Confessions Of A Poet Poem by Murali Sivaramakrishnan

I write poetry for the main
as a private submission
of a brain
misguided by the song and march of words
like a cloud of birds
swooping and curving
about a painted sky
reaching nowhere

poetry flicks its tail like a gecko
on the prowl, wary, unsure yet
of its position and spring
on the insect on the wing
poetry shocks
like a faceless woman
in the streets
aberrant like the summer noon
unsure like the monsoon cloud
lazy and hazy
drifting about
poetry is
endurance
survival
fodder
passion
defiant, naughty, errant
the howl of a distant dog

I barely know more of it-
more enough yet to make
it a public event out of shape…
blown- up like coloured balloons
bandied about like political cartoons
and yet
when I see
the many monsters
prancing about in the holy streets
I feel a tightening around my temples

the pressure is the same
when I see a bad picture
hanging awry on a wall
I reach out to pull it
either up or down
or sideways as the case may be…

I wish I were not a poet at all
and not having to tame reckless words
feel the silence settling in still
and watching the shadow play
between waking and sleeping.