How does poetry emerge or how does it manifest itself? This is a question which I have been grappling with, even while writing or even reading good poetry and I just have not been able to find the reason for it all. I hope to reflect some day when I feel confident about myself and the writing which I do, because though the words do speak to me, but most of the times they elude me and some times you only see their traces and a few symbols around.
This post is simply meant to put things into perspective, to put memories in their place and to put words to where they belong. It is about 'debts' through their manifestations and also through their absences. Generally speaking I feel that poetry emerges out of a conversation, a conversation with the self, with the other and maybe sometimes with the other which has just housed inside the inner essences of being, not to be separated, which works at times as the alter or which sometimes walks with you as your shadows or sometimes it caresses you in the sublimity of presences.
The last poem, if I say that I do write poetry, or if it is just a pretence which I have carried all along, which can be manifested in the overly complicated usage of words which sometimes meander across the pieces of paper just to be lost as a tapered stream in the desert. The desert seems to be devouring it all the while, but maybe the essence of this writing itself is to be lost, to be heard only by losing all its essences. It can be manifested in one of the attempts I made to convince myself that all was not lost and maybe that I am not living in a paradox, a paradox which I might be facing but which I dont wish to see or to be more gentle to myself a private space which I have created to myself where I wish to retire after the drudgery or life and its struggle just leaves you with enough strength to look back, to collect some traces, to collect some shells from these immense coastline of life. Now the attempt....
Fragile conceptions, malleable beliefs and brittle loves
mellifluous presences, inconsolable griefs and detrimental destinies
soporofic ambitions, insoucient desires and craven idleness
sullied hopes, recalcitrant memories and recluse dreams
why write when the pen does not talk to me,
words don't feel for me and the paper refuses to cast me in
These are more about words, rather than a poem trying to find its way through the reader where words speak more than the writer, and here I think I build a pretence that its not me but the words speak but most of the time I know that its the writer who himself is speaking and maybe his whole existential situation is laid bare when he is writing here. The question which always stares me is about transcendence, transcend my own situation to which lies beyond and maybe let the words do what they seem to be capable to doing, rather than me always making an attempt. These are difficulties of writing and these are my difficulties, when in the exploration of the banal you sometimes turn profound or seem to turn profound.
But let me do justice here and why did I start to write this in the first place, it is not to explore what has been done in the passages above but to do some thing else and this is my contradiction and my problematic that whenever I sit to write with an idea in mind, it some how tapers out, takes its own course to emerge as something else. Still I insist to say what I will and what I should.
The last poem hope, was not completely mine. The last three lines have been written by someone else. It was my poetry in search of some completion, maybe even in search of an ending or of new vistas. I myself have troubles with putting an end to what I write and sometimes I feel the last three lines might be the most beautiful things which could have been said, which I in my own world some where could not comprehend. Somewhere I could not comprehend the simplicity which lies around us which is quite beautiful and which needs to be contemplated upon.
So where does it leave me. It tells me something, that we need a dialogue, a conversation to transcend our immediate and maybe even put some lost colors to our words and also to our existence. I would wish to thank all through this space who have been behind and keep on encouraging me to put some words to where they lie, which I try to do in my own way and most of the time I do fail. But these conversations do help me, they do allow me to reflect, to ponder and create a world in which I feel am at home and it seems that all might not be lost. Though this home alienates me at times, it presents before me essences which I would not have cared to see. I think I have said a lot and as always am struggling to find a completion and ending and so would have to leave with something which is abrupt.......
Perhaps this is what love is and perhaps it is more to do with suffering with the one who you love and caring for the one who you love...it does not live in living in those memories which we want to immortalise for ourselves but it lives in those memories which have immortalised themselves in us, that we constantly run away from them....what remains immortalised in us is the human suffering but that is what we tend to negate all the time and tend to forget it.
But maybe forgiveness is what it seeks and what it aspires for, by forgetting it we tend to create spaces for more forgetfulness which means more memories which means more the depth they seek within us...but forgiveness is about not making that self which is suffering to be elusive of us but to have an ‘intimate presence’ within us. Forgiveness is about hope, it is about care, it is about dialogue with the part that is stinking, that part which tends to rot.
The most interesting aspect of the rottenness is that it has been due to us because we have just thrown it away, because human beings have discarded pain it comes in myriad ways. it seeks new inlets and new spaces sometimes having a surreptitious presence.
Pain is also something which makes life beautiful because it opens up those arenas of consciousness which we would not have cared to experience, those areas which would never have been explored if not for pain. but the banality of pain lies in its beginning, because in its beginning itself it is so overpowering that it does not allow us to comprehend it, to make sense of it. It just ties us with the object of desire, the process of transcendence always takes time to come but when it comes it is beautiful.....
Restlessness sits awkwardly interrogating confidence in my own ignorance
of lives not lived and tales yet unexplored
Reason seeks its own part, mitigated always by human desires
what is this emptiness of, a void of emotions perhaps
of selfishness perhaps not reaching out to dark, disorder of humanity
of 'bitter fruits' calling out for a taste
Everyday I tame this restlessness with paens for the beauty
but it steals through the dark of my eyes,
coaxing, cajoling , persuading me in its nightmare,
to taste the one which lay as the shadows of beauty
Imagining I perhaps, these were passing dark clouds,
whose tears would reveal me bliss, but ignorance it was,
to believe of frailty, one whose marks stamped everydayness.
It has taken numerous efforts to break out of the slumber of life to start writing, to fill in those moments and those names to where they belong. For me, writing as an act is both opening and closing oneself at the same time, it lays oneself bare to the outside but in this act itself it hides. Imprints is about the small whiff of air, which when present, makes itself felt but also erases itself for what is to come. It is about the day which goes past everyday without giving us a recognisation of itself, about the life which is about leaving a small footprint on the sands without even calling out to be recognised. This very act of erasure itself is its telos. But before the final act imprints is about poetry, about sweet and "bitter fruits", banality and the dark and disorders of life .......