Why My Poetry Like A Ponderous Maid Poem by Rites Ghosh

The ponderous chubbiness
of my poem's body expects what?
swollen adjectives, epithets,
attractive oggles of phrases,
bending of glossy necks of rhetorics-
mind it- so many wild words swirl
like the swing of her skirt,
when in exciting motion,
she moves on dancing in wined music-

This is an academic inn of temptation:
my writings must go on
moving round this hazy crowds
and pour elixir on the cups-
their white cups- and those must be filled-
smoke filled magic of the room,
coloured bulbs of glory,
puffs of pride- gestures of desires-
and their cliche cigars, shadowy pipes,
glorious handcarchiefs and
glass like brittle moods in colour-

I must make my way through
and sit deep within their hours' grip
and let them sip brimful sensuality,
let them breathe my deep instant;
the artful precious peeps out
from canyon of breasts
of my motioned verse,
let it whisper immortality-

Generations of mine,
starved of rhyme,
chewed nothings of life-
every tremor of lips for long years-
every speakable loses in vacant fears
and dies alone by unfortunate strife;
my poem must make heads
out of this silenced doom,
and surely with plumpness of art
it thinks making room
and wins the last gilded heart-

In the serpentine lanes of honour
we may not hold ever the flower-
but we may dance our words now,
while our hands flow, we vow
to speak the mad of us
to let loose the unspeakable rush
out in the testing mood of time-
my words so bold in round may chime
good new bends of life,
so that something of me looks really ripe...