Murali Sivaramakrishnan

Confessions Of A Poet

I write poetry for the main
as a private submission
of a brain
misguided by the song and march of words
like a cloud of birds
swooping and curving
about a painted sky
reaching nowhere

poetry flicks its tail like a gecko
on the prowl, wary, unsure yet
of its position and spring
on the insect on the wing
poetry shocks
like a faceless woman
in the streets
aberrant like the summer noon
unsure like the monsoon cloud
lazy and hazy
drifting about
poetry is
passio n
defiant, naughty, errant
the howl of a distant dog

I barely know more of it-
more enough yet to make
it a public event out of shape…
blown- up like coloured balloons
bandied about like political cartoons
and yet
when I see
the many monsters
prancing about in the holy streets
I feel a tightening around my temples

the pressure is the same
when I see a bad picture
hanging awry on a wall
I reach out to pull it
either up or down
or sideways as the case may be…

I wish I were not a poet at all
and not having to tame reckless words
feel the silence settling in still
and watching the shadow play
between waking and sleeping.

Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 29, 2011
Poem Edited: Monday, May 30, 2011

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