By M. Zaman
Poetry or not, vagaries of life will still feel prickly; love or no love, things-that-matter will still be overwhelming; God or no God, life’s journey will still be a perilous journey.
This is not about the aboutness of myself or of my poetry or of anything else under the folds of heathen Gods. Neither celestial nor interstellar; it’s the obelisk of hope.
Neither Calliope nor Erato is my forte; not even Sappho, the tenth. I do not write for posterity or for some transcendent euphemism.
When the mind is fenestrated through and through, when ennui engulfs the total being like a shroud of death, poetry seeps in;
Butea (Flame of Forest) blooms and sets this sinking heart ablaze.
M. Zaman is an allergist and immunologist who lives with his beautiful wife, in a quaint college town in North Country, NY.