It is my job to turn feelings
Or things into words.
To ignore basements, false ceilings,
In cubbyholes, bricked up cellars,
Haunts of orphaned, dew-eyed Cinderellas,
Hunchback in a maze...
All of these are fodder, well, for a novel,
But here we seek no princess in a hovel,
We seek truth, and occasionally, duty,
The best words in the best order—
Why should this be so difficult?
And why should we care?
Logic is not a catapult
Aimed from here to there...
But we are self-aware—unlike,
Say, the common cat,
Who deals daily in death, and who will strike
With intent to slay...
But without knowledge of its own mortality,
With no terror of death’s finality,
Whose fear is real but limited to keening
In death’s presence, while we’re paralysed
This is the poet’s conundrum—
And craft: ti-tum, ti-tum-dum-dum,
Are, quite frankly, excess wrapping
Around the parcel
With ‘meaning’ satellite-mapping
Moat and castle...
This insistence on extracting implications,
On stripping verse until it lies there senseless
Folds assonant to rhyme til I lose patience—
You cannot ‘feel’ until you stand