To be a husband of a poet or not to be

It’s always a line at the beginning when we squabble, but a dramatic monologue takes its

place and sprawl when an anthology gets dislocated. Ok, okay, I agree, my bad, I missed it.

I left it somewhere when I took it in my travelling bag.

But look at the silver lines, they travelled not in imagination but in reality. I transported the

words into reality.

It’s hard, isn’t it? Really, too much. To praise every nonsensical line is not an easy job.

When you are not able to swallow the contradictions, yeah juxtaposition, analogy and

parallelism.

And mind you, you, Billy, you kicked my ass. Oh! Robin, you shrill and grill me. Respect

the silent spaces of life.

You read and read in between the lines, and you find nothing. And I am right but wrong,

it’s actually about the absurdity of life.

How can I forget that Haiku which you read in the assembly. My sophomore years were

lyrical, and I caught in your red, rosy lips. I love you without knowing how, or when, or

from where…Why the hell, I wrote Neruda to impress you. But I had not thought that a

couplet would change into an epic. The poetry has now become more prose poetry. No. no,

you are right, experimental long poem, but why have you turned the sweet sonnets into a

villanelle? Repeating the quarrel after a quartet? I will close the door gently next time.

Don’t rage, rage, I’ll go gentle into the next room. Shall I compare thee to a fox? Thou art

so choking.

Marrieds are sweet, but the unmarried are sweeter

Love is lost in lyrics with a long line. All I’m left with is a pun.

Whatever I read, I smell the rot, whatever I hear, I hear circumlocution.

Marrying a poet is marrying an antithesis. Marrying a poet is an Oxymoron. An insane

personified as an intellectual. Though an irony of life, the sooner you realize the better. All

is Maya, Frost.

Ah, reader, let us learn! For the poet, which seems to tell lies before us of dreamlands, so

various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor

peace, nor help for pain in living with her…

by Pulkita Anand