gotta post something

[Sidr made its way from the coasts to the capital killing about two thousand people on its way. The whole country blckedout during the weekends. I wrote this in candle light,…not because I had something good to write about or something that mattered. Been writing all sorts of messed things lately. Pages fter pages of crap that just wont come together. Still, I just have to put this one down or it feels my head will explode.]

What do you think of poetry? Why is it that poetry, in general, is considered impractical? People say that they discard all logic and sense and just aren’t real enough. Poets are seen as outcasts, a damaged lot trying to escape the realities of life and seeking refuge in make belief. As for the stuff they write, well,…they do score a few points every now and then within certain circles and drunken society parties but that’s as far as they are supposed to go.

I guess its not entirely their fault. ‘Poets’ do seem rather eager to assert their eccentricity. They will take great pains to get the walk, the talk, the dress and the hair right. (Now it’d be pretty awful if they are taken for commonors. Woudn’t it?) They are a delicate sort, unlike the rest and it has to show. Guess, poets are people too; they gotta eat, shit and procreate like the rest of ‘em. So, its quite natural that there will be many who’d just want to put on the uniform, strike up a few lines, wrap ‘em all nice in glossy plastic and try to sell them for more than they are worth, while they still can.

Been reading the Memoirs of Pablo Neruda –

“All the esoteric philosophy of the Oriental countries, when confronted with real life, turned out to be a by-product of the anxiety, neurosis, confusion, and opportunism of the West; that is, of the crisis in the guiding principles of capitalism. In the India of those years there was little room for deep contemplation of one’s navel. ‘An existence that made brutal physical demands, a colonial position based on the most cold-blooded degradation, thousands dying every year of cholera, smallpox, fever, and hunger, a feudal society thrown into chaos by India’s immense population and industrial poverty, stamped such great ferocity on life that all semblance of mysticism disappeared.”

“…the majority exploited a cheap market where exotic amulets and fetishes wrapped in metaphysical sales talk were sold wholesale. These people were always spouting Dharma and Yoga. They reveled in religious acrobatics, all empty show and high sounding words.” [p 84]

“…Became familiar with opium…”
“…I smoked many pipefuls, until I knew…”
“…I understood why hired hands from plantations, day laborers, richshowmen who pull and pull rickshaw all day long, would lay there dazed, motionless. . . Opium was not, as painted to me, the paradise of the exotic, but an escape for the exploited…” [p 88]

- These words reflect the clarity of thoughts of a great mind, a sound mind that isn’t deceived by the smoke screens of half truths and lies.

Poetry is not about dwelling in madness and spitting out empty words that nobody gets. Even after a hundred years, every word on Tagore’s poems makes perfect sense. True ones can keep it real; they don’t bank on confusion.

There is no real conflict between poetry and facts, there never was. In fact, if one pays attention, they just might help him understand the numbers better. May be one day we’ll finally figure it and then the advancement of science will not be driven by the arms race anymore.

In any case, I wouldn’t worry too much. Poetry will survive amidst all the madness and chaos…It is the one thing that can. Poetry will keep the truth alive if the great cities go up in flames and smokes blacken the skies. Poetry will be the beacon, lighting the way for the children rising from the ashes of the dead worlds,..will tell them stories…of what it once was, and what it could be…again…

Aye! Mankind will live on…and so shall its poetry. For every human child is born with it, and secretly carries it in his heart.