Lots of contemporaries—
but 'me' is not my contemporary.
My birth without 'me'
was a blemished offering on the collection plate.
A moment of flesh, imprisoned in flesh.
And when to the tip of this tongue of flesh
some word comes, it kills itself.
If saved from killing itself,
it descends to the paper, where a murder happens.
if it strikes me in Hanoi
it strikes again in Prague.
A little smoke floats up,
and my 'me' dies like an eighth-month child.
Will my 'me' one day be my contemporary?
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Me by Amrita Pritam )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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