parched, scheduled coldness.

Collective tangling of prosaic voices
Barbecue in the summer heat,
Disjointed company of drunk folks
Stinking of the corporate fumes.

Shattered raindrops, where do I hide you
In the luscious spread of weekend delicacies?
The shrieking yells of perfumed bodies,
The flashy make-up of the powdered night
Hides you like submissive dirt.

The deep chasm of naked arms bleed
My unwritten lines buried under
The daily litany of unanswered applications,
Unsolicited proposals, boxed and sealed
Never caring for a reply, a nod, an assaurance.

A world without poetry dies and lives
Every day, crafty, stoic, plastered,
Waking in hopes of a startling twist
Of a delicate, lyrical opulence.