Poetry isn't, doesn't

Poetry doesn't get stirred at your calls.
Poetry isn't what you think it to be
Poetry isn't the end product of your thoughts
Poetry isn't the shots of the formulated phrases
Poetry isn't the ejaculation of the clustered interludes.
Poetry doesn't get stirred at your calls.

Poetry is the chirping of the birds on the trees
It is the heat of the summer;
Efforts to soothe our body and soul with the
water melon,
Coconuts, sugar cane, mango and other
summer fruits' juice!
Poetry is the farmers' sweat, and the loud
songs
That gush forth from their hope-bound
souls!
Poetry is the pangs wrought in the solemn soul
Of Urboshi who lost her husband and loving son
In the year 1971.
Poetry doesn't get stirred at your calls.
Poetry is the mad dance of the floating thoughts
That go swirling around to meet the
Eruptive orgasms of those corrugated dots;
Poetry is the cry of the soul, and

Release of that tsunai in a calm desperation
Of joy and happiness wrapped in rainbow coloured
Clothes.

Poetry, however, doesn't get stirred at your
calls.

Rafiqul Islam Rime teaches at Premier University, Chittagong.