You said to me,
‘I’ve heard it said
That poetry heals.
So trawl through all the ages
And across all the lands
And gather:
Every verse, every word,
Every syllable, every sound,
Every line, every rhyme,
Every poetic device
That has ever been spoken.
Or written.
Or breathed.
Or dreamed.
Let no verse, no word,
No syllable, no sound,
No line, no rhyme,
No poetic device
Escape.
Bring it all to the Holy Land
And have it gush forth
Unceasingly
Over this gaping wound.’
‘I had heard that said too,
Many years ago.’
I said, looking down at my hands.
Looking down at my
Freshly bloodied hands.
‘They lied, you know.
Just like everyone else.
The poets lied to us too.’
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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