A Poet Of Bleeding Heart & Broken Self Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

A poet of broken self and bleeding heart am I,
My heart, how many times has it broken like the glass piece,
You do not ask,
As have seen my face in so many images of mine
With a sadness,
A starnge sadness of mine,
Singing the song in memory,
Going on the untrodden paths of life.

I don’t think if you have the same as is mine,
Growing up young, falling in love,
Giving heart to another,
Love at first sight,
Love letters written and destroyed in hiding
In tabooed world
Where none but the world stood as a dreaded villain
And I could not hand over those love letters,
Has someone seen,
Feared I most.

Ached it my heart, broke it and repented I,
What did I,
Why did I love and like a girl,
Are there no girls like her,
Why to be after
In my one-sided love,
Forget you your strange meetimg,
Said I to me,
Are there no beauties, no maidens
Like her,
Take heart, take heart, poor self?

But it took time in forgetting her, strange meeting and love at first sight,
To be after,
Giving of my heart and taking of her heart
And in the aftermath of that,
Grew I so much impatient,
My heart ached and ached
And I writhed in pain,
Broke and broke
And I went about moving
With the palm on my heart
As myself a patient of psycho-neurosis.

Do you know I evolved a strategy of my own,
I started moving into the fields and fallows,
Marking solitude to free myself,
I started moving on the untrodden paths
By being on the bank of the hilly brook
And hearing its music and murmur,
Watching the bauty and mystery of the woods,
The grassy blooms and creepers
And deriving joys and pleasure.

I moving on and stopping by the connect way
Linking the countryside with the town,
Adjacent to it,
Stopping on the midway to see
The setting sun,
Glowing red and setting,
The shepherd girls returning
With their flocks of cattle,
The cattle drinking water from the pond
And going.

While passing on the ways, I marking the hills shining blue,
Shining blue and dazzling,
Strange wayfarers on the lonely ways,
I do not know them,
They too do not,
But going together with
And separating,
I marking the marshy plot of land
With-white lilies, white small-breed cows and white storks.

Whilw passing through a stretch of the woody land,
I giving an ear to bizarre silence therein,
Hearing the voice of the god of the woods,
The warble of the birds
And passing through that loneliness,
Solitude and silence,
As a strange silence pervades in,
Where none but I myself going

Again on my way hjome, I trying to see the flowers,
The roses red and blushing
Into the compound and campus of the people,
I seeing the red roses, consoling myself,
Calling it my love,
Making her listen the story of bleeding heart
And blood-stained love
And returning,
As love is not love,
As love has not remained love.

I talking with my self, saying to and returning home
As the bats have started flying
Like the circus artistes at the nets
And it growing dark,
I marking the eve-time silence, returning home,
Singing of love and heart,
Has not remained love,
Consoling and suppressing the pain
To change myself completely
For a new turn over.

I trying to share with the small-small children
Whose ignorance and innocence
Making me forget my pains,
Lessening them
And in the simple joys of theirs
I too taking life simply

Coming home to find Rajanigandha the fairly white maiden
Giving me a bouquet of flowers,
Under the star-lit skies,
Blooming under the misty nights
With the dews over it
And the moon orbs faling over
And she smiling beautifully,
Telling of life, the go of it
And the world,
O, the fragrant and whitw rajanigandha sticks!

Love is not love, neither in first love nor in second love,
Neither in first meeting nor in the love-letter,
Nor in to be after
Or in eyeing,
Love is love
If calls someonw with love,
Serves and nurses you,
Gives food to eat, water to drink,
Ready to attend to you
At your call
And there is no love greater than this love.