(E.Paramasivan)
My words..
not yet descending
on the paper,
collect as clouds
at hill-tops.
like sea-gulls and
the wharf
the correlation has yet
to sneak into a transcendence
of imagination and impact.
the paper lies as a corpse.
my words will be another
deadly addition of a paper-weight.
until now egg-shell
is not yet broken
for the motley wings of
my momentary 'chicks' of thoughts.
the sub-terranean pain
needs a paint and a canvas.
the symphonic mum of a music
is about to ripple to a boom
translating the 'slurs'of
those acoustic notes from
the lungs of my poetry.
Tight-lipped I have shut my eyes
keeping my eyes wide-open inwardly.
what is a poem?
How can this paper-flesh
can get life?
I plunge into this abyss of
non-sense.
sensing an unsense of 'being'
I develop an anti-sense for
being dragged into an addiction.
but a poetic piece
is not yet born.
throw away all these jargons.
Better play with those
dragon-flies and butter-flies.
how so ever flimsy
those wings are
a beautiful poetry.
by Epsi. 12/03/96
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