What spurs the birth of a poem?
What nascence it enjoys?
A borrowed spark or hired fire,
Or your own white noise?
Do old memories cast
A shadow on today?
And is the present born
Of past that's thrown away?
Or was the umbilical cord
Of present and the past
Not properly severed
So the ephemeral would last?
When inherently chequered
Like sunshine through the leaves
It often makes me wonder
What poetry achieves?
They tell me it is cryptic
But poetry, is life
Love at first sight, for some
For some, eternal strife!
