Mahanand Sharma

The Poet’s Fortune

Here goes the poet’s arthi ! “Rama’s name is true,”
The bearers chant.
His frame’s unwrapped and placed on pyre as fires yellow, blue
Consumes this plant.

The fires which burn around him have now gained in glow
From poesy’s flame
Which burnt unnoticed while, in life, his numbers flowed
Without acclaim.

In life he went about, a bearded feeble man
Who tempted death,
By jealous dons and critics kicked who could not ken
His poesy’s depth.

But now he’s dead. The critics vie in singing loud
His poesy’s praise.
Now shines the poet whom fortune hid in the darkest cloud,
In glory’s blaze.

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Arthi is bed of bamboo poles and sticks on which the dead body , wrapped in a piece of cloth, is laid and tied and then carried in a mourning procession to the cremation ground.