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The Poetess

To someone whose primary contribution to the world may have been amusement at her naïvety – all admiration for her courage aside

She was a modern Poetess,
the one whose story I’ll relate,
she thought herself an ancient priestess
guarding all secrets of fate
(a view under much debate)

Such whimsical a character
as hers I never met before,
and you must know it means disaster
to seek nothing but rapture
and the stable things ignore.

She thought herself superior
to other people just because
her mind only ever bore
thoughts of unknown shores
and grief over fake losses.

She sought an elevation
of mind and soul and spirit
to fuel her inspiration,
and assigned no merit
to her own discredit.

Lifting herself to distant spheres
unseen, unknown and ancient,
was how she tried to quell her fears
but wherever she went
they with her went.

And as she slowly realized
she didn’t know what she thought she knew
all ideals then became disguise
to hide how destitute
thoughts her mind now fueled.

Originality was lost
if ever she possessed it,
and imitation of a host
of ancients ensued; her wit
was disinherited.

And all ideals became excuse;
her love; possession
whereby she lost her muse,
her fate; rebellion,
and her hope; evasion.

Ignorant of her shortcomings
still she wrote, in agony,
often copying most of the things
she couldn’t otherwise modify,
till truth itself became a lie.

Her love life turned around,
she went from man to man
in search of something so profound
that never did, and never can
be born to mortal Man.

And in her search for this merging
with something intangible
she gradually lost all meaning
and now her every scribble
left her more and more unstable.

For what she wrote about
was so different from her life
that it did amount
to a contrast such that strife
became living, and plight her life.

Even plagiarism could no more
conceal her loss of hope,
inspiration had locked the door
and her mind was doped
with escapism past all hope.

This has become a quite dark story,
I apologize for this,
but if you dream of nought but glory
and for nought but glory wish,
it’s all too easy to be lost; remember this!

For poetry itself is never fame,
true poetry should be anonymous:
Do not mark the words with your name
and expect something miraculous
to come to you; you will be lost.

Besides, today the view of art
is altered past recognition,
today all things can be called art –
it’s no exaggeration –
so art itself has lost much meaning.

And poetry especially so,
but what lies dormant in earth today
might yet someday spring up and grow
with no essence of decay –
so wait for it, it’ll come someday.

Back now to our Poetess
who’d tossed her torch away
and given in to her distress
because she saw no way
of bringing her ideals to light of day.

She could not vanish quite
so much of her remained,
but insipid and with no might
to even feel in vain,
with no sense of loss or gain.

Someday I hope that she
will be brought back again
from dark obscurity –
at least her words remain
for us to ponder and retain.

Until that day I urge you,
all of you who read this piece,
to not wait patiently for
a day when poetry
all by itself restores the peace.

That day would be so far away
that much can still be said,
but on that dreamlike, distant day
so many years and thoughts ahead
all poets who today lie dead
would once again be read,
and what they had to say
would be interpreted –
and you would then see clearly
that they as well as me
worshipped above all, dearly,
art, truthfulness, liberty,
justice, peace and harmony

Wake up right now
for that is all a dream.
We’ll never reach it anyhow;
the world, people, everything
they are no better than they seem.

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