A Poet's Death Is His Life. Poem Recast. P.S.Remesh Chandran, Trivandrum.
by, 04-25-2011 at 03:50 PM (537 Views)
TEARS AND LAUGHTER.
When He Is Dying, He Lives.
Slightly edited and recast in the true poetic form by
P.S.Remesh Chandran, Editor, Sahyadri Books &
Bloom Books, Trivandrum.
5. A POET'S DEATH IS HIS LIFE.
[SIZE="1"]One. The dim oil lamp flickering in a deserted hovel.
Dark wings of night enfolded the city
Upon which Nature'ad put a pure and white
Garment of snow; and 'men deser'ted the streets
For their 'houses in search of warmth while the north wind probed,
In contemplation of laying the gardens waste.
There in the suburb an old hut heavily stood
La'den with snow and on the 'verge of falling. In
A dark recess of that 'hovel was 'a poor bed
In which was lying a dying youth staring
At the dim 'laaight of his oil lamp,
'Made to flicker by th'entering winds.
He 'was a man in the 'spring of life who fore - saw
'Fully that the peaceful hour of freeing
Himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing.
He was awaiting Death's visit gratefully
And upon his 'paaile face appeared the dawn
Of hope; and on his lips a sorrowful
Smile 'aand in his 'ey'es forgiveness.
Two. A hungry lone visitor on an alien world.
He was a poet perishing from hunger
In the city of the living rich. He was placed in
The earthly world to enliven the heart
Of Man with his profound beautiful sayings.
He was a noble soul sent, by the Goddess
Of Understanding, to smoothe and make gentle
The human spirit. But a'las! He gently bade
The cold earth farewell without receiving
A sm'aeel from it's stra'eenge occupants.
Three. Will far away stars bow down to soothe this trodden soul?
He was 'breathing his last and had no one at his bedside
Save the 'oil lamp, his 'only companion, and
Some parchments 'upon which he had inscribed his
Feeling. As he sal'vaged the remnants of
His withering strength, he lifted his hands heavenward;
He moved his 'ey'es hopelessly, as if
Wan'ting to p'ene'trate the ceiling so
To 'see the stars from be'hind the veil of clouds.
Four. He who speaks the language of angels are doomed in the world.
He said: Come beautiful Death, my soul 'is longing
For you. Come close to me and unfasten
Th'irons of life, I am weary of dragging them.
Come sweet Death, deliver me from my neighbours
Who look upon me as a stranger because
I interpret the language of th'angels.
Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me
From these 'multitudes who left me in the dark
Corner of oblivion because I do not
Bleed weak as they do, come oh gentle Death.
En'fold me un'der your 'wha'ight wings, for my
Fellowmen are 'not in 'want of me, embrace me
Oh Death, 'full of love and mercy; let your lips
Touch my 'lips which 'ne'ver tasted a mother's kiss,
Nor 'touched a 'sister's cheeks, caressed a sweetheart's
Finger'tips. Come, and take me, my beloved Death.
Five. A divine beauetee came down and closed his eyes.
Then at the bedside of the dying poet
A'ppeared an 'angel who 'possessed supernat'ral
And divine beauetie, holding in her hand
A wreath of li'llees. She embraced him
And closed his eyes so he could see no more
Except with the eye of his spirit. She im'pressed a deep
And long and gentlee withdrawn kiss that left
An e'ternal smile of ful'fillment upon his lips.
Then the 'ho'vel 'be'caime empty and 'nothing was left
Save parchments and papers which the poet had
'Strewn about with bitter fu'tility.
Six. Deny the poet food and love. When he is dead erect memorial.
Hundreds of years later 'when people
Arose from the diseased slumber of Ignorance
And saw the Dawn Of Knowledge had 'erected
A 'monument in a most 'beautiful garden of
The city, and celebrated 'a feast 'every year
In honour of the poet, whose writings had
Freed them. How cruu'el is Man's ignorance!
( will continue.......... )[/SIZE]