ink bridge

It was quite long time back, one summer of my juvenile years, when I wrote my first poem. It was on the drying leaf of a small poplar tree that stood in the garden of my house. I do not remember what I wrote, for I had no inkling by then that I would prefer ink and paper over posh jobs and banknotes. I wrote those few lines and gave it to the river that whizzled past by hundred meters ahead.  I did not know much about poetry even then and I have never been bothered to know about the standing forms of poetry ever, except for my academic pursuits. Poetry to me is emotion first and imagery later. A wind in any form is a wind first. A flower in all its genesis is first a flower irrespective of its varieties and vagaries. I cherish the treasure of all wonderful poets and their works time has brought to us. I keep them close to my heart. But, as a poet, I respond to a new age of poetry. Poetry that touches the core of your hearts with even a pair of words. Even without rhythm, mete...