The Poet

Your wife is in a worn and torn sari faded and discoloured And in a patched and stitched blouse And you writing poetry, Writing poetry to your pleasure With the fire of imagination And the frenzy for living, Dwelling afar, Into the realms of the skies But here on earth the troubles and struggles of life many, She working hard like an ox all daylong In her cottage, Shaded with straw and bamboo sticks, Mud-walled from all around With the cow shed In which there lie in the cattle. Poet, the mind of yours dwelling far into the horizons Expanding and expanding beyond And you with the flutter of heron, stork and crane wings Flying high, taking the imaginary flights Just like the fishermen in ponds and rivers, Floating and flowing And fishing And netting, hurling and flinging the nets. There is nothing in the house valuable and decorating Barring the old sheets of paper and books And you lost in dreaming, Dreaming about life and the days of glory, Probable basking in it While on the other you son and daughter crying for food, Milk, biscuits and toys. You lost in your thoughts and ideas, images and reflections, views and beliefs, The dimension and spectrum of it, Flying away into the poetic realms, Dreaming high But on the other hand your wife wearing a poor sari and torn blouse, The children crying for food, But you seeing the fir and full moon from the patches of the cottage, Lost into the dreams and reflections and dwellings of yours own Bearded, long-haired, spectacled and loosely dressed Melancholy, brooding and reflective, dwelling afar.