That's a question for blank verse!
One starts off by saying "No idea",
Then in tiny baby steps, gather
Clues, observing the stuffy ones.

I don't mean to be rude, for some
Are stuffed without being stuffy,
Their meanings making one happy,
While busy spending early time.

I mean parents, teachers, siblings,
Good ones, leaving sweet taste,
Memory of many soft meanings
Savoured on young years' tongue.

Other meanings of tough sources,
Laying the residues of crusty stuff
That last the bonded time of yore
And longer, slaying the future too.

Who knows when time gets owned?
Not jerky shriek, or papa's critique,
Like a still silent artist pondering
An empty canvas, a poet his paper.

Me, i got so stuffed with meaning,
I didn't do it all, so won't call it
'Meaning'. It's not sense to me, but
Maybe others, maybe not them too.

When images form with zero norm,
But match a twitch or urge to say
A thought or feeling that's me, me,
Me! I can call it Meening, it's mine.

Spell it Meaning if you want to,
But i think i answered the question.
I'll call it Meening, and i'll stuff it in,
Not so it bursts, but fits well my time.


© Sanjib Basu