I Can Muse a Poem – A Poem by Rachana

Hi, thank you for reading. I’m winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2044. But it won’t be an easy journey. And don’t mind the Sandcastles in the air picture above. 

Here’s me with my craft. When I put my pen to paper, word bubbles in my head disappear.

Hope you like it.

–

The mother inside of me finds no shortage
of spontaneity and wit.
I can be surprisingly superfluous
when I am lecturing my child.

Trouble arrives when I call myself a writer,
and that’s when I get deliberate.
When I submit myself to the writer’s rigor,
dictation gets scant in my head.

Words… A few of those that got me into trouble
with my sister’s feelings.
The same words that rivaled the time and place
they were spoken at.

I lose the freedom to think, emote and be myself
when I choose to write.

I did not live a terrible childhood,
so I must not have anything to say?

Others hold flawless expectations of how I should be
a mother, a sister, a wife,
a daughter, a friend..
I have none other than my own obligations
to save the world.

The quest is mostly a secret one,
one that I am sure no will “get” about me.

Still,
I create visuals of dreams, death,
hunger and seduction, hoping
society can perceive them.

It’s not a choice of purpose and productivity
over fame and money, I assure myself.
Words should not aggravate expectations
when I am famous.

I feel the same vulnerability
waiting for an invitation to a friend’s house.
Emotions stay loyal only
when I am not true to myself.

I clear the mental clutter —
the missing keys, deadlines not met..

stopping time,
stitching lines into place
that feel as timeless as possible.

I take up probationary hermit-hood
to assemble images of social justice,

and challenge myself to be able to excel
in the art of perceiving others’ thoughts.

We all have needs,
and this is Nobel one.

If I have to,
I will compete with my baby,
who can speak up a lexicon
and make it sound genius.

There are many drafts,
I vex over conversations in the head and on paper.
Finally, when words come to me effortlessly,
my existence seems solitary.

Here, I have spent a huge chunk of my life
on this brilliant poem,
and you, my reader, will own it.

Now, like all those other times,
I will get back out into spaces filled with people.

I love solitude,
but have to make myself approachable,
for the fear of running out of material.

To love, hurt, get wounded,
make errors and replenish those loss of words..

–

Composed on 08/11/2014

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Poetry