Lesson

                by  Samartha Vashishtha



One day

I’ll learn to use poetry as weapon.

From the silent plateaus of solitude

with the sheer power of voice

raise tides in these impotent seas.


One day

I’ll learn to call by name / the hawk.

Slicing pieces from my sunbaked skin

scatter in all four directions.

Smash this shield of legitimacy.

Scream in the whistle of the mountain train.

Rise to the skies with the funeral flame.


One day

I won't search for logic in this poem.

Nor consider a sin writing one

waking right from the warmth of a night discharge.

And shedding, at last, my haste to sign beneath

sip / with all that is human in me

the Nirvana* in the last line.


One day

I’ll convince myself / with all the oratory I know –

not all poetry is about

coming to terms with life.


That day

poetry will flow in me

and I in poetry.



* ‘Yes, there is a Nirvanah; it is in leading your sheep to a green pasture, and in putting your child to sleep, and in writing the last line of your poem.’

                                                                                                                                                                                                    - Kahlil Gibran




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