Poetry doesn’t just happen.
It’s not just a bunch of words grabbed hastily and arranged to rhyme, it’s not even a so called overflow of emotions. Poetry is much more than that. It’s the silence that echoes within your being, an echo of meanings, at times beyond your understanding and yet absolutely fulfilling. Poetry is as simple as a leaf gliding down the tree, slow and steady, singing it’s own tune, telling you a story of colours and wind. Poetry is. It just is.
Every time a thought moves into the symphony of my being, I start looking for a pen and paper. No, not to write a poem but to get it out, to empty myself and see this new born breathe on it’s own. It builds itself into a poem on its own. For years I have been wondering how this happens, the definition, the concept and each time it amazes me with the newness of its being. There is no definite code to this process, the process of writing a poem. It could happen on a dull Tuesday afternoon out of nowhere like a butterfly resting on your shoulder asking you to look up at the sky and mute the chaos around. Like a possessed soul poetry flows through me. I feel like a medium, not the source. It’s like someone is pouring these thoughts into me and want me give them a shape. After each poem I look at it for a while, like a mother looks at her grown up daughter, all prepared to deal with life and she wonders with an awe ‘did I really create this?’
In silence my poems mature, they learn to talk amongst themselves, derive their own meanings and in the process of writing a poem, I often wonder who is writing whom. They make me write themselves. And I, like a pleasantly possessed being, do exactly as they say. Word by word, verse by verse. Poetry writing often comes so close to extremes, the mind becomes one with the art. So each time when someone asks me, ‘but how do you manage to go about it’ I am so completely blank. The matter of the fact is, I don’t know how to go about it. I am just taken about it, by some cosmic force. And I get so lost into it, that after a point, immense joy and immense pain seem the same. I can’t make out the difference between a love poem, a heartbreaking poem and a happy poem. You can read it with any emotion, and yet it makes complete sense. With these thoughts the blank look on my face, gets more and more grave transporting me into realizations I am aware of but fail to explain.
I like the feeling of a poem happening to me. Every now and then. On days and weeks when there is too much to do and too little to think, poems stay away. They hate schedules, they can’t stand mechanical time tables, they detest perfection. This tug of war continues, between what should be and what actually is.
Poetry is. It actually is.