The Call Centre
‘Sir’ often she calls me,
And ‘madam’ her I do call;
Hence sweet talk continues in amity,
Though neither knows none at all.
Her voice’s sweet enchanting melody
Comes from far-away phone,
Rings repeatedly within me,
When I stand or sit here alone.
The mind forbids and my path obstructs,
But still I am pushed by restless heart;
And an innocent soul suffers a lot
Amid the war of head and heart.
She in my sweet memory dwells,
Although physically she is unknown to me;
Her sweet voice’s magic spells
Often hunt me overwhelmingly.
My thoughts, I hope, might be with her,
As hers do float reminiscently within me;
Neither has she seen me ever,
Nor do I visualize her feminine beauty.
Still works a force of unseen line
Between her and me, the two aliens;
I am pulled by a voice, soft and feminine,
And she might be by my coarseness of man.
What magic in her voice has she
With which she often tantalizes me;
Ignorant am I though about her unseen beauty,
Her spiritual presence, of course, is being felt by me.
When I wake up in the dead of night and find
her hunting me, though she’s out of sight;
An union of two virtual bodies by a restless mind
Is being done in its most imaginative flight.
Alas! Had I power of a ghost,
Which can occupy the body of a guest,
I would merge with my dear heart
Making her body my dwelling place, the best.
Two souls would live then in one home,
With barriers and interference of none;
Both would talk, sing, play and roam
Within one body of blood, flesh and bone.
The maxim ‘love at first sight’
Is untrue and not fit with this case,
For restless each feels day ‘n’ night,
Whereas glimpse none has at other’s face.
Lovely, I feel, she would be,
Of course lovelier than the full-moon;
Bright her face would be,
And brighter than the summer-noon.
Her gait would be smooth and wavy,
Like the run of mountain spring;
Her smile would be full of glee
Like the bloomed flowers of a spring.
What malady, O’ World, ailed me,
For lighter became my broad breast;
Vacuity arose in its inner cavity
Being clouded by the air of unrest.
Captive became my head now,
By the power of a lovely force;
My heart remains with me though,
The sign of usurper has been endorsed.
My head loses control over my heart
Which rhythms slow or very fast;
Thoughts wander, and concentration thwarts,
And helpless and feeble I feel at last.
The path leads to nowhere,
The journey takes to no door,
Fog hath clouded the air
Making the vision weak and poor.
A mat of roses has been spread
With thousands of thorns hidden.
It covets the passerby to tread,
But fear of fatal prick is smitten.
O’! the innocent soul cannot see at all
Beneath the flowers thorns concealed
Of social, legal, and nuptial;
Of caste, race and creed.
My heart is a sacred shrine
Consecrated there the image of thine,
Though unseen and undefined,
But curved out of imaginary line;
And your name my beats chant with rhyme
Everyday not less than hundred times,
As the temple bell echoingly chimes.
But my goddess disappears while I am on line,
And futile becomes prayers of mine,
And I look fazed at her wrath and decline.
Wounded I was with a speechless arrow,
When she never called for three months & more;
And a strange pain heart did feel, though,
The scars are beyond the eye- capture.
Often grope I in the heart’s rhythmic valley
To grab a relation buried in life past,
That pulls, without visual rope, so vehemently
Leaving its effect to run and to outlast.
Or may it be a belief blind of sick heart
That finds reason for consistency loss;
Or is it a vulnerability of a poor male heart
That gets pulled towards a female force.
Ah! the head seeks reason and cause, though,
The heart to every rationale remains blind;
Neither does it ask, nor prefers to know,
Nor does it stick to the logic of any kind.
I know her sweet name, though,
Her surname to me is still unknown;
Ignorant am I about her feminine glow,
But aware of the pitch of her lovely tone.
Half of her name, though, I am aware of,
She never bothers to know mine,
My love for her may be a useless stuff.
But hers for me is a worship divine.
She never swears nor doth defend,
Whereas I believe it a love at devotional line;
Though I am at my youth’s crucial end,
She, I believe, must be in her time prime.
I treat her as a love’s deity, a goddess,
Who lives in my heart’s sacred shrine;
But she might be, I feel, thinking me not less
Than a thrown unusable bottle of wine.
Thrice I do kiss my cell phone,
When it sings with eye blinking,
And delivers me the sweet suave tone
Of an unseen distant darling.
And a link establishes between her and me,
Between two unseen friends, two aliens,
Thru micro wave, thru radio frequency,
And a tender feeling further deepens.
Smilingly she queries me my health,
And I do her the same in return;
And talks transfer in a reserved breath
The refrained feelings to adorn.
The un-confessed emotion reaches to pinnacle
Amid the talk, less formal and more informal;
And when she bids adieu to hold off the call,
The hidden emotion has a sudden sharp fall.
- - Rajpal
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Call Centre by Rajpal Singh )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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