“Are you in a relationship?” A friend of mine asks. “Are you in love?” He says he has proof of facts. There is a certainty in his eyes, and a mocking gesture in one corner of his lips. I can see what initiates the question; the pleasure of digging a writer’s personal life. He says he read all my works, especially my love poems and particularly likes the series of i-poems entitled The Unsaid. I smell danger. Here I am, a single and not in a relationship yet, ‘accused’ of being in love! I can see a misunderstanding breeding in the air. So I tell him the truth, “Yes. I am in love.”
There is a gleam in his eyes, which suggests the happiness of victory. I continue, “Would you like to know the name of my lover?”
“Oh no, dear. I was just enquiring. But you confessed everything without hesitation. Well, there is nothing wrong in being in love, by the way,” he has that same smile, I noticed.
“No, my friend. You should know. You are very close to me, close enough to talk my heart out to you,” This time, I have a smile on my face. “I must tell you the name of my lover; she is none other than Literature.”
The friend of mine was happy, because he now had an answer; I too, for I had confessed my love once again.
Here are a new series of i-poems. All of them from this new bunch of word petals are coloured exclusively with love. They all carry the fragrance of poetry within poetry. A poem is written for the sake of those words, which could not be spoken otherwise. I hope you would accept my lover into the region of kindness in your heart.
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Poetry is serendipity,
The calm of the river,
And its destiny in the salinity.
Poetry is the summer rain-
The river of words carries.