Odd Poet

Sang yodels a romantic bard
On his love’s round buttocks
Few years afterwards
Rued at those skin-sacks

“Love, nature and beauty!
Is this all real poetry?
All these evanescences
And earthly fetish”
Wondered an odd poet
Wavering in the spoils
Of struggling third world
Weighing his penchants

All his senses aching
Soaked in lamentation
Of his own kith and kin
The poor and downtrodden

From his trembling hand
Slipped his mighty pen
From esoteric heights
Down to the earth and said
“This soil is my text, my quest
As well, my blank note sheet
Where all my letter-seeds
I wish to sow and harvest”

poem by Sathya Narayana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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