Not a single sound would sweep the quiet calm
All waiting – like soldiers who have heard the alarm,
The rustling of leaves, whispering of wind
All sounds had ceased.
Not a bird would move its wing,
Even the river had ceased to sing,
Dry leaves tiptoed on the grass
Nothing would allow a sound to pass.
The moon hid behind a cotton cloud
And sunlight pulled its golden shroud,
For a moment creation closed its eyes
And then was heard the thundering sound of a breaking heart.
(9.46 am. 28th July 1996. New Delhi)
I don't think this poem embarrasses you, or you wouldn't have printed it, and I don't think it's anything to be embarrassed about. The meter is good, the images are good, my only critique would be that the moon and sunlight lines verge into cliche. And hell, 1996, what were you, 10 years old? PS: the only difference between an amateur poet (who works at the "art or sullen craft") and a pro is $. The greatest sin is to turn your back on your talent.
ReplyDeleteRichard, I totally agree with you about the cotton cloud and golden shroud cliche. Makes one cringe :-) I was 20 then and as you know, every 20 year old thinks he is a poet, or least should be. Thanks for your feedback, as always.
Deletethese days every 20 year old thinks he's a hip-hop artist, and that hip-hop is poetry. a double delusion.
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