Buried leaves

I buried heaps of leaves
Under my cosy bed;
Years later, they turned
A uniform brown,
Those, which were once
Green, yellow and red.

To have a glance
I dug them out and reread;
Left out for long, they appeared
Indecipherable, blurred
Lost their outstanding stance.

Once upon a time
They were also words;
I felt them alive within, afresh.


© supratik 2020
UKA Editor's Pick!
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critique and comments welcome.
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Dear Supratik, your poems are usually full of interesting ideas expressed in your inimitable style. This seems to diverge from the normal as you try to use rhymes. My problem is not with the rhyming – it follows a set pattern – but the text which contains mixed metaphors that prevent me from fully understanding its meaning. Perhaps I am not reading it properly but that is the impression I get.


This is very clever, when I first read it I was slightly perplexed but having read again just now, I feel I understood what you meant ( at least in my own mind ) I felt it was about old poems, or stories, you had written and stored away, thinking they would become irrelevant overtime, yet they were as fresh as ever.
At least that’s how I saw it, apologies if I had it completely wrong.
But either way, I really enjoyed it. Sue.


I agree it is less confusing, however for me it has lost it’s magic, I enjoyed the first version so much possibly because it was so metaphoric and had hidden meanings. One could see what one wanted to see, not what actually is when clinically set out. Still a good poem all the same. Sue.


Hi Supratik! The last stanza is fine and works on its own though the rhyme read/head is pointless and a little naff, to use a word in common parlance. The first stanza, however, has me squirming in agony at “heaves of leaves” which cannot, nay, must be allowed to exist any longer as the word “heaves” cannot and must not be used in this way, even if you think it’s a jokey or witty play on “heaps.” Secondly, mon cher ami, the position of “crown” is ambiguous and the highly discriminating reader knows not whether the leaves are falling from… Read more »


It’s become a fine poem, this edited version, Supratik, I think one of your best. Beautifully written, and resonates so well with me, as this is exactly how we view, most of at least, our earlier literary works. The exceptions being autobiographical or nostalgic remembrances, faithfully related to, before the ageing brain loses a lot of the original detail. I think this poem so good that it is of publishable quality, t’would raise the standard of many anthologies I’ve read. Yes, for me, exceptionally good, the messaging too, is universal.
Best, Goth


Shows how well-meant constructive suggestions, or interpretations, can lead to a better rendition of what in essence nevertheless remains one’s own work? The very apt and beautiful picture could be a little smaller: by going in Edit, clicking on the picture to activate it, placing the curser on one corner spot that appears, which then becomes a two way arrow , and then drawing the picture in (or out) which reduces or enlarges the picture while keeping the same proportions, then Save.

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