Have you not seen the curve of his words? He writes, writes, ever writes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he writes, writes, ever writes.
Have you seen his brilliant streaks of silver glisten in the Sun? He writes, writes, ever writes.
He moves his eyes to the window outside. She runs, runs ever runs.
He shakes his head with dismay, as he spots an error emerge. He strikes it out, strikes, ever strikes.
But from the dissolution he discerns, a vision of heaven that ever was. So he strikes, strikes ever strikes.
He now stretches the ink across his manuscript. These errors, no longer unwelcomed guests. So he writes, strikes, ever inks.
A crossed word, a scribbled script,
A pattern emerges from a crypt.
A doodle, a sketch, to keep the words company,
Poetry flows, drawings accompany.
The paper no longer holds merely written word,
The ink now appears as a flying bird,
A bird that can only soar in our dreams,
Reality isn’t what it seems.
A woman from the words does hail,
Enveloped in a deep, dark veil,
She dances to the song that sings,
Her arms long to morph into wings,
The man whose head is filled with blocks,
The mysterious women that whisper in flocks,
A probable animal that missed its chance of existence,
All features, they formed to make some sense!
A horizon …where they all converge,
Out of poetry, an accidental artist does emerge.
© Helina Desai and Nazneen Dharamsey, 2018. All rights reserved. (Photographs of paintings taken from the internet).