Have you noticed that a poet takes up pen

Most often when it seems his heart is breaking?

Anguished lines from poor, tormented men

Poured forth in a midnight’s fevered making

On tear-stained sheets, unedited, and then

Read to each friend in voices rough and shaking.

“Woe and despair!” they cry, then write again

‘Til you long to shake them, force their waking

From such fevered dreams. I will not use you so;

He loves me still! My house is filled with mirth

And gaiety; and even if I know

That he grows restless (soon I think he’ll go),

The world is rich in men of higher worth.

I shall move on, and sing no songs of woe.


M.A. Mohanraj

September 9, 1996