How Did I Come To Be A Poet? Creative Poetry And Its Field Work Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

As a poet I used to do the field work hidingly
And the struggle, suffering and sacrifice of life too taught me,
While in the absence of the servant,
The buffaloes used to low
And it seemed to break the pegs,
So, taking that,
I used to take to the fields and fallows
As for grazing,
Sometimes sitting on the back of
And the buffalo grazing.

I writing poetry and reading under the shades
Of the trees of the bowers,
The highlands of the forested area,
Marking heat and dust,
Strong sun and shade,
Sometimes feeling hunger and thirst,
Feeling tired and exhausted,
Sometimes passing through the hills,
Away and away into the solitary domains
Where man was not,
But the landscapes seem to be lurking around,
Hamlets and thorps lying far flung and scattered.

Sometimes under compulsion or just in a fit of frenzy,
I used to move about as for seeing the summer,
Its heat and dust,
The intensity of rising temperature,
The hot wind blowing hard
And I passing through
The raw connectway
To pause under the florid gulmohur tree
And the blossoms hanging by
And from there marking
Solitude, quietude and loneliness,
Man and their scattered hamlets.

One day I climbed up the hill, but was unable to come down the slope,
Somehow slid I and got stuck into
Otherwise would have rolled down,
Yes, climbing the hill,
Wrote I my poems,
Sitting on the rocks
But everything appeared dizzy
And after that, I never tried to climb and enjoy
And write my poetry
Sitting thereon.

While had been to my village, yea, the solitary hamlet
By the banks of the highland river
But waterless,
Just in spate for a few days during the rains,
I used to write poetry
Sitting on the river-bed
Descending evening
And under the moonlit nights,
My brother talking with
And I sometimes sparing time
Indulged in writing.

In the manless, away from human haunt,
Thinly populated villages,
I used to see life,
Its pace and sequence of events,
The slow pace of life,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to read in mud houses,
Mud-built and straw-thatched,
With earthen wares and sling-cots,
Of the farmhouses and farmlands,
Agricultural and rural.

Sitting in the graveyard, I used to see the tombstones
Of the British,
Marblestone and limestone built,
A few muddy and cemented,
With the Cross sculpted over
And the inscriptions on the white marble
Of the British time
And I used to write poetry in the evening,
Hiding from the world,
Sometimes marking the owl sitting,
Sometimes a scorpion crawling over,
Sometimes the returning herd lowing
And the bells tied around tinkling,
Sometimes the vulture sitting atop the leafless cotton tree
But in bloom in spring.

Sometimes while alone in the train bogey during the cold wave time
Fearing the pickpockets and their gang,
I writing poetry in my bogey,
Sometimes on the platform,
Sometimes in the staff-room,
Sometimes in the waiting room,
While working as a presiding officer
Mocking the futile election process and useless paper works,
Marking the infirm and the old coming to vote
And our duties to them.

Sometimes stopping near the forest of the pathway
Marking the wild blooms
And writing poetry,
Turning off the switch of the car,
Resting under,
Marking the beauty and mystery of the woods,
Feeling the infatuation for,
Sometimes passing through the solitary ways
Of the countryside,
Passing through the hills
And marking the depleting porcupines.