Cascades Of Imagination Poem by Showkat Ahmad Wani

What ails thee, poet? My dear, when dost thou gaze
The garden lies, its flowers pale and sick,
Thy dearest rose now withers, bruised and torn
Before descending to the grave, now see
The nightingale doth croon a funeral song,
And breeze that spills the melancholy tears,
And twigs that sprout the fruit of deep despair,
And honeybee that sips the flames of pain,
The hoary bumble-bee that rules it all
Of burial rites, the dew falls soft and now 10
He has no wish to wear the sun's first beam,
But once was crushed by smacks, now turned to mist
Of cheerful grief, the scent has turned to black
And sickly stench, the fruits are corpse and rot.
The smell that spreads the death to all it calls,
And sparrows still recite their holy verse,
The lawn is shrouded like the winter moon;
These moods of grief, though brief, still hold their worth
In creative eye to stir the creative mind;
My poet, May see my eye of perfect truth, 20
And set to fall the tears of holy grace,
And take thy steps to gloomy house to stare,
To cast aside the pain of made-up art,
Let's see the face of mother, read the folds
Through curfewed streets, she wanders, strays, and hunts
And hunts for sons, for mighty strength, the strong
And steady legs, strong arms, and eagle eyes,
The mind of wit, the heart of boldest lion,
The purest mind, with lips of prayer and grace,
She hunts and cries beneath the shelter's shade, 30
My dear, now catch her wings of darkened thoughts
And search the gloomy nights beneath her taut,
And bushy hair that sets the scale to form,
To gauge the ocean, trace her weeping eyes,
To stir the tide of hate, burden her foes,
You read her like the page of holy script
Where every word she speaks is greatly worth
Than Chaucer, epic all above than great
Of Homer, artier than Grecian urn, 40
Her mind that sows the sense among the sane
And heart, the room where mysticism drinks,
The faithful flames from faithless sea of beast,
Each poet takes a single drop of grace
Of inner sight from shoreless sea and all
The Miltons gain the sight their eyes deserve
To mother, every wisdom stems from feel,
The darkest cry that haunts the soul's deep core,
As ghosts that race from streets of fear to shake
The nights of peace, to bruise the innocent,
It pours from mother's fearful eyes to kill 50
The morn, to kill the day, to kill the dark,
To slay the tattered rags of time in fear,
The coy repose of bride, the pause of tongue
In conflict, show her fleeting parts of peace,
The hatred falls from devil's reign to last
Does firm in shade of tree's immense embrace,
And tugs of bond between the true or false,
Among the mystic, and the corporal truth,
Or weak and sturdy, friends, and foes, and all
These bonds but just the beam of passion deep 60
From motherly star of love, my poet, thou need
Not read the corners, nor drink from the cloud
From fathoms deep, imaginations rise,
No need to dive to seek in eyes, or scratch
The minds of wit or sail the ship of search
Among the seas of heart, to grasp thy feel,
To bend thy pen upon the page, my poet
To read her face is meant to know the world.
(06 Feb,2016)