Volume - 1 Issue -2 March 2025
A Symphony for World Poetry Day
When dawn ignites the ink of
March’s pen,
And whispers thread through every shore and sphere,
The globe becomes an open page again,
Where syllables like seeds are sown in air.
From ancient chants to verses yet unborn,
The heartbeats of the world in rhyme are worn.
In every tongue, from deserts
to monsoon,
The poet’s breath revives the dust of time—
A sonnet carved in moonlight’s tender swoon,
A haiku cradled where the snowpeaks climb.
In Urdu’s grace or Yoruba’s strong hymn,
The pulse of life crescendos, never dim.
From Sappho’s fire to Homer’s
boundless seas,
From Li Bai’s moon to Angelou’s fierce rise,
The dead still speak in rustling parchment leaves,
Their truths embossed in constellations’ eyes.
Each stanza built on sorrow, joy, or war,
A bridge of light to realms unseen before.
A child who finds their voice in
measured lines,
An elder stitching memories to verse,
The refugee who maps their pain in signs,
The lover spelling vows the stars rehearse—
In every cry that ink and parchment bear,
A million souls exclaim, ”You’re
not alone there.”
So let the skeptics claim that
poems fade—
No screen can replicate the hand’s slow trace,
The weight of silence where a comma’s laid,
The ache of metaphors no time can erase.
For when machines have drained their hollow songs,
The poet’s heartbeat still where it belongs.
Then lift the cup of stanzas to
the sun,
Let every voice intone its sacred part.
The day is now—the old, the young, the ones
Who weave the world’s fragments into art.
March 21st, the earth in chorus swells:
“We are the poets. Nothing else
compels.”
-
Sivakumar
Raman
