Me - Poem by Amrita Pritam
Lots of contemporaries—
but 'me' is not my contemporary.
My birth without 'me'
was a blemished offering on the collection plate.
A moment of flesh, imprisoned in flesh.
And when to the tip of this tongue of flesh
some word comes, it kills itself.
If saved from killing itself,
it descends to the paper, where a murder happens.
if it strikes me in Hanoi
it strikes again in Prague.
A little smoke floats up,
and my 'me' dies like an eighth-month child.
Will my 'me' one day be my contemporary?
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about Me by Amrita Pritam
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl