How He Thought He'd Be Missed

Oh one year to this day he'd died, A void would long remain with us, His absence felt conspicuous, Hope his bequest would new pens guide. A brand new trend created he, A tall benchmark was he in field, His pen being read by many A new crop of poems would yield. Wonder-stuck as if in a dream They'd contemplate on his rare style, It's hard still to emulate him, Sure, he looked like a lonely isle. Isolated in a huge crowd, And lapsing in silence, in mimes, Of whom poetry world feels proud, He struggled for a word at times. I've seen his audience in rapture, The mood of his poems to capture, Today his fragrance is right here, Yet, gone has the flower sans peer. ….. And how things were Emptiness nor were there a void, One year has from memory died, His pen's silence was not much sighed, New styles that came, readers enjoyed. Few gravely think— if none at all, Poetry field is any worse In the absence of his oeuvres, Save that his few minions so call. He loomed large, straddled in a crowd, For, his mouth no doubt was tad loud; A few flowers can't a spring make, Nor few showers can flood a lake. Nor ever his pen's twirls a few An era can start all a new. _____________________________________________________ A poet imagines how he would be remembered after his death; and then the reality dawns. _____________________________________________________ Musings | 03.08.14 |