Thursday, 19 May 2011

Cannot write more

I cannot write any more.

I thought I told you this before,
But yes, I write for you.

I write of you,
of your thousand lovable gestures,
of your million quirks and faults,
of your innumerable thoughts and dreams.

They blamed me for writing only of love,
of an emotion well abused;
But they did not know it was inspired by you.

If they did,
they might have worshipped you, my muse.

And now,
You have gone away from my life
to find a way of your own;
Be a muse to someone else,
in some other way -
I know not what.

I thought I could find another muse,
and write on.

They came and went,
but failed to inspire,
to arouse me to a climax of poetry
that you so easily managed.

I still stare at your age-worn photograph
and try to write.
I cannot write any more.

More love poems

I. Soft hands
When you first touched my hands
You said they were soft as a pillow
And kissed the palm as if it were a bud of rose.

Yesterday when I caressed your face
You turned away from me
Muttering, “Use some cream.”

I looked at my withered hands
And found scales and scars and wounds
Of fifty years of love.

II. In Love
Everyone said you and I were in love.

I laughed at them,
You scorned them.

Yet I buried my dreams in your smell,
You bathed in the radiance of my smile.

You and I
Were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
But we never realized
How chained we were
By hearts and souls.

Nights were a reason to wake up to make your brunch,
Days were a reason to enter the depths of my locks.

We still denied we were in love.
"We just need each other,"
We reiterated,
In the hope of convincing ourselves.

One morning,
She came in with a bubbly laugh and a cheery face,
Made your eggs and your bed,
Said she loves you,
and took you away.

All I did was gawp after you.
We were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
And we are not in love.

I laughed again.