My Voice

Love is not just a word for a poet; it is not merely a feeling, and it is something more than life and not less than death. Life and death are not mere words for a poet; they are experiences through which he passes daily. Growing is another form of decaying, but both of these situations are expressed in words in thousands of approaches.

Do words express themselves through sound, or do color, smell, and feelings also help words to reveal themselves?

When the sky wants to say goodbye, there is a golden color that spreads in the sky.

When a tree asks autumn, “How do you do?” its words change into colorful flowers.

When flowers open their mouths to greet, the words spread, becoming the smell.

Words are supreme power, the supreme brain, and the supreme mine.

Modern realistic minds may not like these images.

Let us talk about other images: the blood on the hunter’s gun is a word.

The sweat dripping from the forehead of the child laborer and the drops in the corners of the eyes of a forced prostitute are also words which tell not only of pain but of death in life.

Words could be an intense quietness; they could be tremendous noise.

The interesting thing is to play with these words and convert them into poems.

Poems are not only words, but life and death falling between the words.

Poems are human beings along with all living and non-living things in this world.

Poems are about everything unknown and beyond this world.

So, why don’t we celebrate poems in this cruel time?

 

Rati Saxena