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March 22, 2008

Posted by K in Poem, Uncategorized.
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Ask me, not the mother

Where I hid the bride

Ask me, not the air above my head

What I did to my life

Ask me, not my teacher

How much I manage to whine

Ask me, not my preacher

How much I resent to being.

 

Holy is the mug that cast

My ironic supper

Sit with me and look through me

As I ask my maker.

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Comments»

1. ish - March 22, 2008

Wow. I don’t know what else to say to that. It was nice. You always make me go into this introspection mode somehow. Happy Holi btw.

2. sporadicblogger - March 25, 2008

Ish- Happy holi…belated 🙂

And thank you 🙂 This one wrote itself when I was, I suspect, high. It consequently doesn’t have any meaning. But then…neither do most of my other ‘poems’ 🙂

3. baryaal - March 26, 2008

Beautiful!
“Holy is the mug
That cast my Ironic supper…”
I guess an Omar Khayyam is in the making.

4. lostrealist - March 27, 2008

I liked the poem. It didn’t make any sense in the end, but I felt nice reading it. So its nice =). I liked the first stanza a lot, especially “ask me, not the air above my head, what I did to my life”. Well put.

5. sporadicblogger - March 27, 2008

baryaal- I am seriously honoured, but I am not worthy 🙂 Thanks for dropping in 🙂

lostrealist- Thank you for liking it 🙂 Yes, it doesn’t make sense. It just read itself out in my head, and I wanted to put them in. It’s about accountability and confusion, a hunt for an answer. I also think the speaker is a disadvantaged person in society.

6. sporadicblogger - March 27, 2008

Personal space, yes, it’s also about personal space…


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