Lonely is the poet.
If you can't find another expression,
You worry not.
We all live with a little of
physics, chemistry and mathematics in life,
but poetry.
On a chilling night,
when kith and kinship is established in real world,
The poet wraps himself up with the snow
and the blanket that is as porous as a metaphor.
He heads South.
Words? No he is too full of that.
Souls? He is still to.
On a rainy day,
when people are either sheltered or making love,
The poet visits his old school street;
He finds new joy in waiting for someone, again.
Knowing she will not come, she has sent rain.
Care? No he is too full of that.
Life? He is still to.
The poet dies ordinarily one day.
When people were either happy or sad,
The poet leaves, just.
It was not winter so there was no metaphor
in his death.
Beside him was his book, his poems.
Poems? No he had written too many.
Blanks? He still had to.
SoUmY@
If you can't find another expression,
You worry not.
We all live with a little of
physics, chemistry and mathematics in life,
but poetry.
On a chilling night,
when kith and kinship is established in real world,
The poet wraps himself up with the snow
and the blanket that is as porous as a metaphor.
He heads South.
Words? No he is too full of that.
Souls? He is still to.
On a rainy day,
when people are either sheltered or making love,
The poet visits his old school street;
He finds new joy in waiting for someone, again.
Knowing she will not come, she has sent rain.
Care? No he is too full of that.
Life? He is still to.
The poet dies ordinarily one day.
When people were either happy or sad,
The poet leaves, just.
It was not winter so there was no metaphor
in his death.
Beside him was his book, his poems.
Poems? No he had written too many.
Blanks? He still had to.
SoUmY@
Comments
I m soooo proud of u!
Just as filled with very tangible imagery, as touching, as filling as that paean!
Curiously about a couple of months back, here in Kerala, a poet died, much the same way, anonymously, and with a scrap of paper in his pocket, the last of his writes! Amazingly each line of your poem, echoes his life too! He was Ayyappan, a poet who did not live by the standards of the literary folk. He paved his own way, lived his own way, and died without anyone knowing, and only when his body was brought to the hospital, from the roadside where he was found, did a doctor there seem to recognize him! The government quickly claimed his body for honours, but delayed his "state" burial by a whole weekend because elections were going on here, and none of the ministers or police were free for the gun salute!
A Shame I tell u!
Reading this made all of that come back, for me!