by Portia Burton
How this poem weighs heavy on me!
I want to shrug it off or scratch it out
Like a scab covering a throbbing wound,
Or put it away in a dark corner
Of my heart and make it permanently silent.
But it is insistent, though it lacks
All those erstwhile ‘poetic’ histrionics-
Those similes, images, rhythmic gait,
That adherence to meter, that ‘classy’ mindset.
Now only a hushed slience can be felt
Through the blanks between its lines,
And imprints of puzzled pauses can be seen
Near some words sprouting on their own!
See, how this poem stares at me,
Vacantly with a subdued silence,
And frightening me with a mute question
Whose glare blinds me like a shining mirror.
Now it has started forcing its way
Through my pen-Oh, come what may!
©Portia Burton 2012