For A Poetry, Love And Promises Poem by Rites Ghosh

Some Emma Dickinson wrote
all night long, I read her
too short-and threw my eyes
as the pillow of despair-

that she might write
with all green ink ichor
or use too many dashes
down her path and that
her all esoteric mill of mind
might rue like rainy nights of july...

but-I never felt going back to her:
a fear to pass through
that unknown turnstile
in head: I pack up backsack
with a sad calmness -as if
getting out of a beating mother
or may be my brass head
so unpoetically spoilt
to catch her beam...

away in the tropical sun, where
sun drunk life easily teeming up- I saw
one William's words are too worthy
gliding like summer swallows-
and he sitting on this valley of meditation,
looking at the mournful chapels,
rustic vagabond and the barefooted boy
round him hatching up tales -
he is a storyteller of the day:
I stooped and sat long...though
not being sure whether he wrote
any poetry ever-

after I got up,
only I had promises to delve
in the sunny pleasures-
must I return again with
filling eyes of love-
to you-poetry-