Village post-office
dad worked there until his death
fallen apart now

It would only seem
( I can't be sure
whether this is THE thing)
I can't persuade other writers
to agree ( readers aside)
their experiences
are not mine
they might know more
and could be right-
in my not-knowing
alone I stand
but to doubts
I don't bow
I write
in order
to know
and to understand

is a poem reasoned
it's its birth-place the left-brain
the logical and analytical locus
that spawns the poetic thoughts
and outpourings? A mechanical outcome
a product from the conveyor-- belt
when the factory's button
is switched on
by the eager writing hand?

is a poem born
from a test-tube
a microscope
or a clinical trial
with the poet
as scientist
or progenitor?

An avant-garde poet
(just an acquaintance )
to me he wrote to advise:
'  You must sit down
   and plan
   you must map
  your thoughts--
  don't forget
  your are an engineer
  a scientist
or architect--
  
words are your tools
  have your dictionary
  and thesaurus around
(your tool-box so to speak)
you would need the hammer
the nuts and screws, the spanner
a welding machine or a cutter
nail your words
and thoughts
think of a factory-line
let your every phrase
and sentence
line in sequence
as the railway carriages
follow the running train
if you fail
try and try again
all works-in-progress
would end as finished products
ready for the market'

but
I was not trained
and would be pained
under the weight
of rigorous constraint
I would be imprisoned
the best part of myself I would lose
all my poems would then
weep unrestrained
perhaps I would not write again--


is this THE thing
that does the intuiting?
a feeling stirs within
(its whereof I have no inkling)
it won't go away
and begs to be listened to
a strange mood descends
and guides my hand
I write
(I don't reason)
the words from
some stream
of half-consciousness
rushes to fill
the empty writing-
paper that lies awaiting--
I am reborn
my energy begins its soaring
to a celestial- beyond- time unfolding
(what beauty and radiance
that follows without reasoning!
the feeling
embodies
the ultimate meaning
undoing
all conscious thinking)-

then the poem
by the heart's purity endowed
springs into a life of its own
and comes into resplendent flowering

It would only seem
( I can't be sure
whether this is THE thing)
I can't persuade other writers
to agree ( readers aside)
their experiences
are not mine
they might know more
and could be right-
in my not-knowing
alone I stand
but to doubts
I don't bow
I write
in order
to know
and to understand

is a poem reasoned
it's its birth-place the left-brain
the logical and analytical locus
that spawns the poetic thoughts
and outpourings? A mechanical outcome
a product from the conveyor-- belt
when the factory's button
is switched on
by the eager writing hand?

is a poem born
from a test-tube
a microscope
or a clinical trial
with the poet
as scientist
or progenitor?

An avant-garde poet
(just an acquaintance )
to me he wrote to advise:
'  You must sit down
   and plan
   you must map
  your thoughts--
  don't forget
  your are an engineer
  a scientist
or architect--
  
words are your tools
  have your dictionary
  and thesaurus around
(your tool-box so to speak)
you would need the hammer
the nuts and screws, the spanner
a welding machine or a cutter
nail your words
and thoughts
think of a factory-line
let your every phrase
and sentence
line in sequence
as the railway carriages
follow the running train
if you fail
try and try again
all works-in-progress
would end as finished products
ready for the market'

but
I was not trained
and would be pained
under the weight
of rigorous constraint
I would be imprisoned
the best part of myself I would lose
all my poems would then
weep unrestrained
perhaps I would not write again--


is this THE thing
that does the intuiting?
a feeling stirs within
(its whereof I have no inkling)
it won't go away
and begs to be listened to
a strange mood descends
and guides my hand
I write
(I don't reason)
the words from
some stream
of half-consciousness
rushes to fill
the empty writing-
paper that lies awaiting--
I am reborn
my energy begins its soaring
to a celestial- beyond- time unfolding
(what beauty and radiance
that follows without reasoning!
the feeling
embodies
the ultimate meaning
undoing
all conscious thinking)-

then
my poem
witnesses
its natural dawning.

If all life
were compressed
into one single moment
are you ready
to seize it by the throat
and declare your stand
unequivocally?
this is the true measure
of you as a man--
to do or die

none of us
is a born hero
heroes are made
shaped by time
and circumstance
tested in the furnace
of personal experience
we were hurt
bruised
damaged
burnt
emaciated
dislocated
displaced
cast away
shut from
the light of day
lonely tears
we shed
with sweat
we ate our bread
while fate
crossed our path
and didn't bother
to look our way

we are alone
from the moment
we were born

yet
however
feeble we are
we'll stare
at that which
seeks to break us
only to know
our spirit
could never
be broken.

If all life
were compressed
into one single moment
are you ready
to seize it by the throat
and declare your stand
unequivocally?
this is the true measure
of you as a man--
to do or die

none of us
is a born hero
heroes are made
shaped by time
and circumstance
tested in the furnace
of personal experience
we were hurt
bruised
damaged
burnt
emaciated
dislocated
displaced
cast away
shut from
the light of day
lonely tears
we shed
with sweat
we ate our bread
while fate
crossed our path
and didn't bother
to look our way

we are alone
from the moment
we were born

yet
however
feeble we are
we'll stare
at that which
seeks to break us
only to know
and show
our spirit
can never
be broken.

I'll keep on walking
though with no inkling where
to stop would spell my
moral death-- I care
not what I'd find there
the walking without ceasing
shall be my self-purging
(but do I really know
the root-cause of the burden
that I bear?)

most people would swear
in their eagerness and self-justifying
(with the badge of honour they wear-
they did right all their life
only the glory of their deeds
they will declare)-

nothing I could claim
I'm not one of them
no certificate of merit
have I earned
none knows my name
(and how free is my heart
to know to none I belong
no cause to celebrate
with none to deliberate
beyond love and hate--
life is my choice
I have none to blame)-

I'll keep on walking....

Between the past
and the now-hour
I straddle--the tomorrow
is a bridge to cross over
there's too much on hand
I've no time to think
of what would follow--

the bridge might have
been blown away
by an unknown storm
a nearby volcano
(none would know so)
or a bomb that has exploded
(never mind the name
of the perpetrator  or his wherefore)

or its steel structure
would have given way
due to its structural fault
(pointless to try to trace
the name of the engineer)--


beyond
another trajectory
the omnipresence
(more the machination
than charity)
of destiny--

I'm no hero
but not a coward either
that I am brave enough
to declare--

light, very light
would I travel
food and water to last
only for a while
but plenty of paper
I'd carry along
as my poems
I've to write
( it's easier
when no one
is in sight)--


winds would rush
through my hair
under my feet I'd feel
the sun-scorched ground
thick dust
would be blown
into the air
or the rain torrential
would drench my make-shift tent
at the dark hours of night--

my poetry
would be
my only companion
it would somehow
set me free
and I'd not be lonely--

moonlight
however dim
shall be my light
as into the depth
of night
I write--

the distant stars
I behold
hiding beneath
a trail of drifting clouds
yet like friends
their glow they flicker
upon the paper white
upon which I write--

a strange chill
runs through my spine
a mysterious force
my uncertain hand
it drives
words rush
the blank pages
to fill

am I then
the poem
or
is the poem
a shadow of mine?