Confessions of a born poet

July 14th, 1997 admin Posted in Poetry |

It dawned upon me one fateful July night,
That there were things I always wanted to write.

And this I was sure, was the right time,
To vent my feelings, as a verse that would rhyme,

But where were the feelings? They never came,
Yet inclined I was, to write all the same.

So my ebullient soul, delved into serious thought,
About what I ought to glorify and what I ought not.

My venerable nous, praised this adventure of mine,
Said it would suit to tread a serious line.

The poem I knew, should house exotic words,
Like an aviary burdened with exotic birds.

So I took the dictionary and made a brilliant list,
Of words I never knew, did or could exist.

A few from the list expressed the title that read,
“The maieutic exegesis of juxtaposition with the dead”

A contended man I was, my countenance erupted into a smile,
But the elysian bliss, lasted only a while.

Before late I realized, I was going nowhere with the dead,
And beads of perspiration lined my forehead.

The euphoria waned, the word ‘poem’ lost its glow,
I had the words and the ideas, but together they wouldn’t flow.

I reluctantly gave up and to myself said,
Serves you right for trifling with the dead.

And emmolified my hurt soul, saying do not despair.
Everybody is not supposed to have the flair.

Then pushing aside the books in a heap,
I prepared to get some much needed sleep.

Away from the pitiless world, I dreamt that night,
That I did write a poem, about a poem I didn’t write.

(Anil Krishna, 14th July, 1997)