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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