Two thousand poems died of loneliness
Cold and wet at the busstop
Unable to find a rhyme for themselves
Tripped on poetical outcrop.
Five hundred and seventy were hit and run over
By drunk-and-driving coffee cups
Three hundred-odd asphyxiated
On inexcusable grammatical hiccups.
Two hundred and ten little poems
Were the runts of rhyming triplets.
They died and left their siblings-
Two hundred and ten little couplets.
Seventy-five died of opium,
Twenty-one of spurious ink,
Eight died of handmade paper,
One of an overdose of pink.
Anoopa Anand
Anoopa Anand lives in Bangalore, India, with her parents and four dogs. She received her Bachelor’s degree from Mount Carmel College, Bangalore. When she isn’t writing, Anoopa likes to read fiction, do crosswords in auto rickshaws, sing jazz standards in embarrassed whispers and obsess about cricket. When she grows up, Anoopa will write for a living, sing for love and find a less commercially successful sport to follow.
1 comment:
ha
Post a Comment