Broken Reed Poem by Suresh Kumar EK

It was my aim,
To make a flute of my own.
So I cut a reed,
From that dense jungle,
Facing the blue river.



They were growing in plenty,
The reeds,
Entangled between life and death,
Growth and undergrowth,
Blue and emerald growth.



I found one perfect,
To get through,
I worked it, I killed it,
Cut its limbs, cut into perfection.
I chiselled it, long, cylindrical,
Soft and solemn like a bride.



With an adolescent passion
I held her to my lips,
But the music was dead.
Advices, they came,
One after another.



"Don't see any contradictions,
And that is quite natural.
To enjoy music without holes,
Notes without a hollow space,
Is death without being born.



To compromise with truths
Every day I cut and polish
The reed, my thoughts and feelings,
Now there are cuts, cuts only.
Yet they say I am uncut and shaped.



"Cut your reed and make holes
If you want to make melodies
To melt in divine magics"
Again I began to cut my reed,
I blew the sound of life,
The soft-touch of lips,
Reactivating my being.



No melody, no divinity, no magic
All the tunes were really horrible
Only terrible bleating symphonies.



Was the music divine?
Was it life itself?
I wish I knew the answers.
I tuned and tuned
Whistled and whistled
Dreaming of fantasies.



At last, I was chiselling
The seventh note
I wondered if the touch was wrong
I simply couldn't knife through
The life of my own reed.



Only one movement slipped
And the reed was cut
Cut horizontally, just before
It becomes a perfect flute,
Became two halves apart.



No music, no magic
No melody, no divinity.
Only wind.
A passing phase of life
Cold frozen life.



Now in some rare moments
When I hold it tight,
To my being
There arise a few tunes
Wild notes, rhythmically
RIse and fall
Though for a while.



How long can I play
With this broken reed?
How far I can tune
With these poor scales?



How many days?
Months and years?
How many ages?
Shall I be?
An answer-me
My God.