Room Of The Poet

Room Of The Poet prose poem

Photo by ell brown

Getting into the room of a poet
is like entering the cell of a prison
unknowingly the prisoner…
but you must keep quiet…
because, such is the freedom
of being kept behind bars,
myriads of butterflies of freedom
sleep there on the walls
hearing the magical hymns
chanted by the poet…

When you get inside,
without awakening those butterflies
free in imaginations,
you shouldn’t watch
what the poet does…
As your eyes have seen
several mad men, he may seem crazy…

Sometimes, he may lounge there
like a wild animal
wandering in dense forest
at high noon
in search of water…
sometimes, he may babble
like the destitute street loony…
sometimes, he may be searching for
the reasons of a fiasco
among the sharp glass pieces of lost dreams…
perhaps, he may be recollecting
and forgiving those
who passed by throwing the cow dung
of deceit over his face,
though he gave love uncounted,
and trusted unlimited…

Perhaps, he may be taking a bath
in the estuary of the silence…
sometimes,
being aroused on the naked
pictures of beautiful damsels
drawn by mind on the canvas of the heart
he may be in the meditation
of self gratification

Sometimes, he may be giving
advice to the younger poets
who come to him to dispel doubts on
the jurisprudence of the artists
or the rights poets have
that they could not find
neither in the Bible nor in the Quran
neither in the Geetha nor in the Tripatas
neither in the Zend Avesta nor in the Adi Granth…

He may be busy with some strange deeds
in some strange universe,
that are beyond my and your expectations
which are beyond my and your dreams…

Whatsoever, don’t disturb…
he will get annoyed…

The walls may talk to you
in the language of the dumb…
Perchance, you may be asked questions…
Don’t be afraid,
the question ‘who are you’
don’t expect from there,
the room of no poet will
enquire the entity of its guests…
there are no strangers
in the room of an artist in this world…
and there is no stranger
for a poet in this whole universe…

The crumpled papers
spread over the floor, may frighten you.
It was the sweeper woman
who did not take them, scared of seeing them
moving themselves…
The pieces of papers, though left in the corner,
making noises with the pulse of life,
are like a lizards cut tales …
They are the chunks
cut off the hearts of a poet…
They will remain raising noises
even in dust bins and rubbishes…
they won’t hold their jaws
even doused in the urine of stray dogs…
they can never succumb
to any bonfire…
Nevertheless, absolutely it can be altered
if it gets across into someone’s mind…
the embers of any artist of the world
can be doused
if communicated to another…

Even though well-lit everywhere,
there is a hidden darkness somewhere
untrodden by the light….
But there are no hidden
serpents of deceit
to bite your foot.
In this world, no poet can
Deceive his fellow creature…
Because he is born to love,
to nurture the greenlet of love
even in scorching intolerance…
either in his curled hair
or inside the uncut beard
he doesn’t hide scalpels of enmity…
he knows the language of goodness…
it’s strange for him the ironed frocks of fakery…
This is because some mock him
as ‘crazy’… but you shall not…
because you have visited
the room of an artist, a poet…

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Jafar Sadik

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I am an Indian poet and artist. I have published 6 poetry collection in English. My website is WWW.JAFARSADIK.COM
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1 Comment on "Room Of The Poet"

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Nadeem Qazilbash
Member

Such overwhelming pain, no Valium can alleviate. Every line more intense than the other, taking the reader into “his” heart, feeling “his” feelings, chained with “his” chains.

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