To my unborn love poem

‘Why can’t I write a love poem?’

My idle mind wondered. There are so many good poets around who weave their magic wand on those wonderful thoughts they have in their minds. They bind verses of romance … rhyme them, those poignant moments of love and passion … in flesh and blood.

Poor me, I can’t even think of a poem, leave aside a love poem. I sat down to realize what happens when I start to think.

Last time, when I sat to think about a poem, the tom-cat of my neighbour howled so badly as if he was bitten by a six feet lobster. And god, what a nasty trouble-maker this animal is … so I just shut up. There was no point in arguing the crisis with him.

Cats in my neighbourhood are usually peaceful with humans. But they have messy relations within their clans. Sometimes, humans have to bear these fights too.

Guess the intervention of human lives make feline lives miserable! I will write about that later.

There are other times, particularly when I sit to think, some distraction would take my mind away. As soon as I dream of the beauty … that silk-like hourglass figure approaching me … a tiny mosquito would whiz past my sensitive earlobes, making that disturbing humming sound that is so difficult for me to tolerate.

I am engulfed with that monotonous buzz with which I have spent more time than I may have spent with all lady friends in my entire life … isn’t it damn disgusting?

Our city is home to a million mosquitoes, and a sizable of them are branded as Anopheles – the malaria carrier.

Finally, I sit down and start thinking of the lady love whose poignant emotions would make love with my readers. And here she comes … and lo and behold, she comes with her man. Just when I would be pondering seriously how to seduce the lady with my charismatic verses, the lady deprives me of her company.

Aargh, I exclaim … such times are damned.

Thousand and one times I had thought of this lovely lady of this imaginary poem. And ten thousand times, she appeared to have just come to spend her love with her man … that she was never mine.

So much for mental distraction …

These days the lady that I visualize rides her man’s bike – the fatfati type. You know those god-damned screaming silencer wallahs, don’t you? For some reason, I just hate them … and my entire soul dies a few thousand deaths the moment I hear one such damned vehicle speed past my house.

In my whole life, I never believed in these noisy machines. I drove around a decent car for around five continuous years without honking for pleasure. I was absolutely cop-free and, even though once I had to drive thirteen hours from Chicago to New York city in my vintage 89 Honda Civic, never had to blow the horn until I hit the highways of the city.

What does that mean? It simply means I hate screaming bikes … and I hate a lot of noise too. So, the lady of my romantic verse loses contact with me the moment she decides to ride on her man’s fatfati.

Which also means that such ladies are not made for my poem … at least not the romantic types. In whole, that unborn poem keeps begging for the lost love.

May be there’s no love left in me and my poor soul, huh. May be I am no love-material, at best a man growing old … mostly resigned to the chores of mundane life.

Work, retirement, cholesterol, heart attack … obituary – that’s all I am destined to.

I have tried day dreaming, fantasizing in the evenings … even attempted sweet dreams at night. It’s another story that most of such dreams have become nightmares by now … and I have a sinking feeling that I will never really manage to write a good love poem.

With so much love around, why would a fairly love-friendly man (and this is no bragging) remain so inept at writing love poems?

May be the tom-cat, the bewildered mosquito or my hero’s fatfati bikes have an answer!

I need an abortion of mind … at least for now.