The Poet Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Your wife is in a worn and torn sari faded and discoloured
And in a patched and stitched blouse
And you writing poetry,
Writing poetry to your pleasure
With the fire of imagination
And the frenzy for living,
Dwelling afar,
Into the realms of the skies

But here on earth the troubles and struggles of life many,
She working hard like an ox all daylong
In her cottage,
Shaded with straw and bamboo sticks,
Mud-walled from all around
With the cow shed
In which there lie in the cattle.

Poet, the mind of yours dwelling far into the horizons
Expanding and expanding beyond
And you with the flutter of heron, stork and crane wings
Flying high, taking the imaginary flights
Just like the fishermen in ponds and rivers,
Floating and flowing
And fishing
And netting, hurling and flinging the nets.

There is nothing in the house valuable and decorating
Barring the old sheets of paper and books
And you lost in dreaming,
Dreaming about life and the days of glory,
Probable basking in it
While on the other you son and daughter crying for food,
Milk, biscuits and toys.

You lost in your thoughts and ideas, images and reflections, views and beliefs,
The dimension and spectrum of it,
Flying away into the poetic realms,
Dreaming high
But on the other hand your wife wearing a poor sari and torn blouse,
The children crying for food,
But you seeing the fir and full moon from the patches of the cottage,
Lost into the dreams and reflections and dwellings of yours own

Bearded, long-haired, spectacled and loosely dressed
Melancholy, brooding and reflective, dwelling afar.