Poetry is a glass shattering drink
too hot to be contained.
It is a technique, that sets words
to glass shattering music.
In the words of T.S.E:
Between emotion and imagination.
I say, glass-shattering emotion
That spills out in patterned rhymes
Like dreams, omitted at other times
Scattered, from the world of meanings
  where forms are too rigid to last
   so that not long after they appear, they shatter
It is not thought out
It rises like bubbles with temperature
From a heart moist
And sometimes like the forest
Dense and dry under burning weather
Ready to catch fire.

Poetry is tears
that the heart recites.
A place of refuge
from one’s own emotions.
Poetry is our own smile we see
In Nature’s mirrors
Fashioned singularly for joy
And given the name flowers.

Kaviko said,
In other words,
A newspaper by Emotions
That is, owned, edited and published
By Emotions.
On another occasion,
The dew that secretly gathers
On leaves in the wee hours

The poet, said Nietzsche,
presents his thoughts festively,
on the carriage of rhythm:
usually because they could not walk.
But Rilke struck with his word hammer
On the burning rod of poetry
It is not sentiment but experience

Iqbal the Indian nightingale
Sitting on the tall trees of poetry
When truth has no burning,
Then it is philosophy
When it gets burning from the heart,
It becomes poetry

No wonder Goethe was touched
by the madness that touches poets
Walking hand-in-hand with Hafiz
between Cupid’s flute and the drums of Mars
Both rising louder and louder

All the cream of poets
The techniques of the past
Have breathed their last,
Boiled down to lesser forms,
And crystallised into meanings
It is now a double-edged sword
Striking, in the words of Pound,
Closer to the bone marrow.

Remember, you sent Pound to the mental asylum
Now, do not expect another Eliot to rise
From now on, if you ever get poetry
The Pisan cantos it will have to be
Or any such bellows of trumpets
From incarceration

At last, I entered the house of language
And beheld at the furthest chamber
Poetry enthroned with the crown of Revelation
Fortuna and Virtu had earned Ka’b
the Prophet’s glance,
his pardon and his mantle.
And old Prince Hassān, a mimbar in his masjid.
And Mansūr, five hundred lines
At the moment of execution.