Travel Poetry

I am no Whitman, there are no free roads to sing on! For the hustle bustle dissipates my song.

Nay a Wordsworth, I can see no lonely cloud.

Impossible to have been Frost,.  there are no snowy evenings in the sultry afternoons of this city

Wandering in my weaves of imagination, Kipling roads, Whitman Springs and Frosty evenings find expressions. 

As mangoes dance with Kalboishakhi winds,clouds lit the summer nights! Gazing into the blues, I seek.

I’ve wandered again, Waltzing into the words of Whitman   “Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,…”

worthy in the words of Frost ! although  trodden, the road taken “ Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.”

Finding freedom in self awareness, of Wordsworth “ Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things."

I am but a traveller in the world of poetry.