The Poetic Identity
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Are poets crazy?
Often one gets to hear about that. Don’t they think more than they talk, all the time brooding over something inexplicable, something weird? Don’t they talk about matters we all think of but don’t disclose, something trivial and irrelevant? Don’t they chase people to listen to them, understand their arcane and esoteric stuff?
A poet’s wife thinks she is a neglected fellow when her husband loves her poetry with all the passion at his command. Even if he composes one ballad to immortalize his love towards his darling wife, he is misunderstood. As if he had another girl behind his composition to inspire and express.
A poet’s husband is no better placed. He starves for attention, listening all the time to her high ideas and formatted expressions. One day he finds himself transformed as an object of her wife’s poetic experimentation--a guinea pig in her poetic lab! He cannot be rude and cannot speak his mind out how profoundly he hates her poetic blabbering!
A poet thinks he should transcend the level of banality. He should tell something which is the truth undiscovered, seen and felt by the poet alone. He challenges his detractors, the critics. He is misunderstood by the men on the street.
A poet tries to define indefinable. What is beauty? What is life? What is love? What is time? And so on and so forth. Does he reach the truth ? Arrive at his conclusion? Yes, mostly he does. Like time is something that takes us from event to event; love is something that is volunteered, accepted and returned. Like an economist defining money: Money is what money does.
Poets trace the route to the ultimate. Love leads to life; life leads to struggle; struggle leads to realization; realization leads to the truth; truth leads to blithe; blithe leads to…. Can we reach the beginning of a circle, or its end?
Are poets crazy? One has to be either crazy or a poet to answer that. Or maybe contest that. I cannot admit I’m crazy and the world would need proof to admit me as a poet. So why this blabbering?
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A. N. Nanda
Bhubaneswar
01/10/2006
____________________________________________________________
Are poets crazy?
Often one gets to hear about that. Don’t they think more than they talk, all the time brooding over something inexplicable, something weird? Don’t they talk about matters we all think of but don’t disclose, something trivial and irrelevant? Don’t they chase people to listen to them, understand their arcane and esoteric stuff?
A poet’s wife thinks she is a neglected fellow when her husband loves her poetry with all the passion at his command. Even if he composes one ballad to immortalize his love towards his darling wife, he is misunderstood. As if he had another girl behind his composition to inspire and express.
A poet’s husband is no better placed. He starves for attention, listening all the time to her high ideas and formatted expressions. One day he finds himself transformed as an object of her wife’s poetic experimentation--a guinea pig in her poetic lab! He cannot be rude and cannot speak his mind out how profoundly he hates her poetic blabbering!
A poet thinks he should transcend the level of banality. He should tell something which is the truth undiscovered, seen and felt by the poet alone. He challenges his detractors, the critics. He is misunderstood by the men on the street.
A poet tries to define indefinable. What is beauty? What is life? What is love? What is time? And so on and so forth. Does he reach the truth ? Arrive at his conclusion? Yes, mostly he does. Like time is something that takes us from event to event; love is something that is volunteered, accepted and returned. Like an economist defining money: Money is what money does.
Poets trace the route to the ultimate. Love leads to life; life leads to struggle; struggle leads to realization; realization leads to the truth; truth leads to blithe; blithe leads to…. Can we reach the beginning of a circle, or its end?
Are poets crazy? One has to be either crazy or a poet to answer that. Or maybe contest that. I cannot admit I’m crazy and the world would need proof to admit me as a poet. So why this blabbering?
______________________________________________________
A. N. Nanda
Bhubaneswar
01/10/2006
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Labels: Humour
posted by The Unadorned | 9:21 PM
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