You will never know how a poem carries truth in its womb, pregnant with hope,
nurturing its fragile existence forever only to slash it open in the end.
The enjambment has delayed its pain but only oh! slightly
so you can feverishly try to soften its dark jagged ends.
Trying it to fit a meter and rhyme but its soul pours out its guts and
unexplainable angst through endless similes and metaphors.
The broken lexicon has rendered its meaning useless
when the language is lost in translation.
Oh! how I would hold you close to my heaving bosom syncopating
your frail heart beats between the rising and falling breaths.
Oh! How I would warm the nape of your neck, the earth of your hunger,
the incessant wanting deeply seeded in your soul.
Oh! How would I die giving a home to your beauty and strangeness
that carries you through this ashen life of yours.
Only if the poem wasn’t read aloud,
Only if the poem never ended.
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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