Thursday, November 20, 2008

Me?

Poet, you mean creature
You pick up life's odds
and mask those under a coating of heavy words,
Words that are glossy, Words that are hollow
Words made big with intellectual humbug...

Poet, you mean creature
You make no difference to my miseries, my sorrows.
You lap up my misfortunes
And make money out of my death and grime.
Poet, you mean creature,
Leave my privacy to me...

6 comments:

mesjay said...

So you're a poet - is this a self criticism?

RiverSoul said...

Whoa. . . .
:-o

Joseph M. Pinto, Pune, India said...

Gauri - The poor have no stomach for poems. Don't blame the poet.
- Joe.

Art and Poetry said...

I feel that the poor like poetry just as much as the rich as long as they can read. Maybe the poet is the one to blame!

Neilina said...

I am totally in awe after reading these words. As if you have peneed down me. If I have ask this question "Me?" to myself, Yes....I am Me!

Dileep said...

poets, writers, journalists -- why everyone like to make stories out of other's life!

Isn't tat a psychological obsession! :)