On Poetry And The Poet

By Rituranjan Gogoi

Dead metaphors were alive in your lips,

(Poems don't matter for the salt-sea in vagrant eyes),

The whisperings of lost words;

And, I picked a pen from my bones,

To write for the poets dreaming in their graves,

You know, there is an unconscious earth in our souls

For these apocalyptic times,

There is a planetary voice to scribble down the sorrows of God;

It is a secret of creation alive in your heart,

The silence and mystery of oceans....

You invite me in, my Palaeolithic madness,

You smell of those ancient trees carrying the history of men;

And I'm sweetly aware of the pain blooming,

You know these all, everything, you are Illuminati,

And, when the empty spaces dissolves in a paroxysm of anger,

I peer at the lyrical myths of love, full with passion,

At this world, I find you better as a woman;

The dying words growing luminous in your placenta!

By Rituranjan Gogoi