I have nothing more to say,
the poet said.
How can you go silent?
The burning world?
The loss of innocence?
The poignant beauty that
is slowly fading from the world
as it turns grey crimson.
You have so much to say,
why would you go silent?
My words are there,
everywhere for you to find.
The greys amidst the whites,
the aches amidst the smiles,
the hope amidst the despair,
the emerging dawn hidden in the black
of the darkest night,
for you to find your light.
The world has no place for the poetic self,
nor the poet anymore.
There is no space to feel,
to rest the many selves and watch
the shapes emerge.
What is poetry if it is in a hurry?
Poetry takes shape from seeing and being.
From the unseen to the emerged
from the deepest part of living,
to the frailest part of sharing.
All I see is the spoken, the showcased,
the flaunted, the sold and the forgotten.
Why would i continue to speak?
Long after I have gone silent,
one day, you search among the mentions of my name,
and, you will find my words,
waiting for you,
as fresh as the day i made them.
And, we shall sit beside each other,
my words and your self,
wrapping us in a world anew,
and you will find me then,
the selves i dared to put out,
and the selves i had hidden for you to find.
You will finally know me through my words,
and uncover the many layers of my silence.
And, you will understand,
why the poet in me chose to be silent,
when all the world was seen speaking.
- Srividya Srinivasan [ 3/8/2018]