My Perfect Page Poem by Manabendra Lal Bhuyan

Is it too much to ask of a page,
For interactive graphs and options to paste?
For I like papers, to carry the computer's taste,
A graceful way to bring ideas out of the cage.

For thoughts arrive quicker than fingers can trace,
And equations outrun every line I place.
The mind sees a landscape, the hand draws a stage,
Half the world is forgotten before it meets the page.

And what of the moments no theorem can gauge,
The smile that appears then departs from the stage?
Is it too much to ask of a patient old page,
To remember her eyes when they fade with the age?

For where shall I place her, in formula or art?
Between scattered equations and notes set apart?
The mind keeps a portrait the hand can't engage,
A sketch ever living, yet absent from page.

I envy the scholar whose notes bloom with ease,
Whose symbols stand upright like disciplined trees.
While mine are a battlefield, arrows engage,
A record of pursuit more than a polished page.

Perhaps one day a notebook will finally appear,
Part paper, part machine, yet wonderfully clear.
A companion that listens, remembers, and gauges,
The weight of unfinished thoughts scattered through pages.

Some wander seeking thoughts through every age,
While mine arrive uncalled and crowd the stage.
The paradox, amusing in its own way:
I search not for ideas, but where they'll stay.

Till then I keep writing, though imperfect the art,
With rough sheets for equations and sketches in heart.
For ideas and glances refuse to obey,
And the best of them vanish when asked to stay.

Perhaps, it is too much to ask of an innocent page,
While machine and paper kept fighting for stage.
For now, I worry if I would have enough, the pages
To write the poems of levels of sage.