A Poet in The Making

By Saptarshi Chakraborty

When he tears up as an impression

Of limited human expression, 

As he pours down his emotions

In a dual stream—

Flowing from the mind like a neural beam;

The first stream flows down the forelimb

Washing the shores of the fingertips, 

Down the current of the blue ink and up the nib, 

Gliding over the adhesive mirror;

The second stream takes the shorter route, 

Defining stream in the truer sense oozes out

Of the beholding agents and takes a leap—

On a failed attempt to spread the ink 

With a watery sweep;

When he tries to rhyme every single line, 

While maintaining the sense that he did intend;

When he's in a constant struggle to collect his thoughts, 

And create a sensible quatrain out of 'em;

When he dares to defy every pattern of writing, 

And establishes a new style to the Art;

When he knows he's got the more significant chores awaiting, 

Yet dares to finish his poem once astart:—

Just know:

He's a poet in the making—

And in the making of a poem, 

He pours out his achings

To ease the achings of the world. 

By Saptarshi Chakraborty