A line silently

and sometimes mischievously

slips into the mind


or interrupts

like breaking news.

Yet again when

one is just looking

at the foliage outside

one’s window,

in a flash,

the words that eluded

one so long, astonishingly

appears on the mindscreen

for one to fit into

the jigsaw

that one has yet to call

a poem.


Pasteur correctly proclaimed:

chance favours the prepared mind.

Indeed, conditions

have to exist

for the magic to occur,

as chaotic thoughts

are always seeking

a sense of order

since thoughts have

to find words

and words have

to rest

at proper places.


Once has also

got to resolve

the debate

Macleish unleashed#:

a poem

should not mean

but simply be.


One is not so lettered

to understand

the iambic pentameter,

for instance;

but one knows,

with care

poetry can hold reality

better than a Rolleiflex.

One’s hair stands still

even at the nth time

one reads

The Red Wheelbarrow*


One realises

when one is patient and still,

one will encounter words

just as a butterfly

flutters its wings

as it approaches

a flower in full bloom.

One’s mind has

only to remain open

and non-judgemental-

just keep a pen

and a notebook



# See Ars Poetica, a poem by Archibald Macleish   https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ars-poetica


* See The Red Wheelbarrow, a poem by William Carlos Williams https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/red-wheelbarrow


p7 (c) pradeep gopalan

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