A page from my diary

The past few months have been, well, different - starkly so, in terms of a lot of things, and, in particular, writing. The discovery that I could write poetry has certainly been emotionally rewarding, and has raised my literary confidence to levels that I never knew, existed. I feel truly free in the apparently two-dimensional but truly multidimensional world of words. Poems come to me at ease, flowing forth as a fluid would flow when there is a significant pressure difference.

However, poetic as this experience with poetry may be, it has taken a toll on my writing. There is now an urge to dramatize every little thing, and I spend my time involuntarily looking for metaphors to describe them, even worse, desperately trying to rhyme words. I find that while this poetry phase has brought out a couple of good (sorry) poems, what I've incurred substantial losses. Strong opinions have now almost completely been replaced by strong emotions that overwhelm me. I tear up more easily than ever, and even otherwise, have become quite sensitive. My vocabulary in speech has received a blow, and I find it difficult to frame full sentences, at least on paper. This post itself stands testimony.

I realize now, that I have tuned myself to write poetry, and why I stay in this frequency, it is extremely difficult to come up with prose. 60+ poems seems like a good number, and I am considering tuning myself back to the prose frequency - but I do not know what the repercussions will be. I'm slightly tired of putting commas after phrases and starting new lines with capital letters. My more recent poems have become soulless and stale, and this can definitely be counted as a sign. I miss writing long articles where I digress to point out something totally different and then connect it back with the big picture. I miss framing sentences that have poetic metaphors.

But then again, what if my natural current state is to compose poems and not articles? I did not choose poetry - in fact, I believed that I wasn't capable of it, and it came to me of its own accord. Am I disturbing that equilibrium by attempting to go against the flow? Will this result in me getting stuck in a no man's land where I'd be incapable of writing anything? I'm not sure if I can handle that - oh, I'm not talking about missing the appreciation - with all due respect to you folks, I have only a handful of readers, but you people appreciate me even without my writing. I'm worried about there coming a time when my heart is filled with content and my fingers refuse to budge.

This might sound silly, but it feels like a big step to me - perhaps I should write a few more poems? Perhaps touch a hundred? No, the quality is bad already. There are quite a few poems that I've written and kept to myself on a personal medium, for I find them far too sensitive to share - and  then there are half baked ones that I am incapable of completing. I feel inadequate to compose now - perhaps I should take a break. At least from poetry. And I must be ready to digest the fact that I might never be able to compose another poem - that doesn't hit me badly, I feel pretty satisfied with the poems I've written. I couldn't bring myself to write one as good as, say "The Admirer", or "On the Partition". My poems have become dull and repetitive. I'm not dejected or something - I don't need a pep talk now, I'm just weighing the options before making a choice - an obscure one at that. To you, it, I might seem melodramatic - why would there be the question of a choice between one form of writing and another? Well, there is. And I'm not looking for suggestions, I'm just thinking out loudly. And choosing to publish my thoughts. You may choose to ignore this post - in fact, I might tak it down some day, but as of now, I'm just letting it be.

And I don't have to tell you when I make my choice. You'll know.

Learning

Who taught a child to smile and cry,
No human teacher conditioned by education or books,
Nor a twisted doctrine infested with narrow opinions,
It comes from within - not a physical within,
But a one that appears dark but is filled with enlightenment,
Giving out pearls of wisdom in a wordless tongue,
Spelt and understood by the heart,

Oh this world is littered with theories,
Driven by misunderstood logic,
People taught to know and merely apply theories,
The intellect declaring its undue supremacy,
Trapping men therein,

Oh conscience should drive man,
Learning propelled by experience-
And simple application of common sense,

Science must be limited to books -
And morals taught independently like music,

For some things deserve more than to be questioned or analysed -

For the tools we have are but limited -
And so is our mind,
And most of all, time is less,
And regret is sticky,

Do we analyse our food when hungry -
Or a drug when sick?

Acceptance defines life, not logic,
Theory looks good on paper not in practice-

What is needed is not an understanding of all-
But a balance of understanding and acceptance.

Written at 7:24pm at new SAC on 29.9.2016

Another Poem

A flimsy, fragile body,
Prone to suffering and irreparable injury,
Yet filled with desire for adventure and pleasure,
Spending years in their pursuit,
Propelled by a drive that is yet to be perceived,
With a momentum that has its ups and downs,
But seldom fails to bounce back after a low,
One that shall cease on that fateful day,
When that drive within passes away,
The surprise though is not this drive,
Nor the will that helps him thrive,
For such impulse pervades nature,
Fuelling creatures with the desire to live,
It is that formless devil that haunts his life,
Clouding his judgement, his sense,
Not tangible yet gloating -
Blinding him from his doom impending,
They call it ego, they call it arrogance -
That unplottable tumour, the human's demise.

Completed on the night of 29.9.2016 (Started writing weeks back) at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

On Music

Playing in the mind within,
Or on an instrument without,
It stirs one's soul like nothing else can,
Be it a tune, a hum or a melodious shout,

It sinks into one and reverberates there,
Broad and deep, it starts chiming from within,
Filling the emptiness behind closed eyes,
And pulling the strings of the heart as it does..

Soothing one in inexplicable ways,
Bringing tears to ones eyes, harmonising thoughts,
It  saddens, elevates, inspires and elates,
A real key to control emotions.

On Old Age

A life of dignity, of honour,
Filled with mementos of respect,
And anecdotes of valour,
A person feared and respected by all,
Approached for advice and justice,
And revered by several,
Is brought down to a feeble creature,
Unable to fend for itself,
Toothless, wrinkled,
Curled up in a bed,
Pitiable and dependent,
Until reduced to a heap of ash,
Is it time? Or that which they call fate?
Oh what do words matter?
When the person is dead and gone?

On the night of 29th august 2016 at Aero structures lab

On Mumbai

Sown together from seven islands,
My new found love,
Glimmers by the light of its own soul,
And is reflected by the sea full of vigour,
A city that never sleeps,
Alive, not merely awake every moment,
Busy, yet patient,
Wealthy yet simple,
Its rainwashed buildings stand as monuments,
Of tireless yet humble effort,
Adding to the beauty of this utterly magnificent land,
Its banks filled with righteous wealth,
Its people flourishing with the grace of the Mother,
A melting pot of cultures,
A mirror to India,
No wonder a delight to residents and visitors alike,
The epitome of simplicity,
She shines forth,
On the map and in our hearts,
The true capital of Bharata.

Written on 24th August, 2016 (23rd night?) on a drive along Worli Sea Link

Fear When Alone

Solitude is the true test of one's might,

And that too, at an unfamiliar place at night,

When the mind rises after an activity,

It sees one's ambience and charges up its creativity,

Conjuring images at a distance or on long hallways,

Perhaps only sometimes, not always,

Ideas from that book one read,

Or a movie of someone rising from the dead,

Plot ideas fill one's mind,

Paralysing one with a fear of a unique kind,

That ghost in a film one probably laughed at,

Now flashes stark or seems to watch from one's back,

Oh, the anticipation of danger,

Seems far worse, there is nothing stranger,

The heart beats fast,

As long as the panic lasts,

Perhaps until one finds a familiar lane,

Or a friend or a cane,

The fear that sprouts, it awakens one,

Bringing springs of life that are indeed fun,

The fear might stay on for a few seconds or maybe longer,

But the jerk it gives is a jolt that will linger.

Written on 16th Aug 2016 at 2:38am at Aero structures lab