Part 09

Poetry first arrived
like a sparrow at the window —
brave enough, sometimes, to
reach for grain, to sing a note,
retreating at the slightest
approach.

I was emulating verses
taught in school: Wordsworth,
Frost, Davies, Shelley. Not
knowing the context, not picturing
the landscapes, not hearing the
intonations. Just syllables chasing
each other through burgundy
synapses, kicking up inexplicable
waves of joy. This is how the poet
must have wanted to be read. Or
maybe the poet never imagined so
distanced a reader. Or any reader.

I can frame my own space
now, hear my own voice. But the
universe still reveals no premise for
why something is, why it wants, why
it is denied and why it grieves into
poetry. There is also no explanation
for why a monsoon sky is the colour
of a sonnet, why a heart breaks in
the way day doesn’t, why a moment
shapes the poet when the poet shapes
the moment, but in the reverse
direction, as if time and poetry
are mirror reflections staring at
each other from opposite worlds.

There is also no explanation for
why the road less travelled by
turned out to be a dead end.

Advertisement