Not Even Poetry - Poem by Boudhayan Mukherjee
The ruddiest poet of our land is anemic.
I fail to stir his soul with a hypodermic needle.
Anti-poetry stir, I bestow on his idealism.
Fax about his indisposition to the Sahitya Akademi.
No language is keen to rehabilitate his desires- - -
I discern no green pastures of poetic realism
With an alcoholic friend undoing his kundalini.
'My head is aloof', he wrote before passing
Into coma.'Physical strength deserts a saint
When mind betrays.' No way would he spend his blood
For aesthetics, he hacked off his creative roots
Imagined a block of granite
Unchanged by influences.
But he was flesh, enjoying
His own flesh that revolted.
Nothing that we need most
Not even poetry.
By BOUDHAYAN mUKHERJEE.
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