A Living Expose’
Pulp of souls, paper-mache
Ink’s eyes unveiling ethos
Candied fruit of hearts, en glacé
Reduced to prose mementos
Who has seen the wind,
The spirit’s life a poet breathes,
Caged in lines within
Each verse of living poetry?
A poet or writer has to go through personal trials. To enter in to the art of writing is to expose oneself to ridicule, judgment and the worst..embarrassment.
Praise be to the true writers who put themselves out there, naked (the brave warriors of literature). They are the people who dare to express what many of us are thinking as well as standing up to the many that disagree with our thoughts!
Tinkers, Tailors, Word-Cake Bakers.
We stumble, wading humanity’s ages,
Indomitable scribes, pertinacious sages,
Gluing ourselves to the future and past
With ideas both enduring and dwindling fast...
Our ranks have boasted both bright and insane
(To be candid I ’cede they’re both one and the same)
But through all the pain we’re compelled to relate,
We observe, we explore, we investigate
What it means to exist in this glorious world
With our heroes and demons summarily hurled
Amongst mortals, morality, whale and flea...
Then again, perhaps Alternatively:
We’re a bunch of word-geeks gathering scraps of amusing verbosity and baking them together with grandiose claims into a deranged sort of cake.
But isn’t the result delicious?
Why do I write poems? (sorry, if you see yourself!)
Why do I write poems?
what is the benefit to me?
after all, I don’t get money for that
after all, I don’t get incentives for that
but why do I write anyway?
There’s a reason for that!
- I do not keep quiet about injustice, among others
- I want to change the world for the better
- I express my feelings through my poems
- I know that some of my little poems need someone
- When I am creative, I forget all my fatigue
Now tell me, who is the real poet?
is that stupid?
No, I do not recognize such poets!
I don’t even recognize them as human beings!
Yes, everyone has a right to be creative!
But nobody has the right to ruin poetry! And you to FiaA. You have not right ruin poetry
A world within a world
Did you see the old man, his stoop and his beard, and his black rimmed spectacles?
Did you see the girl, savouring every drop of the candy? Her curly ringlets making a chocolate halo?
Did you see the busy young man, walking down in a hurry? Thinking about his lover’s face? ( Or maybe the stock market..)
Did you miss the chubby boy, humming to himself, all the while lugging his cello?
Did you look at the sparrows on the pavement? Most probably not..
You are thinking, “Who is a poet?”
The answer is very easy- It’s you.
Yes. Every one of us is a poet from within. A poet is not someone who can make the words but it is someone who can make emotions tangible by putting them into actions and words..
A poet is not always hidden behind overflowing bookshelves and not always found wandering in a beautiful garden.
A poet is someone who creates order out of chaos. A poet is an artist who plays with words and makes them come alive.
A poet is not necessarily a great thinker or a worldly wise person.. Who said you couldn’t be a bard when you have the power to make others feel..?
You know what I feel and believe?
If you have a voice,
If you can dream,
If you can create a world within a world,
You are already a poet..
Poetry is a beautiful relation,
where the poet befriends you
and expresses a connecting emotion in the most alluring way.
What a much younger self thought - 2011
The madness of poets
They know the truth with accuracy so much greater than the neighbour
in being, and for this very reason they refuse to believe it.
Their insides cry and their heads ache desperate for a better view
with no ambition to ever look down at what they have achieved. Not
even on the platforms.
For they see no platforms
Some wish for fire without burning the wood.
And so it is , when they write they write with stuttered hands and
selfish, insecure minds. And they claw at what they wish to grab
achieving only the chance to claw.
For with the minds in such a craze, such a trance of pure un-willed
With their rigid ways do they aspire to be away yet do they love to kneel.
And so with the craving to hear themselves in company do they write of
They do so well mourn in acute anger, knowing not for why they write.
And so in their minds twisted among Powder so they can always
remember that they once forgot.