Smoking a Poem - Marc Daniel Nair I am constantly on the look-out for poets, chain-rhyming , five-stanza-a-day poets, palming their pencil and notebook in back pockets, lighting up lines with the practised ease of habit. I search for them in sunlit corners of trains, Between shelves of public libraries. I find them pacing and waiting at bus-stops, stubbing out the ends of pencils, flicking ashen words onto paper. There is no mistaking the poet’s scent; to tangle of joy and fear to exhale a word and stub out the idea before the bus draws near. Sometimes I peer over the shoulders of strangers when I see them turn serious and begin to scribble. But often, it’s a list of things to do, groceries, accounts. These everyday words are safe; they give me a rush from breathing in someone else’s simile. Where have all the serial poets gone? Those who only smoke unfiltered; huffing hard packs of dense images that incite the potential to kill or caus...
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