Skip to main content

I am no poet

I am a person with thoughts ablaze,
a human form of the sun's rays,
but I hold no magnificence in my quill,
to write out my thoughts at mere will.

A thousand thoughts ponder in my mind,
fathoms deep, they steal all my time,
I wonder and wonder,
how to put them in line,
to lay them in verses,
and to sing them with chimes.


They race up like waves,
and drown me in their pace,
how hard I try to escape their gaze,
but here I am stuck in their maze.


All the beauty I see,
are lost in my mind,
but I am no poet like Wordsworth or Whitman,
to bring them to rhyme.


Lost in fiery and beauty,
lost in race and creed,
lost in the quest to fulfill my needs,
lost in time and lost in minds,
lost to seek, too lost to speak,
lost I am too much ,
to express them in poetry.

here they are, waiting for me,
infinite like the drops of rain,
to embed them in verses sublime,
but I neither have the words that rhyme,
nor am I a poet like Geraldine.
(Geraldine Conolloy (1947-present))

Even now, I have much to say,
I am webbed with thoughts,
that tie the knots, that never chime,
nor rhyme, to make beautiful lines,
for I am no poet like Jean de La Fontaine.
(1621-1695)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…

Within

Image courtesy: world wide web

The stars that connect the sky,  the tides that weave the sea, the pebbles that merge the shore, the trees that mesh the forest, the branches that link the trees,  the leaves that entwine the branches, the sun that lights the horizon, the sky that paints the water, the waters that survives the fish, the fish that eats the seaweeds, the seaweeds that carpets the rocks, the rocks that protects the soil, the soil that strengthens the roots, the roots that keeps alive the trees,  the trees that mesh the forest, the forest that survives the big bears, leopards, and birds, the birds that live on the worms, the worms that protect the soil, the soil that gives birth to crops, the crops that survive the we, the we that eat everything in this big, wild world, the world in us is the world outside, the outside that reflects the inside, the inside that is abstract, the abstract is opaque, yet translucent, the translucence of the sun rays in a muddled dew drop at daw…

Being humane

Every dawn dooms with wail


I never opine but in my daze,

For I am human, humane.

Image courtesy: Internet