Poetry – Are you mad?

Someone asked me – Why do people write poems? Why do we need poems? I do not read any? I read lots of novels. I listen to music, songs, hip hop, rock, even rap. But never a poem. The last time I read one was during my early school days when I was taught a few.

I told him – Sane enough. Poetry is never meant to be read in any case. It is written as a means of expressing one’s own deep feelings of love, of hatred, of victory, of failure, of elation, of depression, of betrayal, of fear. Ask me what not! Poetry is a private affair. It’s a love between the creator and the medium of recording. They make love and out of that wedlock emerges a creation. For some it is music, for some prose, for a few others poetry. They remain sometimes as timeless pebbles underneath the ocean, sometimes discovered and shone light, to bloom and on its flowers the bees sit, sing and get drunk, carry a few pollen along with them spreading the song, new plants are sown and new flowers are born, by when the one which bloomed first might have wilted and gone, the fragrance still lingers on the stone, only to be washed away by an angry river, later picked up again by a curious kid in another land, in another era, to be felt, smelt and reborn. Its …

I was interrupted – You are mad!

I said – I guess I am. Wait, I had not finished yet…


Soliloquy of a Stillborn Life

Soon I shall be gone

Will there be anyone to mourn?

There will be nothing but a stone

Resting on the bones of a life, stillborn.


The pages of my torn book,

The manuscript that no one would look,

Would litter the boneyard

Like leaves swept by a solemn wind, southward.


Time would stand muted, holding the empty end

Of a broken kite-string that it failed to mend.

The destiny, the dream, both wounded from a life-long fist fight

Would sing the requiem of a life’s plight.


The meaning of my work, hard to know

When I am alive and shouting now

Would in the end,  dawn on this world

When beneath the earth, silently I curled.



Getting started

Life is not made out of memories of good. It is rather an ugly and unpleasant truth that you try to forget or run away from.  It is not about the spring and melting of snow. It is about the frozen ice and unforgiving chilly winds that blow on your face. In between these moments is that you try to seek the reality and seek a new future. A bright day, a shining horizon and  a glimmer of hope is all that you yearn for. And you wait for the signs.

Getting started is not about beginning to write. It is about starting to overcome the writer’s block in everyone’s life and here my life. This is not about literally sitting and writing one’s way out of a dreadful story of the past. It is about realising that existence itself is notional. There is more to life that just living. Making history and perhaps dreaming your own future is what makes a human. Imagine a bird getting Acrophobia, a fish fearing the waters, that’s what happens when a man starts  fearing his own dreams.

Everyone of us has incidents about the experiences and events that made us what we are today. Some are happy about it and some are rather not, which I think follows the very nature’s laws. One has to be happy and another has to be unhappy. Have you realised what makes you happy ? But the most important question here is not what makes you happy but what makes you unhappy. I believe that is what defines the success that one tries to seek. Realising that you have to run away from something and embrace another thing is what gives you direction. Defining success has been the single most important task for me all throughout my life. As I noted down in the About Me link, I am trying to recover  the lost script of my life. I am not going to rewrite my past. Well, no one can I guess. To imagine you can do it, is just giving a false belief to your soul. Finding the script is synonymous with Understanding my existence. Till then, to me, existence will remain purely notional and imaginary.

Fruitful actions never gave me the courage to overcome my writer’s block. I wrote to satisfy others. Now I write to satisfy myself. May be I will end up satisfying others too. Does that really matter ? What matters is that to confess and to start all over again needs courage. To build a life from zero is fearlessness. To fall down and to rise is bravery. Creating legend from a forgetful past lies the fight. Mere survival isn’t enough. When odds are against, you swim against the current. That takes the wind out of your lungs and makes you gasp. Swimming with the current like a dead fish is not the game that winner’s play.

Life often is like the cursor on the next paragraph wanting you to write more and continue or complete the meaning of what you have already said. But, it will leave you with times when you read from the top and realise that may be that’s it. I have so many things to say but where are the words that make those meaningful sentences. Where is the epic that I dreamt to reveal today ? Is the cheese for real that I talked grabbing about? May be grapes are sour after all. But would you stop typing ? Wouldn’t you want to explore the unexplored? Wouldn’t you want to see what your mind could make you see when your eyes are covered, hear when you are deaf, travel when your limbs are dead, interpret when you are insane, sense when you are senseless. What is the higher purpose ? May be there isn’t anything ! But what if you had something. Wouldn’t you want to know that ? There are questions and perhaps no answers or more than one. Perhaps what ties past, present, future, existence and everything else into a bundle called life are the right questions and not the answers !