The Poet and I

We were sitting under the lyre tree. She and I. There’s still an hour to go before the poetry-reading session.

“Most poets”, I said, “render their poems looking at the page. But you recite your own entirely from memory.”

She was intently listening to a sound of drum airdashing from beyond the hilly terrain far off.

“I knit in my head first”, she said. “I put pen to paper later, only when the light-bulb moment metamorphoses into an image. I then hang it in my mind’s gallery. Just a glance at the picture within, and the words start tumbling out.”

First published in f3

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