Theme: Love

Your Name

Your name –
I have meticulously chiselled in
my mind’s marbled monument
on a March full-moon night
when fragrant jasmines bloomed abundantly!
Your name -
I have scrupulously soaked in
exotic scent of musk
and encased it in a gold-capped crystal bottle!
Your name -
I have stately glided in
the puddle of nature’s tears
amassed in the hollow of my palm!
Your name -
I have called aloud several times
in silent whispers
on lonesome frosty frigid nights!
Your name -
I have sensually caressed
in radiant hues
with the peacock-feathered dreams!
Your name
I have bejewelled
with the cluster of
diamond-studded stars
embellished in the cobalt-crisp skies!
Your name -
as a mystic tattoo
I have licentiously worn
like your ardent bite-marks
in the erogenous zones of my body!
Your name -
I have scribbled
on the golden sands of Sahara
with ruby-red vermillion rivulet
flowing from my parched fingers!
Your name –
I have buried profoundly
in the grim graveyard of my melancholic soul
where the epitaph reads:
Please do not perturb the poet’s peace”…


More By  :  Bharat B. Trivedi

Views: 1356     Comments: 1

Comments on this Poem


A perfect poet

Send not to know for whom these bells toll?
My soul is paying a toll… a fee to set me free…
I love and I am loved… I am a perfect poet…
I am a perfect poet, for I love and I am loved.

I am a perfect poet, because I’ve learned
Beyond the words and worlds of many others,
A perfect poet has just two tasks to meet perfection,
With ease, one of these twins is won, simply achieved,
Compared to the immeasurable challenging nature, stricture,
Stature, scripture, structure, complicity, complexity of the other…
First, with simple words works scrambled, blindly maligned
Aligned occasionally rhymed to her/his satisfaction,
Rich or poor, in sickness or in health, for better or worse,
Ignoring all curse, taking whatever is in store, finding the score,
A perfect poet translates from the prosaic mosaic,
Refutes, computes, disputes, dilutes, imputes, minutes
All the life of process, to a sharp, poetic pitch,
A high degree of poignancy, being significant,
Her/his bas-relief regales, towering over all other scales,
On bails of joy and grief….

Bound in a second round, without a second,
Minute, hour, day, week, month, year,
Decade, century, millennium to spare,
The rare second chore to score is,
To become integral, to be a poetic soul…
The feat depends not on fame, recognition,
threats of perdition, any sedition, petition,
Cognition, nor being seen as a celebrity…
The stasis may be a purely singular, peculiar
Secret to a perfect poet, alone…

Send not to know for whom these bells toll?
My soul is paying a toll… a fee to set me free …

david inkey, the UN poet, 41505

david inkey, the UN poet
10-Oct-2010 19:34 PM

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