Message In The Bottle: End Of An Exile

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

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