A womb in the Brain


P. Raja

(D-88, Poincare Street, Olandai-Keerapalayam, Puducherry-605 004. Cell:09443617124, e-mail: rajbusybee@gmail.com)


Every Poem is from the heart. Every heart is itself a poem. Heartless people can never be poets. Zombies never write poems.

When the heart goes heavy it fills our eyes with tears. The tears that stream down our face lessen the burden the heart experiences. And on another occasion when the heart goes light, tears trickle out of our eyes or fill our eyes. We call them tears of joy, don’t we?

Every tear drop, be it the result of joy or sorrow, speaks of the experience the heart undergoes. Our sweetest songs are those that tell not only of our saddest thoughts but also of our most joyful ones.

Poems are nothing but tear drops. For they, be they made of sorrow or glee, are the expression of the heart. This is how poems are born. This is also the reason why poet can’t write poems, just for the bidding. At least, I can’t write like that.

One can write a short story or a novel or a play or an essay, when it is assigned and no writer worth his salt would ever say ‘no’ to such assignments, unless the writer  is neck deep in water. But no poem comes out when assigned. Only poetasters could succeed in doing it.

Every poem needs a gestation period. Every poet is blessed with a womb in the brain. All things that touch his heart and disturb him, take the shape of poems. And writing a poem is akin to that of delivering a child.

The poet himself is not sure of what happens to him when the process when it takes place. Here is my short poem that tries to describe the pleasant situation.

I know and I do not know

What urges me

to write this poem?

I do not know.

Only thing I know

is that I am not

What I was.


Yet the pen moves

swifter as usual on paper

making smudges all over

with twists and turns.


I do not know

what I will be

when my poem is done.

Only thing I know

is that my pen

will hold back its tongue.

And the white paper

will remain immaculate.


Well! The brain child is born with a palpitating heart, of course. I have simply clothed an idea with words.

Now, it is up to you, dear readers, to ask my child a question. I am sure you will not ask this question unless you like my child, I have allowed to wander. And if you happen to come across my child and if at all you take a liking for my child, you ask this question: Hei, child! Who is you father?”

If my child says, “Oh! He is P.RAJA”, then I am a poet, blessed by Goddess Saraswati.

Feb 06, 2013

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