by: Saptarshi Bhowmick
There I wrote a line,
"A splendid Casanova in sinister hues,
Paints my life with unruly beaus".
And I feel_
Ah! What a poetic start I found today.
Nothing so sublime to find a perfect start
at your very first attempt.
My creativity isn't answering positively,
recently,
so when these lines came up in my mind,
I forget that I was actually enjoying my meal,
on a vacant weekend, beneath customary stairs.
I run to my desk, drenched in sunlight
and wrote the finalized lines on a tissue paper.
In my mind I sort out a resolution
to finish this poem before my wife
Turns up, with the children, in the corridor.
Like that I used to sketch a scenario which isn't possible I know.
Suddenly, when I was about to write a concluding couplet,
my door bell rings.
I rushed through the corridor with irritation
and magnified malice, towards my faith that
Forever scorns at me.
In a meanest possible way, I cursed it
for hampering my creative impulse.
But I had to open the door;
There will stand an operator, reminding me
of my unpaid dues, left to be paid this month.
I shrug him of somehow with excuses, like I do.
There the piles of bills beside my desk,
Where I think up poems with unreal circumstances;
and I retired again in my predicament to write;
One line, two line, decoder echoes, thoughts shift
and finally I have created a satisfactory poetry.
I left my desk with my aching back,
Turns to my refrigerator and bring out the refreshments.
And at that moment, my wife appeared
in the corridor, exasperated, saying the school bus had a terrible accident.
So, there for me, my life becomes unusually poetic,
in a sense that my pretended lines never shall be.