The Soverign Poet

By Abishek K S

Hence speaks the sovereign poet ,

Oh long, he hasn't spoken yet ,

His spirit, his honour, his eternal prestige, his sovereign Liege

Nay! These herbs treat only words,

The poyet's spirit towers all worlds,

He embellishes whole white whorls,

And smites on those who hurl,

Perishable trice, adjudge his words of wise,

His ranks belong to the highs,

Though you may deny!

PURPORT:

The scene takes place in the court of an accomplished ruler. I have personally picked these lines from a book of poetry that I am writing.

Eminent scholars and poets are gathered in his majesty’s court. The sober king and his ministers are patrons of art and have patronized artisans and magicians from all kingdoms alike.

One poet shall triumph, and it was said that his words shall be those of fire. His pen and marks shall be distinct, and he shall rise above all in an unprecedented manner in the court.

The king goes on hearing poems, songs and even looking at magic. All recitations have been heard but the sovereign of poets has not been heard.

In the midst of all those gathered, one distinguished bard clad in fiery red attire pops up with an enchanting string instrument and sings his poems.

He goes on and on and on, his words have led other poets being appalled on their own works. Such is the poet, who appears once in a millennium, a rare being.

He then goes on for a very long time. The king is absolutely engaged in his words. At last, like the waning moon, the poet reduces the intensity and length of his words so as to pull the king out of his casted trance. The kings is fully satisfied, and Lo ! The sovereign of all poets has been found!

By Abishek K S