A Poet Muses

How Readers would Miss Me... It has now been one year that he had died, What emptiness that he’s no more with us! Which, as days pass, sounds more conspicuous, His memories we hope would new pens guide. His honest concern has not been well billed, Many a young mind was inspired by him, Most wonder-stuck about his poetic dream, Ah what trademark style in poetic field! There’s none in miles to match his unique style, He straddled tall all alone on an isle! …And the Reality He sure carried a crazy little crowd, More than crowd, he was with his pen so proud. We’ve oft seen him lost in utter silence, And struggle for sensible words at once. Still, audience oft fell into rapture, Rather than words, by his rotund stature. The fragrance there was came from fresh flowers, Not from poetic blossoms on bowers. But that is how things go in today’s world, More than song, what counts are feathers of bird. About one year has gone by since he died, For his pen’s silence few seem to have sighed. Emptiness, nor is there any a void, Many a new style has since been alloyed. Yet, poetry field’s richer in this sense, Nor ever any worse in his absence. Well, his so-called unique poetic style Most likely might get buried on his isle. No one flavour has ever ruled the world, Nor has charmed for nigh long a singing 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 second stanza.