A poem, having no name, was enmeshed in a heart, waiting to break free from its shackles. While her verses floundered about the lips, she was being betrayed by her own words who were refusing to be put down on the foolscap. They were restless and desperate, and were changing with every moment, transforming into another and from another to yet another. The poem would live in one moment and die in the following, and then live again only to die in the following moment once again. One couldn’t tell whether there was a poem at all.
The meter was absent for the rhythm was indifferent because of the ever changing words or rather for lack of words. Yet, the poem desired to live for she knew that if she managed to escape from the heart to a foolscap through a poet’s pen, she will live forever. She decided to set out on a mission to find a meter for the meter will seduce the rhythm, which will then string the words together so that they settle down, on the foolscap, in a rhythmic pattern. However, the capricious words needed something else so that they may take a definite pattern and give meaning to their meaning, and impart a form to the poem.
By serendipity, the poem realised that to cause her own birth, she needs to go deep inside the heart where she is enmeshed so that she may listen the words from a memory that has been buried alive deep inside the heart and then arrange those words in accordance with the mood and music of the memory. The poem undertakes the journey to the core. She went from deserts of despondence to the oceans of hope to finally find a memory that could cause her birth. The memory was stored in form of images, smell, a voice, a music and a unique taste. The poem went ahead. She embraced the memory and kissed it passionately. She sat down with it while memory whispered in her formless ears and the poem started to come alive. The mood of the memory set rhythm and meter of the poem.
The poem was no longer enmeshed. She now had her separate existence. A unique life with record of only one memory in words stringed in rhythmic pattern. She was now ready to take form and hence, the poem was born.