What a tiger does on not finding a deer?

I should write a poem now.
If I can write only when words come to me voluntarily,
How can I call me a poet?

If the verse spontaneously overflow,
What is there to do for a poet?
Sorry Mr.Wordsworth!

I took a paper and a pen.
Oops! It's very difficult
To pen down something,
When your word-rivers are dried.

Now I felt myself as a,
Cloud failing to rain;
A rainbow faded,
And . . .  eh  . . .

What happened to me?
I look'd at my old poems
To convince myself.
But, oh! I'm not satisfied.

I didn't want to
Be caught blue-handed,
Begging for metaphors and similies,
And still announcing myself a poet.

I scratched my head,
Walked around like a mad,
No use! My paper remained white
As white as the rainless-cloud.

I shook my head,
Tore my paper,
Threw my pen away,
To come to a conclusion

Doesn't a poet create a poem,
Poems choose their pens rather!

Comments

  1. oh beautiful... but sometimes situations make ourselves to be a poet.. hope u understand

    ReplyDelete
  2. lol...very true...i once wrote a poem called "an allergy caught at a country churchyard" same sentiment...will post it if i manage to find it :-)

    ReplyDelete
  3. reminds me many of by scribblings in the name of poems..

    ReplyDelete
  4. always we have the tendency like looking at old things and we do compare.. nice usage

    ReplyDelete
  5. Aah wonderful lines. Smart thinking bro.

    ReplyDelete

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