On Poetry and Other Musings

Hair , hair , every where .

Hair , hair , every where .

         “Into the ancient pond
A frog jumps,
plop !”

This is not the typical poem we read everyday . In fact , it is a Haiku .

Ever wondered about poetry ? How beautiful the word is – Poetry . It’s poetic .

Poetry , I believe , is not something you can sit and write . You can’t actually ‘write’ Poetry . Writing is superficial here. We can write a few stanzas , add some phony rhyming words, perhaps some poetic devices . But that is not Poetry , that’s just blunt lines and lifeless words. We cannot think and write Poetry . Poetry cannot be thought out .

Poetry transcends the mind . Poetry is instantaneous . Poetry is magic .

Real poets are a lost bunch , a band of vagabonds in this world . They’re dreamers and lovers . They find beauty, joy and pain is seemingly trivial things which others would miss so easily .  A flower , the forest , the moon . They have new eyes , they look as if they are looking at it for the first time . And in the quietness they feel them and in that silence, their piquancy , poignancy moves their heart .And then Poetry flows .

Poets are not actually the real authors , their souls are , they are just a transmitter , a medium. Poetry is nothing , but the soul’s song. Poets should be literally out of their mind . An intellectual can never be a poet . He lives with his head . Poetry transcends thought . To the thinking mind , poetry is incomprehensible .

Anything can invoke poetry . A felling of a tree , the cuckoo , the grumpy old man who chews tobacco all day , absolutely anything . And when the poetry flows , he runs for a paper and pen , the words are racing by him , he furiously tries to write them down , to connect with the flow , the literary orgasm.
After having written the poem , the poet then reflects on what he has written and often stares in wonder . He has no recollection of the words, expressions and emotions . He just went with the flow .  He feels it’s beauty, texture and taste . It feels just like holding a new-born baby . You tenderly look it , you see the innocence, you feel it’s joy and smell the fragrance .

Often the poem is unconventional . Critics and cynics rubbish it . Intellectuals drab it . The blind misses it . They are ahead of their time . For men who has their heads in their hearts and for who has their souls in solitude , they will hear the poetry , they will feel the poetry , the will rejoice and delight in the poetry .

When it quietens your mind , uplifts your soul , when it leaves a fragrant scar over your heart. That’s poetry right there . Hold on to it . Hold on to your life .


2 thoughts on “On Poetry and Other Musings

  1. Reblogged this on Theater Of My Thoughts and commented:
    Claps Claps!


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