I have just read a thousand works
of the new poet on this site.
And must admit that it now irks
me to report with what I might
describe in private as point blunt,
in public though as honesty.
This place is where a man can hunt
for various kinds of poetry.
I think this calls for moderation
in criticising what is posted,
not all of us will feel elation
that's why this man is being roasted.
And one loud critic has the gall
to tell an Indian fellow here
to keep his culture, background, all
away from us, well listen dear,
it is a fact that a man's culture
impacts him like his mothers milk,
which does not mean that any vulture
who finds the work not smooth as silk
can shoot his cannon off at will
as if he were the critic's critic.
We'd all look smarter keeping still
instead of waxing analytic.
I have a precious Indian friend
retired chancellor, no less,
we keep in touch and often send
each other stories from the press,
and tidbits of the latest science
and life as it unfolds at home,
we even form a small alliance
against the Codex now, in Rome,
which sweeps the world, creating stress.
In short it is fruitful exchange
and, lest I babble and digress,
I have observed that Indians range
from stoic to the histrionic,
they use a language full of flowers
which, to myself can be a tonic,
at times when tasks wipe out the hours
their speech is pleasant, often soothing,
and full of adjectives at that
as if they want to bring a smoothing
and healing influence to flat
and bland communication.
So what we read here signed Nikhil
is xeno-floral re-creation,
perhaps we need to think and feel
how to appreciate his lines,
or if we really are so narrow
to stick with only certain wines,
at least we could keep that mean arrow
inside the quiver and unfired.
And as for me, this Nikhilism
which is, by some, truly admired
it beats the ghost of dadaism.