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 café’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…
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!