VALSA GEORGE

 

 

A Poet In The Making

 

A diaphanous mist hangs over

 Blurring thoughts and fancy

Or is it that my Muses

 Have gone into lazy slumber?

 

Whatever thoughts I have

They come fragmented and scrambled

In no way I can piece them into a string.

On trying to nest them together,

They wheel away like pigeons!

 

When I struggle for utterance

Like a child, I lisp at the very first word

Sometimes thoughts strike me

Like pellets of rain against the window pane

But fail to broil them

In the crucibles of my imagination

 

I am a miner searching for a nugget of gold

In tons of drilled out dark mineral ore

 

In the dead of night, in frightening stillness

I am awake with pen in my hand

And a heavy weight pulling me down

Caught in a creative maelstrom

I whirl and whirl

I hope the ink will soon spill over

Scrawling coherent lines and letters

 

Like an emboldened farmer,

I sow the seeds of my thoughts

Into a land barren,

Not fecund enough

And not watered with imagination!

 

Who can say some of them won’t strike root

Even in the cleft of a rock

And struggle bravely into sunshine

Spreading over their sterile birth place

With beauties any eye would love to behold!

  

I wait for that moment.

Yes, I am a poet in the making...!

 

Beside A Grave Yard

 

Gazing into the heavy eyelids of the sunset

In the sacred silence of the dusk

Through a route obscure and lonely

I walked on until stopped before a grave yard

 

My thoughts curled round those forgotten graves

Where the dead remain anonymous as dust,

And sleep dreamless through the years,

Where the wind whistles through the heap of bones,

Where the weeds silently shed their tears,

Where silence sits brooding to hatch gloom,

Where inscriptions molder on the memorial tablets,

Where ivy twines round fallen columns

       

This is the empire of the forgotten souls!

The dark shadowy palace where all shall enter,

When the curtain falls over our little lives

And the farce of life comes to its close.

 

This is the only place,

Where one is not entitled to stand in queue

Or vie with one another to overtake.

 

Here, Death sits on his imperial throne

Mocking at the relics of human glory

Zealous with the task of clearing out the old

To make way for the new

 

As Time silently turns over its pages

Today’s idols will be pulled down

From pedestals of glory to be replaced,

By the successors of tomorrow

 

Here each life is a volume closed down,

Marked by moss grown grave stones 

To be cast aside and eventually forgotten,

Or locked forever in the annals of history

 

Round that colossal decay’, I stood sad

Thinking of Shelley’s proud king Ozymandias!

 

VALSA GEORGE

 

VALSA GEORGE is a retired professor from Kerala. After her successful career as a teacher, she took to poetry. She writes on a wide spectrum of topics spanning Nature, Love, Human relations et al. She has authored over 1700 poems in varied poetic forms which she regularly posts in international poetry websites, reputed journals, and literary publications. She has four anthologies in her name - Beats, Drop of a Feather, Rainbow Hues, and Entwining Shadows - the latter two available on Amazon.com. One of her poems ‘A space Odyssey’ has been included in the CBSE syllabus (Rain Tree Course Book by Orient Black Swan) for the 8th grade students in India from the year 2018. Another poem ‘My Fractured Identity’ is prescribed for the undergraduate students (Voyagers) in Philippines