Everyone exclaimed
After reading my poetry books
That my poetry reminded of
Walt Whitman’s, Wordsworth’s,
Robert Frost’s, Shelley’s
Shakespeare’s and Browning’s…
Oh! It was my good fortune
To be associated with
Such names from different countries,
Whom I had never read or seen;
But I would have been happier
If those persons had identified my poetry
With my own poetic genius or virus
And not measured me against
Walt Whitman’s or Wordsworth’s stature.
For, I think, I was born
An independent plant of Literature
Destined to bloom or blight
Under the open sky.
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Inspiration is a thing
Which may haunt you
At any moment;
But if you don’t have
A pen and a paper
To capture it;
You will only live to repent.
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Create a new religion,
Preach that free sex is no taboo,
Quote instances of birds and animals,
Encourage unhindered love for all,
Create a new culture of porno
And practice religion to earn;
Or try to save the existing religion,
Preach that love should be
Practised with inhibition,
Stress on rituals and tradition
And invite the wrath of the public
For leading your followers
In the reverse direction;
The choice is entirely yours –
Either to be a symbol of modern rage,
Or a sage of eternal message,
In order to free humanity from bondage.
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