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In the dance of words and emotions, Dr Sanjukta feels that she’s but a vessel for the poem to manifest itself — an exclusive for Different Truths.
Do I write the poem, Or does it write itself? The lines trickling Streams Churning Depths Unknown Unseen Buds of poems Unfurl their petals, On the page The page blossoms A stabbing pain A healing touch A mother’s clasp Lost and found Among the words That creates a shelter, As the storms storm through The pages of bruised time. Do I write the poem, Can I write a poem? The poem writes itself, My fingers on a keyboard Hypnotised The poem dictates I am the poem’s service provider I am the good old poem’s stenographer The poem is my analyst My poem reads me Like an open book.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
