Friday, June 18, 2010

Confessions Of A Disillusioned Poet

Just once I wish to write a poem
Whose whisper would be heard by you
Over the white noise of this world,
That would recall for you a mellow sunset
From long ago, painted,
In the impossible colours of a picture postcard,
And shade you from the blinding sun,
A poem that would unfold
Languidly, like a morning raaga,
And lull you into the promise
Of a tomorrow,
Just this once.

Instead, I stumble with words flailing
Into a potpourri of jumbled emotions,
And imprecise words hastily strung
Into a garland of fake flowers,
A two minute preparation of a poem,
In tune with these instant-noodle times.

Yet, I yearn to write a poem
Which would fall around you
Gently, like the tentative drops
Of the first rains of the season,
A poem where I will find myself,
My joys and sorrows, petty
Though they may well be,
Mirrored in you.

In this world too full of prose,
Love is a lament, and poetry
A fugitive from relentless time,
Still, impossible though it may be,
I wish I could steal just a few words
From the tyranny of language,
Just for you,
Just this once.

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