The Muse of Poetry

Perhaps our past determines the mindset we may have at present, which in turn shapes up the color and texture of our future days. Yet unless one is looking back at life in retrospection, the boundaries between one’s past, present and future are rarely crisp and clearly demarcated. Often these three faces of time seem to overlap each other and we end up living in our past, mistaking it for the present or in our illusory future, overlooking the present completely. To counter these two extremes there is another school of thought known as carpe-diem which discards the past and future for the sake of the present; no less extreme in nature than those it contradicts.

 

My past began with the death of my child. It died at the age of 20 minutes. Being conceived with some faults, it was supposed to die inside its mother’s womb but the fragile, little thing fought on and managed to suffer from the filth and noise of the world for one third of an hour. Having endured the filth and noise for more than three decades, I can only envy its luck. Anyway, with my child, my present too was buried six feet underground and my past began, exactly eleven years ago.

 

After the burial my marriage was in shambles, as I deviated to my friends and then to drugs, leaving my job along the way. On the other hand the grief in the bereaved mother’s heart was equally aggressive if not more but she walked in the opposite direction, deviating first to her profession and then to her co-workers, finally eloping abroad with a senior colleague. Since then, the emptiness that engulfed my life has hardly ever loosened its vicious grip, aided by the social stigma of being a divorcee. The reality started showcasing my loneliness with a newfound enthusiasm and I started distancing myself from the real world.

 

Only those who tried to live in solitude have truly felt the burden of loneliness and if one is forced to remain idle at the same time, sanity would surely start hanging by a mere thread in no time at all. The fear of losing my last shreds of sanity was like the sensation of drowning, so when I came across the monologues of Hamlet by Shakespeare, I held on to it like a piece of straw, my last hope of keeping my sanity alive. Soon enough an urge began to form in my mind as an urge grows to respond when one is listening to the cherished thoughts of joy and pain from another soul. Succumbing to that urge, I picked up a pen and paper and started replying to Hamlet’s woes, telling him that I have mine too, not too different from his. That is how I began pledging my love to the Muse of Poetry, Two Thousand and Five years after Lord Jesus was born from the pious womb of Virgin Mary, as the Savior of the world.

——- End ——-

 

Advertisements

A Dream, Eight Years Ago

I remember having a dream, eight years ago. It was a silent night like this and perhaps equally barren and humid too. Back then I was not yet burdened with a profession, so all my responsibilities belonged to the fulfillment of whims of my heart. Then there was this lady who claimed to have loved me more than any she had met before and I loved her too, I know from the heaps of broken dreams and memories left inside my dying brain. Anyway, that night I dreamed of God coming down to the filthy world and asking me, whom it was I wanted to have between Love and the Muse of Poetry?

 

I still cannot figure out what got into me that night as I replied that I would be delighted to have the love of Poetry for the rest of this life! To be honest in my frank admissions, I have slipped, erred and even sinned on a few occasions. After a couple of years I have stopped writing in my mother tongue out of sadness but that would be the subject matter of another tale, perhaps. I have even considered forsaking this identity, altogether. Yet whenever I have returned to my Muse after such deviations, I have discovered that my love has intensified even more. Each time I have died in pain, my Muse of Poetry has breathed new life into my battered soul. How can I love her not, with my heart and all?

 

Hundreds of poems later, though at times I feel weary of this bond, I have never regretted that decision I took in the dream, eight years ago.

A Gift, From God Himself

A couple of days ago someone abused my love for her and made me an utter fool in front of my world. Instinctively, I became sad, hurt and angry to my burning bones. It felt like as if my skin too was set on fire; not a single moment passed when I was not thinking of drawing blood and make the world pay ten times more for what she did to me.

 

In the end, during and after the initial shock, enduring each second of this life became more stressful than spending an hour in pain. It is strange how the flow of time speeds up in joy and happiness, while on the other end of the emotional spectrum how strenuous and long each hour seems to grow! Even stranger is the fact that if the weighted happy hours are added with the sad ones, the result tallies with the theoretical hours one has spent in one’s life. It seems that Mother Nature, the high representative of God on earth, is forever striving to maintain the equilibrium of time flowing at contrasting velocities.

 

Later, when the sizzling in my blood subsided and the bleeding within became a trickle at best, I realized that the fatal exposure has opened up newer horizons for my meager experience and humble thoughts. Most of all, the whole process has thoroughly overhauled my naïve perceptions of the world. In brief, the severe pain of her indifference has helped me grow out of my illusions of innocence.

 

How can I not be grateful to her for letting me achieve so many accolades through the emptiness she infused in my heart! Since the divine revelation I have come to think of her as nothing but an angel from the heavens above and I know she was a gift, from God Himself, for my soul.

The Making of a Poet

It is the tale of how I became a poet…

  1. A Gift, From God Himself
    A couple of days ago someone abused my love for her and made me an utter fool in front of my world. Instinctively, I became sad, hurt and angry to my burning bones…. Later, when the sizzling in my blood subsided and the bleeding within became a trickle at best, I realized that the fatal exposure has opened up….
  2. A Dream, Eight Years Ago
    It was a silent night like this and perhaps equally barren and humid too. Back then I was not yet burdened with a profession, so all my responsibilities belonged to the fulfillment of whims of my heart. Then there was this lady….. I have even considered forsaking this identity, altogether. Yet whenever I have returned…
  3. The Muse of Poetry
    My past began with the death of my child. It died at the age of 20 minutes. Being conceived with some faults, it was supposed to die inside its mother’s womb but the fragile, little thing fought on…. The fear of losing the last shreds of my sanity was like the sensation of drowning, so when I came across the monologues…..

 

Death of A Soul

Well, I have tasted betrayal and I have tasted hatred too
and I have shed both my tears and blood from the pain.

Perhaps you are thinking that I have had enough
of these crippling emotions for a life but no,
I shall taste them over and over yet again,
happily, instead of a little indifference!
For the bitterness of both betrayal and hatred pale
against that of an indifferent human heart.

Behold the moon, shrouded by those fair and foamy clouds,
can you see how the silver light is growing red!
It happens when a warm heart grows indifferent
and I know, somewhere a soul had its final breath.

But of course, humankind being so adept at adapting,
we can live normally even without a soul, inside!

 

[SNT_FR_TZN_011]