The bad poet

He’s not your kind of poet.
He only dreams
about the state of things –
The clenched fists & the marches
as if the world is on fire.
There seems to be no gentle breeze
in his voice:
Shrill & commanding
like a summer storm.
Sometimes when he keeps to himself
you can hear noises gurgling
in his throat –
Is it the drone of multitudes
in forests & secret passageways?
Yes, he rarely “talks about trees;
that is almost a crime”
or some stroll down avenues
where yellow leaves fall
& the wind chills
the midday heat of passion.
But he flogs your ears
with memos & agit-prop
his language heavy like stones
that miraculously, like butterflies,
fly around the people in plazas & ghettos,
in dark meetings
where revolution is the order of the day.
He’s not your kind of poet.

He’s not your kind of poet.
Yes, he’d spend some time
at Starbucks & watch the boats,
bathe in blue light,
weigh anchor at the pier,
while evening conversations
settle like a thick fog on the bay.
But such cool brilliance of a dying sun
barely moves him to tears,
although now & then,
he’d strike a brief pose
of remembering some days
when life was simpler, easier…
The glint of knives in his eyes
& whiz of bullets in his ears
ever keep him on his toes –
Yes, he doesn’t care a hoot
about workshops in New York
where they craft & measure poetry
because, he shrugs,
lfe is short,
the revolution is so damn long
but he wouldn’t miss
the future anyway…
On strips of paper
he jots down his heart’s semaphore:
Battle orders that ring like poetry,
real & immeasurable,
of this everyday life.
He’s not your kind of poet.

He’s not your kind of poet.
His choppy lines fall short
of some icon’s labrynthine flow of solitude,
& pain of loves battered & found:
He has no infinite questions
to dare the universe
& decipher the interstices of the heart –
His poems won’t ring with eternal verities
nor that unimaginable beauty of the wise.
Rather, he’d stay in the camp
of the here & now,
its telegraphese falling & cutting
like a battle axe:
The children’s cries hereabouts
resonate with stories
of dazed orphaned mornings
while thieves at the palace
judge them criminals
for disturbing the peace
& flaunting  their dis-ease.
Yes, he’s not your kind of poet.

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