AN (27-03-1985 / MUMBAI)

About Writing A Poem...

With pen poised high over paper plain,

I sit awaiting an idea to write,

And yet my mind just searches in vain,

For an idea, as it hides just out of sight...





What shall I say, that yet I have not said

In verse, I have put my every thought...

And still at night, just before bed,

I yearn to write of another thought...





Of demons, goblins, fantastic lore,

Of a poor traveler’s travails, achy and sore

Of love and nature and earthly delight,

I've written them all, some or the other night





Is it all over, my poetry dead?

I ask myself in horror, It just can't be,

Oh dear me, i have been misled,

'Cos here's another poem, how silly of me!

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