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a mother’s métier

2 votes, average: 5.00 out of 52 votes, average: 5.00 out of 52 votes, average: 5.00 out of 52 votes, average: 5.00 out of 52 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5
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English Poetry

 

The gushing of words

haven’t as yet inundated

the little lines of my diary.

They stand trim, shipshape

parallel to one another

waiting in symmetry

for some loud heavy

flow of something

that fills in its uncultivated plots.

Something

that you may not want to call

a verse

or perhaps a précis poesy

or may be,

nothing.

But that something

might just help buoy up

the sooty alleys bone deep of me,

for a new

meat of words,

coming together of which

 can have an art as its offspring

an art you may prefer not to call

but to me it would be…

a mother’s métier*

the form that would

lay bare the darkness

in the arms of luster

killing the germs

breeding silence and scruple.

 

 The talkative mind: inside of me

after many showers’ wait is out soaking heat

from a humid afternoon puddle street,

 smelling and sampling the salt, skin deep. 

**********************************************

* a child is a mother’s creativity, her exclusive art taking shape inside of her

(NB: The lines have happened after a long long frustrating wait, i cannot call it a writers’block, i ain’t one to be blessed with a block…the above share is an expression of the murkiness stationed in the thinking machine)

4 Comments

  1. Gion Gion says:

    Purabi,
    great writing. A “talkative mind” indeed.
    I love the flow of thought on the wide range of imagery,
    Fergus

  2. purabi says:

    Thank you…

  3. Vishvnand says:

    Superb poem indeed
    Hats off …
    Great sharing…

    • purabi says:

      thank you so much Sir. with a little pat, follows the challenge of offering better than the one visible.
      you leave us encouraged!
      Greetings Sir!

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