I lament and find that my muses are suddenly cross with me, That my pen has dried up Or , perhaps the tip of the nib has gone blunt, As if a door has barred on my heart, And the surge has turned into just a mild ebb and flow, That finds it almost impossible to scribble Even an illegible word or a nonsense sentence, Not to speak of poetry That rushes into the mind by fits and starts, Forming uncanny images, But the hand does not dare. The leaves and clouds and birds, chirping, flittering, indelible memories, compelling experiences, all uncanny, and not worth rubbing off Are not enough to turn into images or music or verse any more, How helpless indeed do I feel Where are my golden images Where is my lucid verse, and where is the lilting music that once kept me happy and engaged? The rotting leaves, the reflecting blobs of clouds in the ponds don't provoke me any more. Are my senses corroded, or, are they too much dipped in the acid to rust and rot? Oh, if they had, they would have singed and eaten into the paper At least with its liquified inactive But none helps, No aid comes from the unexpected corners of creativity, May be a passing phase...I hope.

Ravindra Tandon 6th September, 22