Copies
Poetry is hard to come by
For lack of uninterrupted views
From inside my brain.
Words jingle but not the views.
At the window I see a tiny strip
Of the winter sky
And some passing shadows
Woman carries head-load
Of red shiny bricks .
Not just one but three.
Not the bricks but the women
In white polyester sarees.
A colorful copy I am in a hurry
To classify and file “save as”
I am in too much of a hurry
To make a play about it
With tall earthly creatures
As dramatis personae.
Actually it sounds a bit foolish
To enlarge mere copies
For they only depixellate
The sky is lost irretrievably
And the trees lose greenness.
I need their largeness
Their solidity and greenness.
But the copies !
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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