The Flow of Poetry

Like a bicycle ride down a hill,

Like steam lifting a kettle's lid,

Like music 'pon pursing strings,

Like water from a tap after seconds,

Flow my words, gushing out with ease,

From the arm that gives in to the force,

Bowing down in humble deference,

To the grandeur of that nameless Source,

The first step is mine, for I choose to act,

In response to the weight of my thought,

Setting the current that rushes forth,

Carrying itself and my arms both,

Like the bus I drive that in truth carries us along,

Like the boat even after I put the oars down,

Nay, like the stream that rocks me along its way,

It takes me ahead, with the force of my own vocabulary,

It fills me up as I nauseate,

Giving up, spitting words out,

Letting it have its way, for there's no go,

Enjoying the ride, looking out my window,

I seldom know the end nor track of a work I start,

It takes me ahead, hitting twigs and dirt,

And as the man on a river awaits his fate,

I stop my struggle and watch and wait,

'Til the current slows, letting me move,

When I push myself to the shore with a gentle shove,

Hitting a bank I hitherto knew not,

I climb out, straightening my gait,

I open my eyes to trace my route,

Surprised at the turns that seemed so straight,

Enamoured by the path I took with such ease,

Relishing the result with delight and surprise.

Written at Tiruvannamalai on 22.4.2017 at 10:21pm

Updated 3:08pm on plane, 25.4.2017