At times, when head is clogged with too many thoughts, poem seems to be last resort.
At times, even she dissents:
At times, even she dissents:
Poem
- not a concubine
I have to make a poem my
concubine
Dragging her by force –
If she doesn’t come on
her own.
I prepare my pen and
paper -
My weapons – inks red and
black
Colour my lips and eyes.
Baby dawn arrives out of
the blue,
Throws its ink-pots
On my paper discoloured;
Tells me: Poem is not a
concubine.
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