Dawn of Poetry by N. S. Murty SignUp
Boloji.com
Boloji
Home Kabir Poetry Blogs BoloKids Writers Contribute Search Contact Site Map Advertise RSS Login Register
Boloji
New | A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z | Ed's Choice | Articles | Knowledge Zone | Themes | Submit
Channels

In Focus

Analysis
Cartoons
Education
Environment
Going Inner
Opinion
Photo Essays

Columns

A Bystander's Diary
Business
My Word
PlainSpeak
Random Thoughts

Our Heritage

Architecture
Astrology
Ayurveda
Buddhism
Cinema
Culture
Dances
Festivals
Hinduism
History
People
Places
Sikhism
Spirituality
Vastu
Vithika

Society & Lifestyle

Family Matters
Health
Parenting
Perspective
Recipes
Society
Teens
Women

Creative Writings

Book Reviews
Ghalib's Corner
Humor
Individuality
Literary Shelf
Love Letters
Memoirs
Musings
Quotes
Ramblings
Stories
Travelogues
Workshop

Computing

CC++
Computing Articles
Flash
Internet Security
Java
Linux
Networking
Theme: Genesis Share This Page
Dawn of Poetry
by N. S. Murty
Bookmark and Share
Dawn of Poetry2.jpg
  Like the nascent smile on the lips of a baby bud,
The scissoring sun rays through the wintry mist
Like the first vapors of rain on a parched ground
Mind wandered with each flutter of butterfly’s wings

I imagined poetry a great matrix of mother-board words
Meaning meandering into them through chip’s romantic responses,
With the super charged sub-psychic images and experiences
Forging into an indecipherable programme of sorts
To flash sparks of thrill for every idea understood.

I roamed on the corridors of libraries,
Quarantined in the cubicles therein figuring out
From the moth eaten, brittle, tanned sheets
To the latest glazy silken journalistic extravaganza
To catch a glimpse of it, and put my name aside.
I integrated philosophies with persona,
Dissected histories and heritage,
Compared and contrasted images old and new
Presented several theses on the art and craft of poetry.
Still, the soul of poetry
eluded slipping through my hands and staying beyond my grasp.

Like the ageing tree in my fore yard
I stood in reverie for ages
Failing to read its SMS every season.

On one fine spring morning it dawned upon me
Poetry is not synthesizing of words, expressions
Figures of speech or exotic ideas, or experimentation

Poetry is just the opposite,
Shredding yourself to pieces, to disintegrate
Unlearn, going through real raw life

Then it sure springs on you at the right moment
Like the sudden spurge crescent offshoots
At the first sign of Spring on an autumn-tonsured tree
Till then you should wait, recycling yourself with time
November 22 ,2009
More by :  N. S. Murty
Views: 1
Share This Page
Post a Comment
Bookmark and Share
Name*
Email ID  (will not be published)
Comment
Verification Code*
Can't read? Reload
Please fill 5 characters from the above captcha code for verification.

    

 




    A Bystander's Diary     Analysis     Architecture     Astrology     Ayurveda     Book Reviews
    Buddhism     Business     Cartoons     CC++     Cinema     Computing Articles
    Culture     Dances     Education     Environment     Family Matters     Festivals
    Flash     Ghalib's Corner     Going Inner     Health     Hinduism     History
    Humor     Individuality     Internet Security     Java     Linux     Literary Shelf
    Love Letters     Memoirs     Musings     My Word     Networking     Opinion
    Parenting     People     Perspective     Photo Essays     Places     PlainSpeak
    Quotes     Ramblings     Random Thoughts     Recipes     Sikhism     Society
    Spirituality     Stories     Teens     Travelogues     Vastu     Vithika
    Women     Workshop
RSS Feed RSS Feed Home | Privacy Policy | Disclaimer | Site Map
No part of this Internet site may be reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Developed and Programmed by ekant solutions