Rites Ghosh

The Poet And His Good Old Tree

a poet lived here,
lived; past tense-
some widnds scuttled
on his window panes and
not the least stir caused
before they went unknown
like the mendicant in this way-

a poet lived here
in shapeless uncertainity of time,
as if with empty bowl of poetry
a thought at the corner of distress
unattended, unnoticed-so long
stood-and delayed all unsettled-

so many things of world
by then, finally got settled,
so many desires lived up,
so many got the chunk unexpected-

but I read none of him
and-never you too-a page;
like the last loose leaves
he was winnowed unseen
in the path of southern wind-
yet rang his mournful lute
before they faded forgood-

nothing he left here
in this instant, save a tree
a forceful head, the last perch
of hope and he entrusted nature
to mother it: years went round
the inheritor spread trunks of growth
green foliages of imagination
put up messages bold
and the poetic faith clutched
round scattered roots...

gradually tree assumed
his all and all from his portion of grief:
but sun never betrays it to
turn sparkling green in the end

I feel the tree, and feel him through...

Submitted: Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Topic of this poem: art

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