there will always be more things
to say,
in some sense, not to be oblivious,
about the unconcern of the obvious,
he resorts to her
metaphors, the story of the breasts
and the nipples,
the middle part that speaks
about the strong caressing hands
and the ready pelvic bones
giving heads and
tails
making odds out of the given
evens,
all these, could be in the realm of
nothing but imagination
but which you who watch this man
daily
finds every bit a
bite of reality
Amy once says
what we write need not be about
us, and when we speak of us,
it need not be
we, and we need not be you and
I.
It is this universe that gets inside
the pouch of our hearts
pounding the sounds of calls
not really of help but
of expression
it is there, and had always been
there,
always waiting
to be told.
in a sense, we must,
not you and i, be sentient,
to become sensible.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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