All the new words would be free, Made and struck from minds as fair As the ancient morning of the air And the oldest evening of the world. - Richard Ebehart
The page is ancient like that morning which awakened me and read me that new poem when I dipped the toast in the chai, the crunch of it made me realise I am alive while my eyes lingered on those words which danced like the numbers.
The evening is old the news is stale now, I avoid the numbers which I see in the clock and cook the curry, grateful for the craziness of life and and for quietly surviving the chaos. If you see words here its because I am alive and can’t hold the poems still.
The page is ancient
but my soul is still new and this poem
again helped me to walk back home and
you read about a poet trying to breathe.
Priyanka is the poetry editor of Literary Impulse