A poet muses

How I wish readers miss me... It has now been one year since he died, What emptiness the poetic world feels! His genius as days pass the more reveals, His memories we hope would new pens guide And his honest concern would be well billed, Many a young mind was inspired by him, All wonder-stuck on his poetic dream, And his trademark style in this field. In miles there’s no one to match his rare style, He straddled tall alone as if on isle. …And the reality He sure carried a crazy little crowd, He, more than crowd, was with his pen so proud. We’ve oft seen him lost in utter silence, And struggle, words deserting him at once. Still, audience oft fell into rapture Seeing his rambunctious rotund stature. Fragrance there if at all came from flowers, Not from blossoms of words upon bowers. But that is how things go in today’s world, More than song matter feathers of the bird. About one year has gone by since he died, On his pen’s silence few seem to have sighed. Emptiness, nor is there any a void, Many a new style have since been alloyed. Yet, poetry field’s richer in this sense, Not any worse in his absence. And his so-called unique poetic style Most likely might get buried on an isle. No one flavour has ever ruled the world, Not once has charmed for long a single bird. _____________________________________ Musings |03.08.2014| poet A poet imagines how he would be remembered after his death; what people would say, say after one year. The first stanza deals with this. Reality dawning on him, he then pens down the next.