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…
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