You see, when I started writing poetry,
I didn’t think it was of any relevance to anybody else;
I just wrote like a contortionist feeling the wires
of my soul twist with the expression, and feeding them as well
from the library of imagination! How different
is imagination from reality, if one is borrowed from the other?
Is there more euphoric vividity in dreaming than merely seeing?
Sometimes, your reality can be totally ensconced in fantasy!
So, poets can be called mad! And madness is not just a loss
of mental faculty, but could be an overwhelming emotional or spiritual gift!
Some people discover poetry out of the grief of loss, or a broken heart.
I didn’t make too much sweetness of my poetry! I carved
my challenges into words – satire, cynicism, even rage.
Someone told me, when I was in my early adulthood,
that I wrote like Stephen Spender. I didn’t retain the scraps of paper
of my early poetry! Then I took a very long Sabbatical till I started writing again!
Feeling that I was rife with wisdom and mature; but, sadly, a fruit never picked. Never mind!
Often, I want to destroy the world for my always concealed frustration.
And yes, I had to deal with so much treachery (Did this make me hide my lyric for so long?)
That is another story! Even in despair, I also reserved lines for love.
You can see, I’m an odd melange, a motley crew of so many selves,
that love so many with conviction, and hate a few with vehemence!
I am emotionally bound in chains. I know that such a heavy vector
can do me harm. But I’ve sustained my soul on it! I know there can be
euphemisms for every expression; but I don’t salvage my generosity
by precluding invective. No one can accuse me of being pedantic,
and my wisdom is authentic and original. I know words are only
ephemeral. But I swear by the everlasting poetry of my soul!
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