Milking my heart: My experience with poetry

This post is not intended at bragging. I am posting it here as a mere diary entry to describe the state of my mind - more of my heart at this time. This is an investment that might serve as a reference to me at some time in the future, and, hopefully, also be something for people to relate to.

Channelised emotion is poetry*

Poetry.

It's a membrane to rupture..

A hymen, jealously guarded, if you will.. It is a question of it breaking once..

And once that happens, the flow continues, for as long as it does. It would be audacious of me to say that after that you can write at will..

Writers, why, any artist will agree with me when I say that there is little choice in art.. It happens when it does..

An artist has no right to be proud of his work.. It flows from somewhere through him out into the open.. I have found myself marvelling at my own work occasionally - amazed, surprised that I was able to do it.. The truth is that I never did anything.. It flowed through these hands that I deem mine..

So, yeah, poetry.. I always thought one had to be extremely emotional to be a poet, and for a very long time, I considered myself a cold, heartless man.. After the rupture, I realised that those meagre tinges of emotion that occasionally possessed me were sufficient to churn poems out of my heart.. All that was required was a tiny squeeze - not unlike that given to a wet sponge to release water.. Of course, one needs to be very comfortable with the language, so that there is no hindrance to the flow of thought as words - the translation should be so smooth and so swift that the writer is unable to notice it happening. And for that, he has to pay a price. Thoughts in the mind arise in sentences - or at least in phrases - as words, not as fragments of mindstuff. This can be a serious illness - perhaps others have ways to work around it, but it is something I suffer from. I think in words - perhaps that deters my thinking - inhibits, or at least slows it down. Perhaps I can be faster. I spend fractions of seconds in framing grammatically acceptable sentences even when thinking to myself - a cross I have to bear, I'm afraid. Aah, this is getting deeper than I imagined. Very well,..

In another plane, however, writing amounts to siphoning milk from a cow's udders - but it is to be remembered that whether to secrete or not is the organ's choice. Milking the heart for words doesn't sound very ethical - perhaps a case of taking undue advantage of something sensitive - self manipulative, in fact, but sometimes it helps one deal with the emotion. Sometimes you record it for future reference: as harmless (or harmful) a a diary. Sometimes the flow is unstoppable: you just have to write it, that's how I started.. The beauty is, this actually happens - but on its own, it cannot be forced. I, for one, never saw myself writing poems (I wouldn't call myself a poet even now) in this birth, but it came to me at a time when I least expected to write. In fact, some of the articles/poems that I consider my best ones came to me at times when I had tried to give up writing, at least temporarily, not unlike the shy lover who looks at the woman he loves when she is looking away.

Writing something down creates a potential difference that triggers the flow of writing that surprises the writer.. Yeah, and that's why my articles are long. Once the writing reaches the outer world from the inmost recesses of the universal Soul, it is labelled with the name of the medium it took to travel through - not the pen, not the sheet on which it is written, but the name of the man who held the pen. Yeah, another one of those ways in which the world works. And we do what were best at - we get used to things and "teach" our offspring that this is how things are.

No writeup on writeups can be complete without a word on the pride that fills a writer upon listening to genuine appreciation. Art for the sake of art is one thing, but a work of art is incomplete without its admirer. And the artist wants it too. If Sherlock Holmes can "flush(ed) up in pleasure" at "earnest words uttered" by Watson, I'm sure it cannot all be wrong.

And now I read this write up again, with my lips curling into a smile.

*Yes, I wrote that. A more generic definition would be, "Emotion channelised into words is poetry". (Quote appended on 21.4.2016 at 1:51am)

Writers' Block

“As long as you can start, you are all right. The juice will come.” - Ernest Hemingway

I never questioned it when they came to me,
Pages of prose and stanzas of poetry,
Puns, metaphors,
Allusions, jokes and rhymes,
Whence it came, I could never tell,
Perhaps a spot behind my heart?
The flow was so smooth the writing would surprise even me,
And make me wonder if I was possessed,
But I would stand there beaming in pride,
At applause and genuine words of praise and admiration,
Taking it all in,
My ego swelling,
I named myself an artist, a writer,
Forgetting the roots that gifted it to me,
A skill that I claimed to be mine,
Intoxicated by the drink of fame,
Taking it for granted,
Feasting on the glory,
Yet even conscience sits back and watches me dance,
Is this how art is? Passion that craves flattery?
And today, when my pen hardly moves as it touches paper,
I wonder what went wrong,
Panicking, finding things to blame,
Telling myself that it's just a phase,
I rest my pen down, thinking it has all gone,
And it sprouts yet again, like nothing ever happened,
Pouring forth like a waterfall after a drought,
And again I take a dip, drenching myself in delight.

Written on 28th March, 2016 (11:37pm) at Central Library, IIT Bombay.
I recommend this article: https://litreactor.com/columns/the-myth-of-writers-block

----

It is but a brittle body,
Miraculously alive,
Or am I some soul, embodied in it?
Yet what is the point of debate,
If I endure its pain?
Its brittle bones, flimsy veins,
A weak heart and a soft brain,
With breakable limbs and organs prone to pain,
One of whose failure is enough to cause death,
A void no one knows about,
Or perhaps a simple disease
That can leave you bedridden for life,
Yet, knowing all this,
Man flashes forth his ego,
Letting it blind his intellect,
He thinks he is that great,
But is merely succumbing to it.
When the time comes,
Death, the great leveller takes charge,
Burning his pointless rage.
- Raam. S

Written at 6:40pm on 26.3.2016 in my room.

The Magic of Company

The human being is someone I am yet to understand - yes, the same thing applies to every other creature in nature, but I am choosing this particular being because, apparently I am one. I sometimes catch myself being surprised to look down and see a body - or to see a weirdly shaped being staring back at me from something called a mirror, which apparently reflects this body in which I am wrapped - the same way as "others" see it. Luckily, this state dissolves as swiftly as it comes, and the mind slides back to "normalcy" - if such a thing indeed exists.

And now, I'll move on to the topic.

I'd find this article incomplete without Saint Thyagaraja's line in his famous Telugu composition, "Entha nerchina", describing man as" కాంత దాసులే" (Kanta Dasu). While the statement labels man as a slave of women in particular, I will interpret it, albeit in a slightly erroneous manner, here as one who is desperate for company.

So, well, company. Um, right. Well, what's there to say? What is the .meaning of company? Why would a man crave another's presence? Social animal, obvio. Duh. But hang on, is it that obvious? Don't we also crave solitude? Don't we pick that silent corner in that restaurant, or a vacant seat on a bus or train? But then again, we also want people. When we want them. When we want people, we crave for them.

Craving for food, sex even solitude can be understood but what exactly does one gain in the presence of another? I am not talking along the lines of entertainment, dismissal of boredom or something. I am looking at a much deeper aspect of it.

What happens to a person in the presence of another person? There are cases of meeting a person changing one's life permanently. A meet between two people is beautifully described in English as 'sharing time' - a phrase that, when dived into, can be interpreted as the intertwining of moments from two lives, which stimulates a set of effects - positive ones being the generation of better ideas, an unconscious impact on on or both souls, a temporary (possibly overwhelming) flow of emotion, a change of perspective - or possibly none of these. Even in the absence of any lasting effect, there is a marked change in the two people who interact. They become something different from what they are when alone - it isn't merely pretence - a real change occurs, perhaps akin to the appearance of interference drag in aerodynamics. Scientifically safe statements would be to say that gravitational, electrical and magnetic flux lines between the people rearrange themselves, but that seems pointless to me now. At the very least, I'd say that the metaphysical is far more intriguing than the physical here. The biological is cliché, so that is out of the discussion here. The metaphysical is mysterious, and deserves to be admitted as being so.

I, for one, feel that emotions cannot be dismissed as merely electrical signals of brains or secretion of fluids. The living being sees it all, the insentient is the playground of science (as we know it) no doubt but it is limited and needs to be transcended. Generation of specific hormones is merely a convenient effect (thank you nature) for science to measure something, and I find it a dishonest when it is stated as the only event. Right, sorry about that.

So, yeah, meetings. If meetings are so useful why are work related meetings seldom useful? My answer would be this: a meeting has less to do with the brain, more with heart, and employees expected to be trained, heartless 'resources' when at work, hence defeating the very concept of sharing time - soultime, rather.

With all that said, I'm off to spend some time with people..

Chocolate Milkshake

Cold yet warm,

A potion that turns anything to glee,
A concoction that rids me of all doubt,
About what connects matter to heart,

And physical to metaphysical,
It stirs my soul as I stir it with a straw,

Overwhelming me as I sip it in,
Wrapping me up in a warm embrace,

Better than a hug, better than a kiss,
Better than love or any pleasure the world may offer,

Virgin, innocent, genuine and unconditional,
This brown drink beckons me in all purity,
It cools my insides, stripping me of all pain,
Filling my stomach and heart,

Ridding me, at once, of hunger, thirst and sorrow
It reaches my heart rather than my stomach,
This glass of pure elation,
Caresses me from within,

It sends me a kiss through a burp,
I sit, eyes closed,

Rapt, in this momentary bliss,
It is the drink of pure delight, nothing short of ecstasy,

Who said money can't buy happiness?
What delectation can surpass,

The drink of joy?
Joy that nothing but a smile can express,

So profound it is packed in a glass,
A glass that offers relish,

Before, during and after drinking,
And why would I turn to another liquid,

When this beverage remains my companion,
Too bad it is only a glass full,

If it could only last longer,
But what is there to worry,

As long as there is chocolate and milk is left in this world.

Written on 21st March, 2016 (at Brewberry's cafe, IIT Bombay, over a cup of chocolate milkshake. A glass of it that I shared with none, but a moment I'm sharing with you all now)

Another of those rants

Tough world to live in, I always thought. Sometimes I still do.

I keep wondering if I'm a man who was far behind his time - a man who should've probably been born in the 70's or 80's. As an engineer I would've preferred to have died before the world wars.

I've felt insecure, worried, incapable - of proving my worth in a planet with billions of similar beings whose mere presence reduces me to less than a speck.

Maybe I should just talk about my existence in my country. Still no more than a speck - perhaps I still don't qualify as even that. This is just among people - then there are achievers - in every possible field.

And then there are these people. These pointless parasites who waste the time of advocates, judges, professors, their families - and that of several million people across the country.

Am I talking of Kanhaiya Kumar, the man who was a pawn in the age old clichéd chess of politics? Well, not directly.

I'm talking about those who talk about him - and about thousands of other such creatures. These people have been paid to do exactly this. Waste your time. Do you even realise you are playing right into their hands?

Your angry talks, your social media posts, your reports on news channels and papers, your open letters that receive likes without being read - all these are just crap - just like this post of mine is going to become. Pieces of muck and garbage that swarm the internet like termites on old, wet wood.

But there's a difference. I'm not writing to be heard. I'm not trying to become famous.

I'm just venting out.

Get out there, people. Throw away those billboards that you hold without reading, those candles that you carry without knowing why. If you really care, go help someone. Or, maybe pray. It's not so bad, you know? Looking at how you waste your life away you have nothing to lose.

Get out there. Help someone live their life - just one person, just one day. Or keep quiet and live yours.

Get a life.

Maya

Amidst fear, excitement and a rush of hormones,

With large waves she sweeps me away -

Flooding in through an aperture I helped create,

Merely in an instant of weakness,

Strengthened by arguments of my own ego,

And by a weakening of grasp that she herself induces

She rides on impulse and desperation,

She deludes me using my own intellect,

Adorned with the most glittering of jewels,

She approaches me upon my own beckoning,

Engulfing me in a treacherous hug,

Sentencing me to doom,

Turning the tips of my own sword against me,

She pierces my soul, whisks me away,

Devouring fruits of my penance while, intoxicated, I dream of pleasure,

To an inescapable realm of guilt and regret,

I beat my limbs about in vain,

Against waves I helped generate,

Sinking in this ocean of illusion of semblance,

With her laughing in glee,

I claim to be helpless against her lashing,

While letting her in wilfully,

I blame her, curse her,

While falling prey to her charm,

She is an infinite loop,

A vicious circle, a trap,

Undeservedly associated with the Compassionate Lord,

A cave of no return, a dead end.

I blame her - should I?

Isn't she a mere personification of my own desires?

Feeding on my soul, my heart?

A parasite, perhaps worse?

Weakened by the strength of my scrupulousness,

Even more by surrender done right,

This demoness, this enchantress,

This illusion we call Maya.

The battle is fierce - or so I convince myself,

With a name and a form for me to blame rather than repent,

What came first? My weakness or her strength?

Wondering all this, I remain soaked in rue.

She hides herself - behind false knowledge,

In pretence, delusion and justification,

But be it a year, a lifetime or several,

I will one day win over her.

Written between 8:00pm on 3.3.2016 and 3:00am on 4.3.2016

Although I have only expressed the desire experienced by nearly everyone, this poem has ideals, some of which form the very core of my being. I cringed when I published this, but for some reason, I just want to let this be. This thought is spiritual rather than philosophical and has a touch of religion as well - I hate to bring my religious beliefs into this blog- yes, my beliefs, there is no point in pretending otherwise.

I am considering moving it to my other blog, Ecccentric Thoughts, but this place looks good enough for it.