Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Poetic thoughts of a passionate poet-ll


After a dramatic election fruition, back to grind (sigh). It didn’t rain. It smelt so thick! The message was guarded in the air. A malaproped information was just recorded. The air broadcasted the winsome score of the youths, much to the discontentment of many. Revere the juvenescence, they say. A sudden tidal-surge. India pledges.

Does a poet have anything to do with this political pulsating thump? “Well, is he not a citizen?” answered my helper.

Day, tries hard to catch forty winks. Roasting air baby sits.

In a remote corner on my pleasure armchair, Tagore was being read. No, not read exactly but hummed aloud. Within.

‘Gitanjali’…hmm, the bountiful nature, the monologue of a surreal lover… divine and flawlessly sewed with pearly words. Words which flow like a never aging hilly stream! Sparkling, mewling, chattering and flowing ad nauseum. And look… what it does. Sweeps our mind off and we, let ourselves flow.

“We do not enjoy poetry unless we know it to be poetry”- how correctly Thoreau put across the very essence of understanding the life called ‘poetry’. You can sew it, you can sing it, you can swing with it. She is just a beauty. Period.

Many have negated the poet’s world. Whimsical, they called it. They perhaps failed to have what we call vision. Poetry. An aquarium. So very known, so very colorful; life swims across. Smile liquidates.

Nature poetry has always appealed to us. Wordsworth, Keats, Byron, Shelley- you name them and well, the journey begins. Nature becomes a religion par se. The light handed over to us. Grey over the green. Poignant. In this burnished nature though, our poetry does oxygenate lilies and daffodils too. It hasn’t greyed as yet. The flower of november does celebrate its birthday . The dolphins do dance and paddle around. The birds flap their wings too. Well, the sun sinks in the arms of the sea again.

Blue, white, red and yellow, greets the colour-blessed rainbow.

Nature is unfledged. It always sweetens the pot. Our poetry needs to fan and room it. Nature mothers us, Wordsworth pays his tribute, so does Tagore in almost all his song poems. Poetry is a pleasure read. It is not certainly meant for people in the run and hit world. See a guitar, music just heard. Let your eyes fall on to a window-side flower, colour splashes.

Almost all those who claim to be muses, do ones in a while consecrate tune and lines for her. Nature and poetry are quite the inseparable. Poetry is ornamented when nature eulogized.

“Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.

Ages passes, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. “

Tagore voices our heart in one of his song poems. So much it offers, we contain only as much we can hold. Pure love cascades. Looking at the rainbow, which stills us with the untouched feel of color, a man is always full of thought, how does it form? Scientific conclusions paid no heed. Its simply beauty to the beholder. Poetry spills over.

In our melancholic self, it is the best to return to nature. Nature soothes. It helps to sow the seed of verses. An active conversation develops between nature and man. Thus, ones the heavy heart, lightens up. I have celebrated reading aloud Wordsworth’s ‘Leech Gatherer’. Nature has been outpoured in the poetry as some of its lines just reverberate:

All things that love the sun are out of doors;

The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;

Travelling amid natural beauty just lets ourselves, unwind. Lost in the sounds of insects, piping birds sizzling flow of a stream and the sudden gush of wind that disarrays lock of hair, a poet… instantly takes birth. Its in such instances that divinity can actually be felt and lived through.

Just the other day, host of pastoral lads visited our flat. A bee hive built on the top floor, blocks the human locomotion. The hive had to be destroyed. Poor bees lose their homes. After all, its survival for the fittest and at this moment it fits us to annihilate them. For we have encroached upon their territory. Cruel man rules over land, water and air. Now, space too.

Pages fill in, thoughts awarded the pink slip…


Poetic Thoughts of a Passionate Poet is an exclusively reserved space on p4poetry.com blog for whereby a member gets to share their thoughts, beyond poetry.......
.....because a poet is much more than his poem!

Friday, May 15, 2009

April Contest Winner

After the daring 'podcast' as theme for the March Contest, the heat got to us, just as we're sure it got to all of you guys! We decided to make the most of the heat and hence the April contest theme 'Heat'.
We'd like to congratulate all the participating members for entering their poems and not letting heat affect their creativity! The response was great and after heated rounds of judging, SUDHA GOEL's poem "Garmi/Heat" emerged as the Winner!

Congratulations Sudha ji!

1st Runners up - Garmi Garib By Parminder ji

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Poetic Thoughts of a Passionate Poet - l

poetry,poetry and more poetry

Almost 3300 kms covered. Pine Hills, virgin ravines peeping and giggling from one hill to another, 17 degrees; chirpy chilly wind deafening the ears, cold yet vibrant cafĂ©’s, verses in guitars and poetry on tea cups- Shillong swarmed in life. The kites now fly overhead, covered faces, smog-clouded streets, Sabarmati flows sidelined with bollywood songs and jagraatas in the background. Patellia rules in this part of the land. Writing poetry is the last pick of the day.

Opulence strikes on your face. Zooming big cars deafens the silence of the night. What was that car? A Chevrolet? A Merc? The tiny little small town girl grows up. Market is booming.
Market. The all pervasive, the ultimate, the supreme. Boom! Students have evolved to compare your care with the others in the market. 200 years of Darwin… indeed!!

Nights: sweltering heat brings in chilly frozen tears. “You think too much.” “Do I?” “Do we?” By any chance can we get over with our thoughts? The nights in any case deepens, darkens our ceaseless haunting thoughts. Can nights be blacked-out?

The process of growing up in a big city- a compulsion. Conflict breeds and braids poetry. We live. Muses after all are by far the most amusing of all human forms.

Standing on the balcony: the only outlet for a small town woman now. The world yawns here. Poetry gets stifled. Obnoxious odor of politics insinuates the ones uncorked soul. Well my poetry now is omnivorous- it gets a taste of everything. Intoxicating wax of the pines relegated to oblivion. Or is it? Really?

Time has worn a new face. Poetry factories churn out expressions. Easier access at the factory outlet. Hail technology. Did we just hear a poem now? Mass production doesn’t lead to mass consumption. Self consumption opens the gate to drawing from ones own closet if not from others.

“I am a poet too.”

“Like my thesis my poems too written by others.” Here I am the 21st century creative writer. The modern poet claims.

Writing no longer is the proprietary right of the learned or the philosophers who took all the pain to conceal from the world at large what they scribbled in the early 18th, 19th century. Now, almost every house has a poet or a writer within its domain. Any and every second lover turns out to be a poet. He, who feels cheated in love, passes the entrance test of claiming a poet. It appears to be the best resort to claim, jeer and announce ones feelings without exercising his vocal cord! Above all it’s trendy to proclaim oneself a poet! It is sad. In the process of earning easy fame and green passes to be on the limelight, there are a many of them in the crowd who accidentally get into murky lanes. One of them of course leads them to become plagiarists, thief the idea or ape word to word of the poems liked and earn the pat on their back. No big deal. To recollect one such incident- a poet who was a regular reader of his poems in a particular forum was one fine day trapped in a controversy of actually sifting up an old verse of Tagore and diligently vocalizing it as his own writing to an august gathering. Now, blame it to his misfortune that the listeners were all academicians and had their command over Tagore literature that he was shown the door with grace. Difficult to accept though, it has become a bourgeois practice to earn a coronet for a brief period and getting eclipsed in just few days. Like instant noodles, instant the fame too.

An age-old practice, percolated through the genes. Honesty, loyalty, human values have disappeared somewhere amid the concrete jungle. And we write poetry.

No doubt it is difficult to pull up the weeds in a field, but it is not an impossible job for a sedulous peasant. Those of us who consider eating, drinking and writing poetry as the only thing to be born for can conceal our integrity in our sleeves and give it a public appearance as and when needed or at least have the honesty to credit the person whose writing has influenced ours’.

In any case, it goes without mention that we do not say anything new! We say and praxis what our forefathers have said and done. We share a common knowledge, and we cannot contest that. The way of expressing varies. That’s all we do.

Meanwhile, its time for me to garner my grains and pile them up to carry on my diurnal work load. Poetry is whirling around the fins of the fans. Got to switch off the circuit to let the words climb down to pacify me as the calescent sun ogles without blinking for a second and I just look at it with a smile…

Curtains drawn.



Poetic Thoughts of a Passionate Poet is an exclusively reserved space on p4poetry.com blog for whereby a member gets to share their thoughts, beyond poetry.......

.....because a poet is much more than his poem!