Poetry

They tell me “Poetry is for the elite,
It’s under currents too deep for the common minds to sink in.”
Just like they told
“Vedas is for the elite,
Hymns are for the elite”
But we deciphered it, didn’t we?
Didn’t we learn that God doesn’t speak in Sanskrit?
Didn’t we see that God loves us even without rituals?”

Why do you restrain river’s natural flow with dams?
Why do you restrict sound’s natural course with rhymes,
measures and grammars?
Where mind can speak without fear,
Won’t poetry flow?
Where heads are counted without nepotism,
Won’t poetry flow?
Where you and I matters,
Despite the color of my skin
Or the creed of my kin
Won’t poetry flow like the ancient Ganges
pristine and unperturbed?

They tell me Poetry is pure.
Poetry can’t be simple.
They tell me you need to be blessed
To write a well crafted poem.
But isn’t the fact I am alive
a blessing enough?
Isn’t the fact I can talk and think
a blessing enough?
Isn’t the ability to write
What you and I can read
A talent in itself?
Do I have to be a prodigy
To write my heart out!
Do I need a degree
To pen down my emotions!
Won’t my poetry matter
If it’s too simple
If it’s small
If it’s free verse
If it’s abstract.

Why don’t you define poetry for me?
In its pure, complicated way.
Because I don’t know that way.
If you ask me I can only say:
“Poetry is a baby’s babbles to God.
Poetry is a lover’s song to the moon.
Poetry is a worker’s sweat mixed with blood.
Poetry is you and me, finding our solace in infinity.”