’Tis not so easy to write a poem…
You have to think for more than a day.
I had no thoughts just a moment ago–
And now I find one hundred to say!
I sat on the chair in front of my PC,
Munching the apple I found in the kitchen.
I started to think and found it no easy–
So I shut it down and took up my pen.
I thought for a while, went round my room
What shall I write and how to begin?
All my mind was shrouded in gloom
Hard these days for matters to pig in!
Looks like much ado ’bout nothing!
That’s what I started to feel.
The pen in my hand became a plaything
My thoughts were crashing with a squeal!
I still wonder how these poets of yore
Perceived glamour in trifling things!
The poem’s core is what I adore,
Their imaginations being utopian wings!
Be it Wordsworth, or be it Frost–
Did it perfect, I tried, but could not!
Every time I sit down to write,
I’ve never succeeded, with all of my might.
’Twas then I found this Eliot’s Book
Deep buried in a heap it lay.
The book of cats– with a rusty look,
I went through his work, I found out the way!
Eliot speaks of mysterious cats–
Whose brains were sharp, though whiskers torn!
To write my poem, determined I sat,
Hurray! A simple poem was born!