As A Poet Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

As a poet, what have I got, what have I really
As mine is a painted grief, a painted life
And I have been viewing all that
Through my poetical eyes,
The coloured lens
And as for my vagaries,
Vacant mood and reflection
Call they me a poet otherwise am I
And am I really?

Just for poetry’s sake
I am a poet
Otherwise would not have been,
Just for my painted grief and coloured reflection,
Seeing through the dark glasses;
A poet melancholic and fatalistic am I,
Marred by failure, frailty and loss;
A frustrated lover am I
And I loved too just for poetry’s sake,
A poet of beauty and broken heart,
Bandaging through rose-loving.

In the libraries lived I, dreamed I
Without getting highest degrees in library science not,
But book-keeping and maintenance,
As looked I after my father’s books,
My brother’s
And personal libraries of own,
The room grew smaller
And the books many
And what more do you want to hear from me?

A poet of the gipsy heart and gipsy living,
I went on loitering into the fields and fallows,
Hills and wilds,
Graveyards and crematoriums,
Roaming and composing,
Passing through in between solitary hills
And feeling the bewitching silence
Away from human haunt and reflection;
A poet of broken heart and broken living,
Broken for poetry and philosophy
And accompanying poverty
And the resultant struggle and suffering thereafter.