It supposed to be a flash fiction for A Writer’s Community Flash Fiction For The Purposeful Practitioner 2017 Week #8. But, the image brought back a dream I had months ago when I was going through a phase of Poet Block.
The poem I had written based on this dream was not limited to 200 set-rule words, but, still sharing this to share the dream with others. If you want to read other poems of that phase I had written and later collected under the name of Exile please click here.
Now, the poem:
The mind is disturbed right now; Need fresh air–no it’ll be the breeze…
The poet stopped at this point and looked out at the young winter morning–-
Outside of his big poster window…a soft mild breeze was touching him–then and now.
The cold has been bidding adieu–a warmth can be felt under the breath–-
For the last couple of days…
For last an hour, he is trying to write s’thing different than he had written–-
In the present past; he want to write a poem imbued with hope and laughs
Not a sad and dark one with words that are blue and thoughts yellow like a dead leaf–-
(That’s) coming out of the marooned feel after the love is gone–-
And the posit memoirs in mind and soul…
The poet light a cigarette and pressed the backspace, the first and only line vanished, —
The blank page is back again.
He sits like a cat waiting for a chance to steal s’thing it loves like a piece of fish.
A dream comes to him that he had seen that morning at dawn…
A bottle, washed up on a beach, rolling to and fro with the waves–
The light of fresh morning sun, falling on it, showed there’s a paper inside it rolled up…
He wake up at the very moment when a big wave kidnapped the bottle–-
Embracing it in its white bubbled wave leaving not a trace, but, a…a sound…
A pinch of heat on his fingers startled him; the cigarette is coming to an end,–-
The smoke has got blue and heavy; he pushed the burned stub into the ashtray.
(And) he starts writing a poem, after two days, letting his mind to be that of a sailor–
Being drifted away like Robinson Crusoe to an island;–-
Friday is the thought that still lingers with him–making him, the poet, write–-
After a long time, making him feel like a tree getting the taste of rain,–-
After a Kalbaisakhi, on some certain Baisakh godhuli.
The poet keeps on writing; the message in the bottle (seems to him)–-
Getting unfurled in front of him as if he had written the message–
Long (forgotten) time ago and had let it go by thrusting it into a bottle…
He felt stressless and relaxed, after a week,–
As he typed words giving his thoughts a shape…
13th January 2017