Aswathy Balachandran
I used to write beautiful poems.
(at least I think so)
I trusted my instinct
and spontaneity only.
I was reluctant to edit.
Precision in language was not my aim
and perfection not
my target.
It was a ‘ poem’; a soulful cry.
Many felt with me.
They didn’t bother
or rather they were ignorant
of the ‘ techniques’ of writing.
Later I placed my poems
for suggestions from the ‘experts’
They did the proof reading;
In fact, very sincerely.
Some were not happy with that “is” instead of was.
Some deleted or added words
according to their fancy.
I didn’t object
They only knew the language.
A few groped in the thesaurus
to replace ‘ ordinary’ words
with the ‘ poetic’ ones.
My poem lay down there
naked and ready for a surgery.
The clinical experts never went wrong
The transplantation was perfect.
The new poem started beating
It was a success.
But I searched for that amputated poem.
It was mine
Only it was mine.