Poetry

Words proliferate: climbing from simple phrases, moving across hurdles, to finally reach prominence. A few do, and the others barely make it to the finish. The few that are dismayed return again.

It reminds me of the story of three little ants which go around a circular tank. A deeply opinionated person would dismiss such notions. But skeptics rationalize, and it is that faith in logic that binds their thoughts together. In a collation, the universe behaves in a similar fashion. Nothing remains fixed; even the stars are in relative motion to a thinker. Creativity should grow from within. And thus the poet’s day begins in distress.

Harder he tries to entwine his creations together; the more adept they are at moving apart. He has his own demons. The questions of legitimacy knock on his doors; for which he has to offer an act. This is a crucial stage in writing. There are only two options; to forgo the beautiful memories or to nurture its growth. Most poets like him sit on their tasks, slackening. In the beginning, it just sounds plain wrong. A laze is like a bout of sleep that feels so good in the morning. It may not help in the thought process; hence an essential step to perfection. Retaining the thought requires a clear mind and a healthy synthesis. When people snooze their alarms, I feel it is most often a positive. Care about thyself, then care about the world. It should never become too late though.

Considering the bus hasn’t left, the fragments float mid air. His job is to clear the air. As clean as it gets. Drawing inspiration from another’s work is always a good thing. It all boils down to where the line is drawn. In today’s world, every thought is like a prosperous fruit. They all taste alike. It feels like an indefinite halt. Quite impossible to read everything, the poet trusts his impulses and goes on. The right semicolons, at the right times; the result is a juxtaposition of phrases, often lacking definitive meaning.

A tinge of beauty brings the words to life. Every phrase need not have an inner meaning per se. And the literary tools are taken to carve into being the ignorant and the unwieldy. Similes and metaphors set the tone for the music to start; the alliteration starts the rhythm and the jumbling of sentences adds obscurity. A sculpture in making is this work of art. For this is art; just as much as the music that comes out of a jazz guitarist’s notes.

Cleaning up the mess is hard work. A work so deemed for its thoroughness and sincerity. If he clears this hurdle, he can end his already tiring day, which spans across several weeks. Citing examples, replenishing the used monotones, the writer decides to keep the relevance. The bad words fall out, like bad twigs from an olive branch.

The one missing thing is the artist’s signature. Shelley had an ode. Wordsworth fell in love with nature. Shakespeare portrayed the lust, greed and love. For this poet, he clings on to the verbose wordplay. Miming his predecessors, he chooses to align his thoughts into a crypt. The above said enacts the structure based on a rigid framework, bound by a set of rules that a writer has to follow. But the ravishing beauty is that the detail is a mystery. The words in between lines are a ghost.

Words and phrases gel together and sing in harmony: of the unspeakable truth for the future generations. The poet has the lock and there is no key. Thus a poem is born.