My dear friends,
Fellow-travelers.
Are we poets insane with our
imperfections?
Imperfections?
Goodness cheap in poetry
makes poetry brief in goodness.
Imperfections and serious poetry?

Serious poetry, not a hollow myth,
descends like purring sensations,
fugaciously tiptoeing the unknowable
paths to unconquered vagaries of mind.

And thus
serious poetic impulses soberly invade
the poets from no where,
engaging them with incisive convolutions,
fixed in a timeless form.

For example, a serious poet would, at times,
go nostalgic and
wade through, in vain, sometimes lighter
and some times sober,

Obscure ideas, unevenly placed,
rampageous, marauding aimlessly,
in the realm of lingering
intuitions,

Obstructed upheavals, ideals,
well-aroused, tormenting and extinguishing,
going astray in the realm of pultaceous
enquiries,

Obtruded wanderings around the slackening
abysses,
quiet dreams disconcerting the bliss,
outlines legion,
all sprawling together,

Oppressed enchantments, senseless and
azure,
innocent darkness relinquishing it’s kindness,
fruitless desires reinforcing the disillusioned mind,
suddenly growing pale with fear,

Obsessed infatuation with objects,
terrestrials and extra-terrestrials,
heaving, dispassionately, through
the layers of unidentified corners of
the illumined mind.

Links between visible and invisible,
between temporal and ephemeral,
between escapable and inescapable,
between explicable and inexplicable
convulsing, floating and immersing.

Serious poetry,
a continuum
of echoing
muse, broken,
hazy and moiling
endeavoring
inanely to be
one with it’s own
reminiscences.

Serious poetry
begins where
recesses of conscious
and unconscious mind
start rolling
and discovering
each other,
together.

And, therefore,
serious poetry,
cognitive realism,
metaphysical
statements,
not really,
schizophrenic
verbalism.

Deep within our being
a deluge, spacious deluge makes a
medley of everything,
shriveling within
and make us, my dear poets,
yet other Phoebeans.