Dear Kitchen-Poet,

Drop me out of the Sky.

Do move away the Sun.

Smash up the stars

and

Strike down the trees.

Cover not the sky with

Babble of love songs.

But,

With flowers dipped in Altruism.

Drive out the Breeze.

Dry up the streams and rivers.

Walk the Mountains to the Sea

and

Pluck  all the roses and lilies.

Stop the rain. Break the thunder.

Pour out Ganges and Kaveri.

Pull down the rainbows

and

Shoo away the parrots and lovebirds.

****

Hey! Kitchen-Poet!

Need we these to be done

Lest noises of your poems

Loaded with love and lust

Sear our hearts further.

So tired and disgusted we’re

Being long

The protagonists of your love songs

And

The threads in your garlands of love

Which, only with faded flowers you weave.

Oft you crane your neck

To gaze at me.

My body when you rummage for words

Forget thee a beggar

Sitting at your feet.

Crying he’s, not for poems

But for alms, Poet, alms.

Look, out there

Behind your shoulders.

Sweeping clean the road

For a morsel of food is

A child … a bud

In tattered clothes and battered mind.

On love-lust emote you well, Poet.

But… but to turn your heart to them a bit

Fail miserably the beggar and the child.

What happens to you, Poet?

Now bereft of me and my ilk

Throw you may your poetic sights on

The deprived and depressed.

Let you, thro your songs,

Wipe away their tears

And

Shore up their sagging spirits.

Come out of your love cell, poet

A world worth should you be

Before calling yourself

A words worth.

Best Wishes,

The Moon.

[Believe me, Friends. I got the above letter from the Moon the night before. It was delivered in my dreams. Since ‘dreams are the language of god’, I’m a little hesitant to respond to the Moon.]

easwar arumugam

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