THE POET


Time has its own way
of according acceptance.
It decrees now
that I should recite my tales
to my own self,
seated here,
all alone.
The mind doesn’t waver that way
and melancholy doesn’t truly reside
within this humble mind
and old body.

Yes,
I am indeed a poet.
A writer who gives life
to so many tales,
whether stark and alone
or within the cacophony of crowds.
I give life to my own self too.

But what transpires now is just not loneliness,
it is desolation
as if some barren forest had walked
all the way to this city
or else been brought here
by inhuman sources,
just like in Macbeth
where an entire army formed a jungle
to attack a wandering ghost
and masculinity’s torrid spell was broken,
in that very moment hence.

**

I have the keys to this barren restaurant,
only the chairs and tables hold still here
and enough food for an empty stomach.
They constitute my only audience.
Flesh and blood mortals cannot enter,
you see,
for time has decreed this curfew.

My words received acclaim
from the very same hustle and bustle here
and I always stood a chance,
my name known to so many.
After all,
who doesn’t crave for such adulation?

**

But now,
I may seem to only babble
to my own self,
a little ‘out there’
My age weighed against me,
to say,
‘Who exactly is he talking to,
the walls or this dead air?’

Oh, such fools as them!
I was always like this,
liberated within this commotion
and as if,
to enunciate words,
written by one’s own hands,
is a sacred rite of passage.

But I know,
a writer will always be a babbling pedestrian to people,
a little ‘out there’,
a little aloof from the world,
in their eyes.
And nobody turns up
for my recitals now
so they pass on a legacy of taunts.
Then pages from the past
intimate my bones of a desolate artistry.

But I am perfectly fine,
happy with myself,
hidden from the world inside
but prevailing without malice
because I never turned away
from life’s bitter realities.

And I’m here,
alive,
aware.
A poet
who searches for an audience
and takes turns with his pen’s support.

That’s how I prevail still.
And I wish to see you all
with bated breath.

**

NOTE: this poem is written from the perspective of an aged poet/writer.



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