Drama : A poet’s play

MAN: Pretence—What else is it?
Dear poet, you tell me,
Your fames, your glory
All a sheer pretence.

[And I sat numb, bewildered
As the young procrastinator went on
With his flurry of grievances ]

MAN: You built characters after characters
Sorrows, pains, love and life.
Did you ever value them!
On the icicle of human emotions
You had built your fragile monument
Wordy and worldly.
Tell me Monsieur
Didn’t you have the fear of
Crumbling unto dust ?

POET: Err…Look son…

[And He was Kept shut
As the silence prevailed
With a quarrelling supremacy
And awkward dearth of explanation.
And the wise old man reddened
A bit.]

MAN: How do you word in a
Bereaved mother’s true emotion?
Or a lover’s inspiration
May b even a sadist’s pessimism?
How can you even explain?
the inexplicable?

[And the poet shrinks.
Heads down,
Lips wet,
Perplexed, ashamed.
As he can not hear any more
And with mist in his eyes
The man becomes
A distant object
Far
Far
Far away…

And the old man rises from his seat]

POET:What if I soak my paper today
With irrational tears
And true feelings
For the first time.
And hurt myself deeply,
Slit my wrist.
If blood oozes out
To colour my pen
Then only it is the poetry
I wanted to Create
Rather than these.
The poetry which did justice to
Human emotions and pain
In the rightmost way.

[The poet continues…
Now kneeling down
As the man is traced nowhere
But a distant light]

POET: Oh! dear God,
Solace me to
Pen the silence
With no more words..
Amen! Amen! Amen.

[And we see the curtain drops
As the real progress starts only there after..]

.
.

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[The stage is yours now...]