Poems on

I, The Poet…

a poem by Christuraj Alex

Gold or gladiolus or golden sapphire fine;
Delighted, even if I divine light define;
If, like an orange, the details I do not peel,
Will my rhyme-lyric like an angelus-bell, peal?

Like a disciplined mother rearing her infant,
Timely sleeping, rising, nourishing comprehend;
Shaping each brick of my creation if I build,
Will my works, by great critiques, as unskilled, get grilled?

Is my concept clear as a transparent crystal?
Does my thought target, shoot as sure as a pistol?
Do my ideas, views flow like fluent rivers?
Are my images as reflected as fine mirrors?

If I write pudding when I need to write wedding,
When it necessitates making the amending;
If my ego, like a wall, stands strong on the way,
I’m not a poet perfect; I should get away.

As the wave-sound of the sea both feeble and rough,
As the chirping of birds are coarsely sweet enough;
As wild animals have roars, gibber, brays, and hums,
My words should vary from simple to complex-sums.

Is a writer full in him that he should not read?
Do the shores of the seas ever a limit need?
Voraciousness in keenness make my wisdom vast,
The wisest of wisdom should be my true breakfast.