I draft and craft
Art - Sriparna Ghose, Bahrain, That Musician in Marrakech
I draft and craft
for nights and days,
dropping commas
in all the right places.
Vainly alliterating pages
with tuneful allusions,
sagacious phrases,
dissonant similes,
rhythmic visions,
themes and motifs in juxtaposition,
flights of bright imagination
with paradox and personification,
allegorical irony,
metaphoric foreshadowing,
drama and comedy,
manic and zen,
with bookended hooks at beginning and end.
But, while I try to
transcribe my mind,
I’m an adjective
or a verb behind;
always a verse
or a phrase-turn away
from the feelings
I’m feebly trying to convey.
Poetry only
alludes to truth;
like muted music
from other rooms.
The best I can do
is throw open the doors
and urge the performers
to play some more.
Then, if they spin
my words into song,
the lyrics will still ring
a little bit wrong.
My rhymes might impress,
but, spoken or sung,
its my head, not my essence
from which they’ve sprung
as vapid stand-ins
and overblown posers;
just shadows and phantoms
of candid emotions.
Language can’t capture
the smile of a child;
the loss of a heart not reconciled;
yearning, for last chances passed;
regret for a question never asked;
anger with decisions made;
pain inflicted by hidden shame;
disgust, with those who propagate
suffering, bigotry, sorrow, and hate;
fear of demons we perceive;
the hopelessness of lingering grief;
anxiety when life’s too much;
solace, from a comforting touch;
guilt from many might-have-beens;
relief when we let forgiveness in;
hope, though we’re entirely tired;
surprise at finding we inspire.
Emotions may
remain beyond
what language
can expand upon,
but when we seek
a glimpse within,
we’ll surely turn
to poetry again.
To raise a glass
with family we choose
to ones we love
who left too soon;
and to ourselves…
now, here,
to quiet and quell
our doubts and fears.
To lie with a lover
under night skies
til Dawn brings roses
to our horizon.
To sit and listen
with daughters and sons
to the music of Is,
and the lyrics of One.