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Poem

I
How Plato once wished to ban all poets
Who seem to ‘sketch skeletons of the real’,    
Whose ‘pen a beguiling tongue loosely lets’,
And yet ‘somnolent truths fail to reveal’.
If medieval men of merits did feel  
That giving ‘wild wings to mind is evil’, 
‘Poetry vineyard be of the devil’,
As senses stimulants be of what’s ill. 

That, mankind must shun, if it be ideal,
Sensual world be poet’s snare that beguiles,
Who, better be exiled to far off isles,
If to purge them appears nigh unreal.
   Whereas in truth poets are in a quest
   Of truth hidden in a fiction-filled chest!  

II
In quest of truth hid in fiction-filled chest—
Truth, as is love, an obscure entity,
Which, in vain most pens search in poetry—
A task so vague is bound to fail in haste. 
Yet, as each poem’s quite unlike many,
Every story as leaves lasting footprints,
As underlying truth’s nigh like any,
Most of it does get conveyed if as hints.

Each reader receiving the reality 
In own unique way—be it West or East,
He relates to the truth of poetry—
Veiled fantasy and a fictional beast.  
   So rankled, ghost of Plato in grave frets—
   Wise soul who once wished to ban all poets.
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Crown of sonnets |21.08.2023| truth, fantasy

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