No Poet Am I— A poem on remorseless sorrow 🌿 by Souraseni B

   No poet am I

No poet am I.

Plagued by the

Weight of words,

Words unrhymed,

Only multiplies each day 

In volume and size --

I come to terms: 

No poet am I.

In the beaker of my heart

Looms, a forest of words.

Words sprout there,

From the kernel of memory.

Evergreen, a colonnade of Birch.

They never fade,

Like a cuckoo's untimely song, 

Day end's clarion call.

 I cry, the sunlight breaks

 In the corner of my eyes.

 The rainbow of life,

 Carelessly spawns

  Gray Memories, 

  And Moss, 

 Their edges sharp,

 wild, unkempt Fern,

 Beckons the bygone.

Amma sleeps there; (in peace),

In the storehouse of,

 moss and Fern.

From her pallu,

Come floating down images --

Fossilized turmeric scent, 

Silent, key holders' noise

And the end notes

Of her feeble voice,

Accompanied by three dots.

From gulfs afar,

Rages a storm,

A whirlwind of 

Images, scent, touches, voice...

That exists no long .

It howls,through the hollow 

Of my brain.

The forest is 

growing --

One helpless heart,

Palimpsest of memories.

It searches, the(screeching) 

Sound of a paper and a pen.

A failed poet, short of words,

Can't let out, the pure pain

Of an absence, 

Of erstwhile shared words,

That she has taken away

Far far away,

Into the no man's world.