Saturday, November 21, 2015


                    For writing all these poems, I suffer from
                    Dissociated sensibility
                    As waiting for some apt ideas to come,
                    My mind explores its inner galaxy.
                    Were this free verse, I’d feel no such constraint,
                    My mind allowed to rove in any way;
                    I would not need the patience of a saint
                    With no such regulations to obey.
                    Yet, even so, I would not change my style
                    Because this kind of versing is a game
                    More entertaining, fashioned to beguile,
                    Which is, for poetry, its foremost aim.
                         By craft and subtle art, we poets strive
                         To leave behind some wonders that survive.