Friday, 17 September 2021

The Poet

 I had a friend once, 

a poet.

We used to see each other

some times. 

and every time we met

he'd say great things,

about life,

and love,

and beauty,

about suffering and pain,

and memory,

and I'd wonder 

where he's coming from, 

and he'd say 

these ideas, 

they just come to him, 

and I'd smile, 

but soon I got tired of this 

little game of ours, 

and so one day 

he said something about 

being and knowing,

and I said, 

'Foucault said so', 

and he threw his cigarette away, 

disappointed. 

Another time, 

he said something 

about 

existence being particular, 

and I asked

'didn't Heidegger say that?'

and he stopped

and turned around, 

and stood facing me, 

looking in my eyes intently, 

and said, 

'that's not what you say

to a poet'.

I laughed. 

He said no more.

And then we met 

after a long long while, 

and while I had suffered,

all this while,

and had tried to find meaning 

in my suffering,

painstakingly,

upon meeting me, 

when he said something

about suffering,

and finding 

meaning in suffering, 

all I could do 

was smile.

An effortful smile,

like when we smile

with a heavy heart, 

and eyes all wet, 

though only 

on the inside, 

and while our heart,

is about to burst open

with suffering, 

we are smiling, 

trying to find meaning 

in our suffering, 

but he looked at me 

with disappointment, 

the sort of disappointment

that shows in someone's eyes, 

when they suddenly feel empty inside, 

and their eyes feel like shattered glass, 

though again, 

only on the inside, 

and he said, 

'you already know this one too, don't you?'

I smiled.

'But that's not what you do

to a poet!

How could you be 

so heartless!, 

Aren't you 

in your heart, 

a poet too,

afterall?' 

'Yes', 

I said, 

looking away, 

'but a woman too'. 


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