Three years ago, if someone
were to walk up to me and ask me about my thoughts on poetry as a way
of idle conversation I would have, in all likelihood, given them a
quizzical look and blabbered an undecipherable apology before swiftly
exiting stage left. As someone who hopes to make a career out of his
passion for writing, this is a very odd behaviour to be sure, but I
never really found poetry to hold my interest. I do not hate poetry,
I just never understood why anyone would ever go in a round about way
of twisting their words and making a message more complicated than
the Gordian knot. It felt so absurd that writing had so many rules
and structure, after all, wasn’t writing something you did to
“liberate” yourself? Why then, for the love of God, would anyone
find such a restrictive format as poetry so enjoyable and relatable?
As you may have guessed, that
was a very naive mindset that proved more of a blockage in my part. I
never budged from my viewpoint that poetry was an utter waste of
time, so I never touched it. But, as I completed my Bachelors and
wandered into the world of post graduate education, I was presented
with many subjects regarding poetry. Old habits wanted me to avoid
them like the plaque, but after all these years my reflexes had
dulled and I ended picking up Crafting Poetry Course.
I did not have high hopes for
myself in the course. I was sure I would utterly flop it because I
wouldn’t find it in me to take any interest. But, when I noticed my
inbox filled with entries of my classmates, each poem so unique to
itself, I felt a sudden shift in my mindset. I penned “A Swan Sings
Alone” with a single minded purpose of just writing. Experimenting.
I wanted to write something short yet descriptive of the way a break
up felt to an introvert like myself. I have trouble showing emotions
so I tried to use Haiku as a way of showing that bottled up feeling
of rage, sadness and all other emotions that come with a broken
heart. Once I pressed the “Send” button on my app, I felt, to my
surprise, pride. I didn’t know if the poem was going to be received
well, but it didn’t matter. This was a personal accomplishment for
me.
The next project assigned to
us was to write upon a cityscape. And I at once knew what I was going
to write about. My experience in Delhi. I quickly penned “Chinaman
in Chandni Chowk” as a homage to my first visit to Chandni Chowk. I
am a product of a boarding school, so my life has always been about
four concrete walls and single line queues. When I stepped out to
Chandni Chowk, it was just chaos. I felt like a small mouse, caught
in the tide of sweaty bodies. I was clueless and confused, and kept
my hands in my pockets the entire time, afraid that I would get
robbed. The smell, the noise and sights overloaded my senses. That is
what I tried to portray in the poem, an outsider caught in a
maelstrom of activity. The archaic architecture, along with the
trademark Indian “jugaad” patchwork were wonderful to look at.
All the splendour of Chandni Chowk however would have gone incomplete
if it weren’t for a touch of “casual racism”. I have a sweet
tooth, especially for ladoos and milk cakes. Naturally my idea of a
good lunch spot was the local sweet confectionery. The owner was a
large man who wanted to know if I was Chinese or Japanese. He had a
very aggressive way of trying to get his customers to buy his sweet,
and insisted that I buy a whole packet of assorted sweets which he
assured me could not be found anywhere in China. I was intimidated by
the factual knowledge of the salesman and bowed before him and said,
“I am diabetic” before fleeing.
“Grim Polity” was my
attempt at a political satire. Of course, I have no idea about
politics, so instead of making some very pointed accusations with no
knowledge, I chose a very generalized commentary. I believe the poem
is reflective of my own lack of understanding. But, it is a
cautionary tale, just as Red Riding Hood is to children. There is no
big reveal, nor twist, just as it isn’t hard to identify a wolf in
grandmother’s clothing. Yet, we get fooled all the same.
Like I have said, I have very
recently begun to take interest in poetry, and have been scouring the
internet for poems. Most of them are still an enigma, whose meanings
and metaphors still shoot past my head. Yet, “Invictus” by
William Ernest was a poem that caught my attention. It is a simple
poem that made me feel charged with purpose. So my thought began to
wander about what it is like for people, humans, that make them
strive for success. After much thinking, I decided it must be because
each of us strive to be known in some way. Our desire to be
remembered and be acknowledged. If not by anyone but oneself. To
reflect upon our actions and say, “I have truly achieved
something.” So I penned “I rest my Flag”, a short poem that
tries to encapsulate people’s struggle to make a mark in the world.
Most days, I never truly know
when had I woken up nor how I got to bed. Most part of my schedule
has become so routine that I do it without a second thought. I wrote
“Flatline” as a way to express this feeling of robotic lifestyle.
I kept each line in the poem deliberately short because I didn’t
need more words to convey how the day I am describing is going. I am
sure many people who read it will understand and feel the flow of the
routine without me having to go into intricate detail. The short
lines also give that robotic feel to the poem, deprive the narrator
of any sense of motivation.
When we were asked to respond
to Nitoo Dass poetry, I was dumbstruck. How on earth was I to
“respond” to an experienced veteran about her work? It felt like
my teacher had just ordered me to skin a grizzly bear armed with
nothing more than a pat on the back and a toothpick. What would that
do? Help the bear pick off my remains from between his fangs? None
the less I went to work, analysing Nitoo Das’ poem. Honestly,
didn’t understand any of it. For me, poetry is still that girl in
high school that you would have asked out only if your spine hadn’t
taken a permanent holiday. I wrote a response to Nitoo Das’ “Poetry
of Everyday life”, which had a unique way of looking into common
everyday objects. It was fun to read, but a nightmare to respond to.
I kept wondering if there was something I was missing, some metaphor
I didn’t grasp. Like a pea under the mattress, I still can not
sleep comfortably when I think about it.
"The Salesman" was written with a feeling of extreme pessimism. Life as a whole is daunting, and meandering through it is a challenge. Most time I don't know why I do the things I do. I am very prone to second guess myself, but too reluctant to ask for any help. Mostly because I am too conscious about bothering someone. So the feeling of staying away just so I don't disturb someone feels like tiptoeing across broken glass.
A long while ago, I was in a mood to experiment with genres other than "Fantasy". So I tried my hand on writing a thriller. It was called the "Masochrist", a little play on word. In the story, a seemingly good Church-going neighbourhood harbors a dark secret. Christians view the suffering of Christ as a noble sacrifice. Jesus had died for the sins of the people and the world was spared. However, the people in the "Masochrist" see the suffering as something they should all aspire to experience. So the story spirals down towards the darker side of pleasure and pain. The story itself played like some "R-rated" B grade movie. But the idea as a whole felt solid to me. So I tried to translate it to a poem expressing the thought of a "masochrist".
"The Salesman" was written with a feeling of extreme pessimism. Life as a whole is daunting, and meandering through it is a challenge. Most time I don't know why I do the things I do. I am very prone to second guess myself, but too reluctant to ask for any help. Mostly because I am too conscious about bothering someone. So the feeling of staying away just so I don't disturb someone feels like tiptoeing across broken glass.
A long while ago, I was in a mood to experiment with genres other than "Fantasy". So I tried my hand on writing a thriller. It was called the "Masochrist", a little play on word. In the story, a seemingly good Church-going neighbourhood harbors a dark secret. Christians view the suffering of Christ as a noble sacrifice. Jesus had died for the sins of the people and the world was spared. However, the people in the "Masochrist" see the suffering as something they should all aspire to experience. So the story spirals down towards the darker side of pleasure and pain. The story itself played like some "R-rated" B grade movie. But the idea as a whole felt solid to me. So I tried to translate it to a poem expressing the thought of a "masochrist".
On the whole, as the semester
comes to a close, I can look back and say it has been quite a unique
experience. This is not me writing off a sketchy good bye, like a
high school graduate made to stand behind the podium and forced to
say “some thing nice” about their life at school. This is as
honest as I can get with myself, on paper, the medium I am most
comfortable sharing my experience and feelings in. Crafting poetry
threw me a googly, and unlike cricket, I quite enjoyed the effort of
taking a swing and hoping for the best. Poetry has suddenly become
much more open and accessible to me, creating a new frontier of
experience.
