Monday, July 23, 2007

Post 279 - The poet who died

I rarely admit this, but when I first started writing, my pen lusted for 'poems'...yes, those very structures which sometimes rhyme, sometimes have a meter, sometimes have a metaphor....yet always should touch a chord within the reader ('other' to you).

What were the first victims of my infatuation with poems? A lot of Indian poets, and my own lofty attempts to scribble words that married the meter to the march.

And yet....

By the time I was 16 , I seem to have been completely disillusioned with poetry as an art form. When I look back and wonder 'why?', I really dont have to 'wonder' I know the answer readily....it was the race of the contemprary poet who had bastardized the art of poetry for his own evil, apportioned it to suit his(her) inability to write 'content'.....in short, the poetry I read was trash.

In contrast....

By the time I was 20, I was madly in love with Urdu and hindi poetry, and thanfully am still very much.

Why?

Because the meter still exists in Urdu poets, so does the 'aliveness'......


I recently started reading English poetry again, and.....

My thoughts are re-inforced....I was disillusioned because some bastards had raped an art form and put it front of the audience, calling it 'contemprary poetry'.....16 years later, and much wiser, much more discerning, I must admit, poetry still moves me.

And you know what?

I am just delighted by that realization.

The poet (in me) is dead, long live the poet.

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