the week begins
and a poem beckons
the overcast clouds
deliver the words at
the door and now
they tumble all over asking
to be strung together
chiding them does not help
call them names, tell them
they are worthless, no one
publishes poetry any more
and if they do, they don’t
pay you for it, what’s the point
they will be better off
in a Sunday essay
the same newspaper everyone
reads in the south, but
heedless they pester and
plead, making it difficult
to ignore the clanging doorbell
the two cheque books
that arrive by post, leaving
the half finished novel
desolate, gaping and gawking
at this feeling that persists
it should not start like this really,
the ennui of the weekend hangover
fourth glass of half finished wine
heaviness in the head brought on
by the listless knocking and the
desire to be free and make
the words dance any which way.
Vijay Nair
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glad you opened the door to words,
ReplyDeleteand let in the silence. :)