The making(end) of a poem

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.

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