Death of the Poem

Syllables riveted
For the edifice of the poem
On the tumulus plinth
Of imagination,
metaphors bricked one by one
To shape its effulgent facade,
Emotions woven in
fabric of imagination
To frame the Casements,
Experiences drawn from nature’s
Infinite plays
to build its roof.
And the array
 Holy Trinity
In serendipity
Blooming in its patio,
Irises of rhymes
Dancing their heads
To the breeze
In domer,
And oscine of rhythm
On its sill
All Let loose
And Syllable by syllable
Like a ruined ziggurat
Poem fall apart
smiting chest
spitting dust
on the “death of the author”
Whose devices were
inconstant strife
With the thought
And robbed edifice of its life
Now The sighs of the things lisp
perchance a reader they seek.



Umar Amin Bhat

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