The Sunday Poem!
Jayanta Oinam *
A tired body,
A heart that aches, and
A dull day:
My Sunday poems lament my existence.
Last Sunday,
My body looked like a poem in tatters:
My loose bones hung like a decorative scarecrow,
A poor man's bamboo pole to stand on and
The breeze that mock with the poking crows;
I resembled a skinny whore waiting for words to pity upon.
Each Sunday,
I resolved to set a day of countenance;
Today is also another Sunday
And I will get another chance to frown at it,
Its shredded newspapers on the week, and
The lousy reminders of all the mistakes.
This Sunday,
I will sail my soul to another planet,
So that I can sleep a while, and
My tired body can be balm at a hidden saloon, there
I will grow my heart again, in their delicate touch.
Today
I will pray:
'My Sunday shouldn't cry like my poems.'
* Poem written by Jayanta Oinam ( a regular contributor to e-pao.net) . The poet can be contacted at jayanta_oinam(at)rediffmail(dot)com . You can also check out his blog at Leitmotif
This poem was webcasted on December 30, 2008.
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