An Idle Writer’s Apology

Unproductive?I seat myself by
Caesious lakes
And wonder why
I write not
About the shimmering green
That just vanished
Into the whipping fin
Of a passing trout.

A warm Friday
Takes me o’er hills
Closer to the golden orb
Of taking delight
In things far away
And made into a tapestry
Of browns and yellows
And moving specks
Of men and matter.

I fail to write
Them into my notebook
Where I hope that
Some page shall bare
The words to me
So that I can run my pen
Along the outline
Of what already shimmers.
Maybe the next page will.

The market welcomes me
With shouts and bargains
Punches of red
And fruity peaches
Bunches of grapes
And undone jackfruit,
Like the open mouth
Of a green hippo.
I walk by the lady
with her skirt hitched up.
I admire the olive skin
Breathing in a background
Of bleeding tomatoes.
She smiles and raises her foot
On tiptoe and twirls it slightly.
Baubles of red, swell
Around her ankle
And I raise my eyes along her
Smooth calf
And thank her.

I return home
And take out my
Notebook, only to realise
That there is
Nothing much to write.
What was seen
That day
Will never be seen again
And I don’t write fantasy.

At the park
I slide into an old bench.
When was the last time
You felt the cold
Rivets press against
Your thigh?
I see young children
Run around a tree
While the wind
Laughs through
The teeth of leaves.
Old men yaw
On stiff brown sticks
While they cluck their
At young boys and girls
With iPods plugged into
Their consciousness.
I watch how parents,
Parents to be
And those-who-never-will-be
Rush to placate
The fallen child.
And the child cries,
For wouldn’t all that
Attention go waste?

I see this large canvas
And tell myself.
Never would you be
Able to capture it
And you wish to do
It on a small
Piece of paper?
What impudence!”
I recline
And watch the heavens
Spurt a star
Wherever I poke a finger.
I smile
And the crescent appears
From behind a cloud.
Why write
When all that can be written about
Floats down from the heavens
In our midst?

Hence, I am an idle writer.
But I ask myself
While I and I laze
Under the golden mesh
Of an afternoon shade,
How could I
Be an idle writer?
I could either be
Or I could well be a
I take out my notebook
But realise
That the poignancy of
That logic
Is lost.
I stretch and squirm
In the tickling sun rays
And let my notebook
Slip to the earth
Under my hammock.
I could write
Or maybe later.
Or be
An idle writer.


7 thoughts on “An Idle Writer’s Apology

  1. I think that all good poetry should be an experience and an effect on the reader; which can be said of anything called art or good art. By that token this poem of yours took me to all the wide ranging vistas of shimmering greens and idle-hammock-patrons. The experience is clear and palpable to me, hence I could easily label this as great poetry; or if not great, certainly good poetry – it is passionate, your involvement as the poet is evident and it transfers to the reader easily enough.# You poke a finger and the heavens spurt stars? You smile and the moon appears? – ah. but then you are a poet, and arent they as God Himself creating beauty as they breathe?Caesious lakes and shimmering greens, golden meshes and whipping fins – bring out a lovely sunny afternoon’s relaxed laziness very well. Not to speak of the vibrant colours of the market place.Enjoyed it a lot.

  2. <>Why writeWhen all that can be written aboutWalks,Shines,Cackles,Laughs,Moistens,Floats down from the heavensIn our midst?<>Identified totally with those lines.. That’s how I feel most of the time…

  3. Just a quick note Eroteme!…soon after the Earth Day celebrations are over the scientists discovered a planet similar to Earth…but will that place as beautiful as the image your poem painted in my mind’s eye just now?…dunno (*_*) Uma

  4. Before I forget once more – the image that you have added to this post is striking! – is that really your palm, are those truly cobwebs woven by freewheeling spiders, while you were idling away precious writer’s time doing nothing? Did the poem make you search for the appropriate picture or was it the photo that inspired the poem? There seem to be many stories behind stories and poems that people create :-)….

  5. Dear P,Wow! Really? Gee thanks! I am glad you liked the imagery. But of course I poke the black blanket to tickle a star into place!! I used to tell my cousins (guys) while sleeping on the terrace, that if they looked at any particular spot in the sky, there would be a star!! One of them thought it was a silly logic as that would imply that the sky is stuffed with stars and that there are no empty spaces!! But E being E pointed out that the sky is not a 2D plane and hence a star could sparkle betwixt two stars without actually stuffing the space between them!! ๐Ÿ˜€ Ta-da!! False logic wins again!!! ๐Ÿ˜€ Yes, that would be my hand, but it is best that I leave the origins of this post as well as that picture untold! ๐Ÿ˜ฎ But definitely the picture inspired this post.Dear P,๐Ÿ™‚ Howdy! been a while… Glad they resonated with you…Dear Anon-U,๐Ÿ™‚ Glad this post could paint some image in your mind! Yeah, I heard about it too. 5 times heavier than Earth, they say. Hmmm. We could shift the IT companies there and unblock the cities!! ๐Ÿ˜€ And there is water out there too!! So let’s hope the states stop fighting here and plan on sharing the water there… ๐Ÿ˜‰

  6. Lovely. Simply lovely. Till the time there are poets like you, the world seems such a beautiful place. It was such a beautiful experience reading this poem.. Was in a magical world, to say the least.<>“Never,Never would you beAble to capture itAll.And you wish to doIt on a smallPiece of paper?What impudence!”<>But the poem is so poignant.. you have succeeded in capturing it all.. and done it so beautifully.

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