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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.
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