Blood and ink
I simply love leaning on your poems
It ignites the interplay
Of blue, red and white in my heart,
Setting free those hidden feelings.
Fondled by your poetry,
Readers find their past and present
Resonating in them.
Your poems are so freshening,
So liberating, so rejuvenating,
That they throw a resplendent smile
On their faces, kindling a light
Of exotic pleasure,
Evidenced by your acts of love.
Your poems come as myriad colored jewels
Bridging your heart to readers’ hearts,
Transcending language barriers,
Adorning them in dreams and reverie,
In worship and in wisdom,
And with your great compassionate mind,
You harbour them all,
The segregated, the sedated,
The worn-out, the dishevelled,
Making their hearts
Run out of tune
By creating the chemistry
Of flint and steel.
Your poems speak of the blazing fire,
The fleeting embers, the desires,
The lovelorn cry of peacocks,
The owls in tree hollows,
The transgressions against God’s laws,
The sighs of lovers,
Their pains of separation,
The fresh Spring gales
And the Holy Grail.
Dear poet, I know you write with a pen
And yet, the mystery of
Your powerful pen remains unravelled.
When I think of your pen,
With neither flaw nor fault,
Something deep inside me
Humming a sweet rhapsody, tells me
Your pen writes not with ink,
It writes with your blood
For ink is for the conscious mind,
Blood is for the unconscious mind,
And great poets like you
Write with the unconscious mind.