For Poetry Writing, What Did I Not Bear? Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

It is almost twenty-five years complete
When I started writing poetry in English,
Withoput knowing the Indian writers of verse,
Just after Eliot, Keats and Wordsworth
But there was none to support.

Once on the eve of the 26th of January,
A local literary meet
Of a limited audience,
I recited my poetry
And the presiding deputy commissioner
Together with the superintendent of police
And other district town booses.

But the reporters and correspondents sitting there
Reported not about in papers even briefly,
I distributed the copies of my The Ferryman,
Barring the publication in Debonair
And what more to say to you?

Even then with a great difficulty, doing the unavailable private tuition,
I used to support myself and the journals,
Many a time I thought of leaving poetry,
Many a time I was reprimanded for poetry,
Without even purchasing medicines
During my illness.

From dawn to dusk study used to tell upon the health
But there had not been any scope,
By midninght I used to read sometimes
Making the passers-by stop
To hear it
As the area too had been dark, lonely and bushy.

Books, only books had been the love of mine
And I used to prefer for books
Rather than clothes and assets
And the parents used to inspire it
Making us ignore the landes properties in the village,
70 kms. away from the palce of the father’s posting.


The small poets for whom did I so much too forgot me in course of time,
Using and throwing me,
If open you the pages of litrary journals, you will find that,
Ram writing about Shyam’s poetry in his journal
And Shyam about Ram,
Taking it to the level of friendly writing and friendly criticism.

Many who have just started recently call themselves great poets or poetesses,
National or international,
God knows,
But even if I exist as a small poet,
I shall try to thank Thankless God.