The Poet In Exile Poem by Rani Turton

The mind moves, the way hands do
To touch a beloved's face; to feel within
The soul, the thoughts, the skin.

The mind, sometimes heavy, lacks the shine
Of the freshly polished vase
The mind, saddened by its exile
Tries to leave the poet behind.

The mental, the metal, the marital, the martial
Worlds seem to be in fusion;
And then ultimately comes
The anguish, the joy or the confusion.

Footsteps around the world;
Standing over the Seine
Clouds in the water, and nothing
To guide me even then.

Like any other poet in exile
Destiny seemed knotted like a rug
Persian-perfect and that thought,
That absurdity finally made me smile.

Copyright: Rani Turton