An ode to poetry and words, and how they flow from the pen of the poet, the creator of the tapestry of words. A poem by Sarbani Mohapatra.
My eyes take in the letters of your script
That appear like ants upon a wall,
Gone haywire by the flick of a finger.
Tasting the sound of new words on my tongue,
Wary that they may turn rancid
Under the bad breath of awry utterance
An alien circling of the lips: dew on a desert flower.
My mouth is learning a gait through unknown land;
Slipping…slipping off treacherous bends
To emerge bruised, but not broken.
Sore syllables find their way home
Along stumbling alleys of songs unheard.
Walk me through the maze of your echoes
And let my incoherence sink in your rhythms;
Gather my ill-tended turns of phrase
Into the neat folds of your satin tenor
Till they melt into the nuances of your idioms
And roll out of my throat in a steady stream.
My consonants seek your solid sentences,
To rest their throbbing heads on a thought.
Be my ink for the length of a book
So my love may bleed onto your pages,
And pensive pauses redeem themselves
In a verse that nameless sages once sung.
More to read in Poems
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