The Recital

(Attended) a poetry session today,

Enacted by a poet through his

Onomatopoeic, gesticulated gestures,

Clenched fist-ed, strained, wide-eyed,

Shifting his weight from one foot to another,

Like dodging his public-speaking fears,

From one leg to the the other,

As he tried to build

A rapport with the audience,

Through his words as they (the words) sifted

Through the folds of the air

To make a silent thud against

An attentive soul's solid, soiled exterior.

While reciting, looking into lit screens,

Scrolling up and down,

And trying to look for that line,

That trail of thought which was (most) perfect

Only in its untimely, chaotic, vague birth in that mind.

As the poet tried to familiarise

Himself with his feelings

Flattened out on fresh paper in

A font different from how

The curves & edges had felt 
In that first gush of thoughts,

When he'd probably first thought of

Penning down his thoughts,

Wise as he was to realise how

Precious they were.

Maybe he wanted to

Articulate his thoughts in written,

But ended up pinning them down.

P.S. Having attended a poetry session today, where the emphasis seemed to be on gestures, sounds, or let's say on the 'enactment' of poetry, I had a question stirring from within. The strain of thoughts, must be penned in words for retrospection and introspection. But once a poet, in all his earnest yearning to convey his/her feelings through his words, to his audience now, and not to himself, takes up the task of 'presenting' his composition in a certain way, does not that precious, original thought, lose its very essence? 

Maybe, poetry isn't about being accurate. Maybe that is why, we converse in the intricacies of language, and not in equations and formulae. :)