On a Maniac

I’m a maniac. So is everyone Or they are just dull—by default. I’ve always been excited About something or the other—all my life. I was, for instance, a cricket maniac once, Swinging the bat, Though I didn’t swing well at all; And watching matches day in day out. But match-fixing dampened my spirits And the media reports proved an effective antidote. Currently, I’m a poetry maniac. My poems sometimes have traces Of pacifist mania, or purist mania, Or sometimes a political mania. Thus, poetry for me is a mania matrix. Now that I can write a poem, Good or bad, on any theme, People, especially my kith and kin, Avoid me nowadays, As though I was a pest or plague. They fear: I may put any of them in a poem And post it, too. Once, I made an in-law the theme of a poem. And ever since, We have not been on speaking terms. I wrote on my spouse And our relationship took a different turn. I wrote good things On a pet cat or a doggy, Which they could not understand, Let alone appreciate. I wrote on the rose in my garden And before I could publish, She did perish! I wrote on my best friend And he did appreciate. Another on a bosom friend, Whose whereabouts are still unknown! The leaders I write in praise of Are all dead and gone; And so can’t hear me. Those who live And whom I invariably censure Won’t hear me. I won’t praise leaders living—on principle. It may be too early, you know. A coterie of readers, in my homeland and abroad, Do read my poems and compliment me, But are a microscopic minority. Still, I write-- Because I’m a poetry maniac! *** Won III Prize in the Poetry Contest entitled "Mania," sponsored by Lewis Raynes, November 8, 2017.