Index of articles from the Blog |
Animals |
Anthropology & Archaeology |
Art & Cinema |
Biography |
Books & Authors |
Culture |
Economics |
Environment |
Fiction & Poetry |
History |
Humor |
Justice |
Philosophy |
Photography |
Politics |
Religion |
Science |
Travel |
Books by
Books by
|
By Namit Arora | Apr 2008 | Comments
Yes, I too had a youthful phase—from about 18 to 27—when I wrote poems: imaginary heartbreak poems, gooey lovesick poems, metaphysical angst poems, faux disenchanted poems, pseudo-sophisticated poems, woo-the-maiden poems, voluptuous sorrow poems. Most that survive I can scarcely read now without wincing, but I cannot bring myself to delete them from my computer (they are safely encrypted though — without my consent, they are as good as ashes in the fireplace!). Below is one I still like well enough; it's from the tail end of my poetic phase. Not that poetry has gone out of my soul; I like to think it has simply found home elsewhere in my imagination. :-) One fine morning, the salesman died, He had traveled far and wide, For all those near and dear, Alas! the man died At his funeral, his friends countrywide, — 2 Aug, 1995. |
Designed in collaboration with Vitalect, Inc. All rights reserved. |
|