Source: Current Issue – Why do I write? Thank you Sunil Sharma Ji for including this small piece in Episteme, an online interdisciplinary, multidisciplinary & multi-cultural journal of Bharat College of Arts and Commerce, Badlapur.
When a poem starts pressing at the keys, white letters recede into their black armchairs and curious to know where it will lead my fingers follow it into the darkness my thought bag bursting with queries Won’t it require a few tried twists and turns a piroutte maybe a pinch of sea air, a few ounces of humor to create a laugh and emotion enough to choke a giraffe?
Or perhaps it should try my brand of lovelessness and dip its hat into a bucket of coloured images and run its feet through the wet sand and trample upon gentle flower beds for contrast?
My eagerness to help drives the poem further to get rid of my shadowy fingers and it becomes a whale stirring up the ocean mud spouting up my stale offerings and breaching magnificient while I retreat rebuffed my bag empty but my screen filled
The stream divides the green into two
meandering away from the known
to put hands on undefined, slippery curves
to revisit decrepit shelters
to reassess the traps set by the squelchy ground
where the green fades into yellow,
exposing cow-munched barren patches
They promise to lay bare the nuances which make some poems belong anywhere plucked from unknown places flawlessly put into ingenious spaces Guides and keys strip the charm off mysteries Ripping fragile veils their hands on some butterfly moments into which mine too had seeped unaware tearing out skin and poetic tissue for the un-poetic to rummage, pee and shit upon My greatest fear is of spotting the poet trying to prevent the assault unshaven, naked, dead and unseen A protective instinct stands up and hollers A phobia of bumbling fingers groping and probing the oft violated orifices, laughing at the mayhem of genesis assails me as I try to read the inquest report, face turned away lest I see a poem’s private parts uncovered and purple bruises on tender spots.
There is always a bubbling poem within a cauldron called life
Cherished mondegreens, veiled dulcet whispers some undeserved gifts, some stolen snapshots a few essential love swirls within the caliginous mood of nights some red fescue and lost fireflies A potpourri to season its ebullient delights
It simmers over an ouroboric fire often stamped upon vigorously yet never out fully in the shade or sun upon a little heap of broken rocks hissing away to the flame scorching it black
All you need to do is tilt it a little and a poem flows out.