BLOOD OF THE POET

BLOOD OF THE POET

by Fazal Rahman on Saturday, May 12, 2012 at 12:21pm ·

Behind the poet is a failed son
Who, chasing wild dreams, forgets filial bond

Numbers do come*, but with no parental nod.
The muse is no family friend till you court success.

Rude is fatherly ways with a dreamy brat,
and mother’s heart, soft so-ever, it takes the brunt.

Times would change, and with it, tastes,
dreams would change, soft shades going harsh.

At war with a world you wanted to change:
an outsider at home, never at peace with any.

Saddest times for her, seeing two cold poles apart:
father and son-  pillars of her life.

Now, years going decades, you look behind,
your veins calm as slime, you, the ultimate ‘normal’

You see her pains, all too late,
though tombstones do not cry loud

You feel her pain, all too clear
though umbilical cord doesn’t remain

It runs your veins, her life blood,
your way back home, your only home

Every verse you write is in pain
a retribution, a homage

Behind every poem there is an image:
a sobbing mother, a storm of blessings.

*(”I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.”- Alexander Pope.)