I looked up and it was blue
No, not the sky,
But my image in the ceiling fan
In that round metal, whose name I do not know.
I could see a figure looking down at me
Ah, it was ghostly,
Like a spirit caught in an old cinema.
I moved my hands
to see if it was truly me
And yes, it was
But this dreadful?
Anxiously when I turned to the mirror
There I was
Unchanged.
Was I possessed ?
No,
It was a wracked poem,
Crying inside me
Scratching the back of my head;
Shaking my fingers.
It was not romantic ;
Devoid of love
It was not profound but,
Was a naked body
With no meter,
No rhyme,
No rhythm.
It feared the world beyond
Asked what if when it comes out ,
The apparitions of the classic masters
Banish it?
For speaking neither of kings
Nor of God
Neither of beauty
Nor of gore
What if nobody calls it a poem ?
What if the modernists too
Show no pity
It cried .
Cried till morning. . .
And now I see
One corner of my bedroom
Is filled with crumpled papers
I unfold one
Oh, what do I find ?
Words that read,
Lines Written Beneath a Ceiling Fan