The Wall

When everything can be put in simple words,

why would you want to complicate things?

You want your voice to be heard,

but why don’t you want it to be understood?


Is wisdom only meant for the already wise?


Then what’s the point of writing a poem and sending it out into a world filled with unwise folks like me?

What’s the point of figuring out something profound, but using words and forms and styles that add more knots

to the rope of tangled lives, questions, and doubts

strangling a majority of us?

You bring more and more shards of puzzles into the picture—shards we didn’t know existed


They’re shards that do not need to exist.


What’s the use of your poem if all you can bring to the table are dazzling forms and shimmering words and ideas as mind-boggling and eye-ruining as the sight of thousands of kaleidoscopes being thrown into a giant kaleidoscope, with the millions of pieces of crunchy, tinkering glass hitting the three giant glass walls and cracking them too.





of stunning




ideas and images

that don’t invite us to put them together?


You’re purposely building a terrifying Wall between us, a Wall fashioned from countless obscure materials that taunt us and humiliate us and discourage us—us, who just can’t understand (perhaps because there isn’t anything to understand anyway).

Everyone on your side of the Wall believes you’re all exceptionally emotional beings,

somehow, feeling more emotions than all of us on this side combined

somehow, being more suitable to talk of things we may actually know more deeply of

somehow, you’re supposed to be someone different and great and amazing and praiseworthy.

And us?

We’re supposed to be just people who are exceptionally unemotional

somehow, all of us combined are not as visionary or imaginative as a strand of hair of one of you,

somehow, you say, we just don’t seem to “get you”

and that’s supposed to be an insult,

because you


understand us better than we do

(even though you may not clearly tell us what it is exactly that you’ve understood).

And we are supposed to feel ashamed for not having the– the– the–

the sophistication

to understand you on us

or the sophistication to stop writing simple, straightforward things that don’t confuse anyone.


Allow me to be straightforward here at least:

Your writing about things that affect us is not the problem; it’s that your words don’t make it possible for us to understand.


Your Wall intimidates and attracts, so lots of people from my side latch onto it, crying, “We understand! Most certainly, we do understand!”

And they interpret, from your incomprehensible words, something even more

incomprehensible, incongruous, and unconnected,

and they give you some awards and say, “Wow! Truly a bold/path-breaking/revolutionary/revelation of a poem!”

And even though not a wisp of the interpretation was true, you accept the award with humility and say,

“I’m glad someone got what I was trying to convey.”

The latched-on ones are pulled up, onto your side,

and the rest of us are left with mounds of pretty, senseless phrases to figure out so we can “understand ourselves better”.

And if we can’t, it’s our fault somehow

for getting lost in pricking word mazes and High art with Big concepts that

beLittle us,

and then somehow you find the audacity to say,

“I’m just like you, and I write to help us all figure things out together

and as soon as such words

drop from your mouth,

they tumble and settle onto the Wall with a melodious, unintelligible

b o o m

sparkling dust fills the air

and some sharp glittering splinters, of something we can never understand, fly at us;

they smash and crush our attempts to show you how we truly feel

they pierce and tear our simple-worded feelings, thoughts, and observations

they zigzag over and stitch our lips shut

and when all this settles,

when we have tended to our wounds and rubbed our eyes,

when we look at the Wall again,

we find that it has reached closer to the sky









          re a  c   h


What are you looking for?