Useless poetry

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Useless Poetry
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A flight of butterflies and
The eager eyes are after them.
No one can help praising them-
They have sky touching the earth,
Lips kissing a cheek,
A rising sun on one hand
And a setting one on another,
Silent waters on one hand
And waves on another.

A butterfly falls and
The eager eyes calm down.
A pair of eyes saddens,
Picks up the drooped rose
And waters it to life.
Another pair of similar eyes
Gets excited waiting
For the drooped rose to bloom.
"Be self dependent," they say,
"Lemme see what you do?"
Those eyes are of a poet
Without love for his subjects.
Thus makes he a poetry
Without love, without life,
Thus makes he a useless poetry.
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Here I would like to present a good poetry on similar lines.

Poetry
by Irfan

Poetry may falter in praise
may totter behind filth in scraps
appear suddenly in crumpled pea-pouches
or decide to place itself in heels of a boot-licker
and receive awards too many.
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Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you.

It Rains

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This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality.
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It Rains
It rains.
Kids run wearing bright raincoats,
Jumping, hopping, splashing the waters.
Adults wade through the knee-level water,
Slippers in one hand, umbrella in other;
Some cycle through the drizzling path,
Some have a rickshaw-ride:
There's one who does nothing.

It rains.
Men quicken to get some spicy food,
Women start preparing tea or coffee.
Aged persons sit at a window or veranda
Glimpsing the active drops fall before them.
A mother gives her child a surprise-
The baby watches, smelling the freshness:
There's one who does nothing.

It rains.
We plan out a football match,
Rush for the nearby pond to swim,
Reach the terrace for the world's view.
We also bet a race across the road,
Challenge a walk over a wall
Or play out a scene in the rain:
There's one who does nothing.

It rains.
There's one who does nothing.
As if for him the waters fall not,
And if they fall, they reach not the ground
And if they reach the ground
They excite him not-
As if for him there's no rain
There's no sunshine for him either,
Neither love nor hate: thus, no life.
There's one living as if he had no life.
It rains?
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NOTE:
As I am adding this I remember Charles Dickens, the subtle satire he wrote, which accumulating led to a tragedic yet convincing end of the plot.
This is what a writer does best. He takes u beyond what you call your world, beyond what you consider reality, beyond what you call practicality. Yet when you read it, it seems your very own.(You are ready to identify the Thing). He gives you the joy of experiencing what after experiencing you call elements of your own world. The writer attacks your Lost and Longing aspect to transform it to Belongingness and Admiration.
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Charles Dickens

To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart.

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For ur eyes