Not Even Poetry Poem by Boudhayan Mukherjee

The ruddiest poet of our land is anemic.
I fail to stir his soul with a hypodermic needle.
Anti-poetry stir, I bestow on his idealism.
Fax about his indisposition to the Sahitya Akademi.
No language is keen to rehabilitate his desires- - -
I discern no green pastures of poetic realism
With an alcoholic friend undoing his kundalini.
'My head is aloof', he wrote before passing
Into coma.'Physical strength deserts a saint
When mind betrays.' No way would he spend his blood
For aesthetics, he hacked off his creative roots
And wilted.
Imagined a block of granite
Unchanged by influences.
But he was flesh, enjoying
His own flesh that revolted.
Flesh succumbs
Flesh succumbs
Nothing that we need most
Lasts long
Not even poetry.


By BOUDHAYAN mUKHERJEE.