The horrors of poetry

Well, I think before I give all of you, my readers, a heart attack I need to explain a little backstory to this post. I had pestered my friend Arkava to create a blog and every now and then I had been after him to post more often. Lately i had been getting this nagging feeling that all that pestering would come back to bite me in the ass. Well, it did. Arkava demanded, no no-nearly blackmailed me into this agreement that I have to write and post a poem on my blog. UGH! For those who dont know me, I have what can only be called a strange respect for poetry. Poets to me are strange creatures who can make words dance. Poets hold me in more awe than writers. Forming sentences, now there isn't much mystery to it. Of course some do it better than others but I can understand how it works. But writing poetry? Now that a bigger mystery to me than the Bermuda triangle. And here I was getting blackmailed into writing one. A warning note, if I may- I had tried to write a poem when i was in class 5. The results were a 10 line poem about a hunter in Africa. Needless to say, to call it a limerick would even be a severe, if not impossible stretch of the imagination. Anyway, so here I was, being blackmailed into writing one again. Anyway, what curses I muttered silently at Arkava is history now- whats done is done. Next time around I wont fall into such traps again. I am just glad that my work is done - the rest has to be endured by my readers. If the readers dont form an angry mob and lynch me, surely the ghosts of Tagore and Neruda will.


Heart of stone

I am a grotesque parody of Atlas
Shrivelled and shrunken,
Bowing down to the weight thrust upon me,
No Gods or religion to give me hope,
No priests to set me free.

I have shackled myself to doubt,
I cry out in anger,
But sorrow drowns my voice,
What comes out is true no longer,
'tis with untruth frought.

Crowds flock around me,
They scream and shout,
My lack of faith drives them to me
Each have their plans,
To turn me devout.

I see pity in their eyes
They think of me as a poor soul,
Lost is he - they say,
Maybe,just maybe he will some day
See the error of his way.

They want me to be rid
Of the burden to which i am bound,
Tell me my friends,
If I do change,
Won't I stop being me?

My burden is mine alone,
It doesn't make me weak,
It drives me harder still,
To newer thresholds of pain,
I long for the day,
When pain shall have had its fill.

I will rise anew then,
Like a phoenix from its ashes reborn.
My burden will be but a box of cinder.
But one thing above all haunts me,
Will it make me unfeeling?
Will I be like stone?

Change they say is ineveitable
Who then or what will save me from it?
What will save me from inveitable apathy?
Hear me if you will,
If there is even a magic pill
To save me from such fate

I would take it gladly.
But no answers come,
The crowd surrounding me is long gone.
Then as if in answer,
A voice from the depths replies-
No magic pills for you,

For you no cure,
You housed yourself in doubt,
Danced with cynicism,
You sent your friends away.
Doubt will forever be your handmaiden,
And pain, your only way.



What do you know? I am well on my way to pseudo-intellectual heaven!