Selfish

I am a selfish poet. The whole selfless idea leaves me confused. Sure,it does have a romantic and philosophical touch to it. Some people say when they read a poem and make it theirs,they feel connected. Like they belong. I can't deny it. When I read a poem, I start searching for myself in it.

"Lost they are,happy they are too."

What is the first thought that came to your mind?

A group of people who are lost but they are happy too. Then we start building around those words. Lost doesn't always seem bad and happiness is all that matters and what not.

"The paper boats are on a voyage,
Lost they are, happy they are too."

Now you are confused. But you still try. A child that is playing with paper boats. Yes, almost there. You gather your own meaning. Damn! That was good.

My thoughts on writing these two lines? I wrote the second line first because it suddenly came to me when I touched the keyboard. Should make it more interesting? Maybe a touch of nostalgia? Why not! I add the first line. And leave you to decipher it with your skills.

How cruel are we? We sometimes write things we are not at all passionate about and how is that fair? And when you say 'wow,this is good!', don't you think we feel guilty? Yes,we do.

Now do you realise why I chose selfless. No? The thing if you have a good vocabulary,you can write a poem. Yes,you can. But then have you ever asked someone to explain their poem? You would be surprised at how many thoughts are succumbed into a single poem.

I never try to read and decipher poems that are not mine. Unless I can ask them what they wanted to convey. I know it's too much. But I do read poems but I never try to decipher them. Maybe that's why I don't have a favourite poem. I am all in for passion, feelings and rawness. I don't care even if it is about your morning walk,your toothbrush, I need to know you thought about it. And that it is not a random idea to impress others. Wonder is a beautiful thing. Why would any poet not want to explain the simple brilliant thoughts that spurt out from their mind? Why? It leaves me full of suspicion.

Guilty as charged for the poem above.

P.S. Just my views. Your thoughts are more than welcome. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bad art

Image
I have lived and breathed through my art, I have loved people in silence yet so loud with my art, I found the strength to forgive people through my art and I am learning to love myself through my art. The repressed emotions I had within myself found an outlet and I came to realise that it was normal. That it was normal to accept feelings I had been trying to hide for so long. I still wonder where I would be if I kept on believing that parts of me I disliked could never learn to love by itself. The distinction to call art good or bad feels like a limit, a limit to control the way we humans are capable of expressing ourselves. We are all in this together. Together in an effort to be understood.We all have our art. Art never has to be something that can be witnessed by others. It can be anything. It could be a feeling inside you, the crumpled paper in your room that has your words, strokes or melody, or simply your existence. It could be the way you hold someone, the way you help others t
Read more

Monologue of an anxious heart

Image
  Love is a strange feeling. I have tried to write about it so many times but it never feels right. So here goes another try. 1. This isn't something you wished for but now that it's here,it feels like everything. And sometimes it doesn't. And that frightens you. Like a huge 'I told you so' from life.  2. In a world where everything starts feeling like a trial and error experiment, you constantly doubt yourself by thinking if this is it. Should you look for more?  3. Everyone is a replacement for everyone in life. It's the best and worst thing about love. 4. But, 1. You stroke your fingers against their skin three times back and forth and say 'This means I love you when I am too tired to speak'.  2. You finally meet someone that lets you embrace your individuality. Something you were always afraid of because all of life had been a struggle to blend in. And now there's someone telling you 'That's you, you don't have to change'. You are
Read more

Nights,Cigarettes and the piano.

Image
The frequent trips to the terrace at night was something to look forward to. The view wasn't marvelous but once you have had  a glance at the night sky, you wouldn't be disappointed. The two apartments opposite our building had few tales to tell in its silence. And for those who were eager to listen, they heard a murmur of wonder, habits and uncertainty.    The man with the cigarette reminded me of two people. My grandfather would always hid his pack of cigarettes from me, although I never really know the reason why. Whenever I find him smoking or discover his secret stash, he would let out a stretched 'ayyo' and has a look of despair and regret on his face. I would scold him childishly. But  I was always confused. Was it the face I made? The one I learned from my mother when she finds dad smoking. The look had grown on me. But the meaning of it hadn't crossed my mind- disappointment? What about the days when she lets him smoke when he has had a rough day? Her
Read more