A Happy Poem
With sincere apologies to Pablo Neruda.
Tonight I can write the happiest lines.
Write, for instance, how much I love you
When you ask me to write a happy poem.
My heart leaps up to my mouth!
I chew its arteries and veins,
Imagining your sweet, mischievous eyes
Framed inside the horn-rimmed glasses.
The night wind blows and sighs inside my bones.
I love you, and when I write
The happy poems, you love me back.
With quivering mustachioed lips, hands waving in pantomime,
You often plead for a poem that jumps and squeals with glee.
Sitting on the stone patio, as I was the other day,
Obsessing on the miseries of my monotonous life,
You sneaked into, and said—
Why don’t you write something joyous
About this wonderful place, this life?
The night wind now shakes the roots of my marrow.
In the distance a melancholy music plays in a transistor radio,
My heart searches for the rise and fall of your sweet voice,
Your smooth cadence.
Enmeshed in woe I search for words and phrases,
Those elusive words that make a happy poem.
Drowning life’s sorrows in a cup of weak ginger tea,
I pick up the cheap ballpoint pen and write—
The happiest line.
The night wind blows and then cools the fever off my brow.
I am happy with the happy line.
I forget the fateful fall, and stand with you
On the forgotten continent of love, though this be the last
Happy poem you make me write
And this one the last verse I write for you.
Poetry by Bibek
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Written on 2019-06-10 at 11:44
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