Picture of a Poem

It's dawn. Half past five in the morning. The sky is changing its color like a chameleon. I climbed quickly the stairs leading to terrace at my home in a suburb of Chennai - pallavaram, with papers and a pen. The inspirational parade of the pigeon army, the humming bees, the mischievous sparrows, the jumping squirrels, the briskly hustling dogs, the joggers, the walkers, the lovely song of a baby cuckoo and the exercising girls, drew my attention. Half an hour passed like half-a-second. The distant black and gray mountain seemed lush green to my eyes. The peeping sun and the sweeping breeze were certainly attractive. Though I did enjoy all of them, they are not good enough to induce the first line of my yet-to-born poem.

I moved to my garden, with my papers and pen, trying to influence my creativity. The plants welcomed me with a dance. They did recognize me, for I am the one who waters them every morning. The flowers smiled at me. One little plant whispered " Hey! Look friends! Our human friend has come with a paper and a pen. We may soon find a place in Internet or some books". I enjoyed her confidence in my writing and every moment there, but still the mystery is why the words are evading me.

The day passed with few other engagements.

It's dark. Half past nine in the night. I am standing in the same terrace again. The sky is as attractive as an African woman. The moon is so romantic, and certainly no wonders why so many writers and poets flirted with her. " Hey full moon! You are too old for me. Still I would take the liberty to flirt with you. Your cousins, the glittering stars, are also mind-boggling. But still you all are not good enough to be the cradle of my creativity", my eternal voice communicated.

I closed my eyes trying to meditate and bring the vital concentration that may mark the beginning of my dream verses.

My father's voice distracted me, " Aaqarsh, Aaqarsh! What are you doing? Come down." I rushed down immediately. "Why are you like this, useless fellow! Look how other men of your age are, shame on you!" he yelled. I instantly went to my room, bolted it from inside, and started writing the first line of my poem on the papers in my sweet mother tongue 'Tamil'.

"This world is so competitive and comparative.
But great souls are always superlative."