Making of a Poet

Text is RTE-ready to eat stuff. ‘Tell me exactly what you want to say’ is a most disturbing cliché for a poet. If you coax him into doing that, he will probably forget what he had to say because apparently he had nothing to say in the same spirit that the listener wants to listen. The yes and no are mere means of setting crass social formats with no clues to the utility of the words. What is for everyone, a poet is too shy to put his finger in the same pie. His body chemistry is a fine regulation; he is hungry about something else. 

Poet is a saint sitting for ages without food. Something else, apart of the fanaticism for the drove of chows, drives him. He has a daringly critical appreciation of a thing or an item or content or the present, for he knows it means nothing without milieu. When he dis-possesses the present, he has the boundless prophecy to hand-in the past and the future that makes his magically indiscernible fortitude to create a new world of possibilities. There are few who take to writing because they have something to say; there is one, I know, who never knew what he would start and he ends up scribbling!

When you look at a poet, you look at the suppleness and the speed without the velocity; you look at the turbidity and the sinuous moves. His mind is not an embodiment of an idea because he hates the finite; deterred by the possible chasm out of an excavation.  He, therefore, moves briskly and clicks pictures of his spectacular universe. The space entices him and the lustrous scenes move and constantly expand the shimmer to infini.

 If the cliché looks at life as a voyage, a classical poet looks at the journey through space; space of his own mind. His lucid convoy is simple a tête; many physical encounters and mundane events of life are forgotten right the next flash because the nerve was occupied somewhere else.  That, what the mind carries, could be replayed again and again because mind had captured that. Look nowhere else. Just feel the span of your siege right here as you read this piece; neither could have geometrically prudent, astronomical judgment, nor you could have the dimensional finesse of your angle. You suffered twice; neither did you know that you have to know, nor did you know ‘the know’. You have probably noticed or felt this after a breathing space of few trans-pharynx because so far you were gripped in reading this.

An antithesis of the logical chronology and the timeline approach is that you meet the abyss of an accident; life’s abime is threatening as always. But fanaticism is all about an open invitation to such despairs. Poet is big fan of fantasism, although poetic despairs are about something else and look up and over; a poet is not street driver! He habitually rises from the dusty aurora like a phoenix; rise, if it could only mean knowing the higher and privy.

Apart of the conventional conviction, if you have confusions, you will read this again and again and if you have understood the stuff, you will mull over its sanctified exploits and diagram to put this in allusion to something that would ensue in the very near future of the fourth dimensionality. Sometimes the effect is so overwhelming that you want to create an incident to suit the application or use of experience of what you thought, has pricked you or burst you. Poets do not want the readers to agree to them amenably or coarsely; they have a cognition that disagreements would create more straits for them to be understood by the reader. Poet de-promotes adherents, because it could create a capitalistic content that is frigid. He is consciously sentient about the fact that, his is only a proposal, just a conjecture, only a hypothesis; he has not conceived any posit, he is not on a scientific mission to theorize anything.

The psycho-dynamics of a voracious reader would mean he has that peculiar chemistry of the in-liva corpus corporis, being impressionable as always that causes him leaving something more urgent to its own fate and make him dig himself in the sea of volatility; the refreshing mare maris and turmoil of congestive arguments. The mundane, the pedestrian and the repetitive that causes no excitement to the fervent sub-adrenalias;  that makes poet lose their momentary vivacity. And they take recourse to dig deep into someone else’s mind; readily offer the seat and the space of their own mind sparing from the unconscious syndrome, ‘body and no-mind’ keeping finger on a default button of the drudgery and the laborious mince.  

If love is siege, poet typifies his helpless because he is love with a lady, the nature, the song, the time, the space all in one, all at once. Love at the first sight is not a wrong accusation you can have on him, but you will be sure he has seen what you have seen. Better doubt. If you think you know him, probably you were eager to fix one shade a shade too early. That is the suffering of the truth, as always, that he keeps people guessing. Allow him; otherwise he will end up writing a huge mathematical regression.

Poet’s mind has that rare in-libertas ascetic; a recluse that looks like an imprisonment of the ideas of living different from what exists. That is a reason why the narratives like accounts, chronicles and histories are so very conspicuously absent in his discourse. A subject attached to the verb, an object attached to the adjective is the very adult identity of the linguistic grammar and morphological syntaxes. But he knows, it is also the fallacy of a cloistered living. His scientific temperament is very shyly and very modestly placed subterranean, deep below the meaning. He hides his process of thought-making so much to invite the wrath of the reader who he knows loves him that way.

A greater of the poet’s passione’ proudly and diligently overlooks parsing because he hates the contest between the words and the fiesta of the poser ’how to say’, grammar involves logic and his spirit is about the spirited break away from the bud and pole judgments. The logic is the fructification for academic doer-ship in the lingua-franca class, whereas the freedom from posit, is the journey through emancipation of the human lives. It is when you tend to look neither the left nor the right of the things that the larger portrait reveals itself.

Implio sans context, is farce and in isolate, question without the questioned, is an unfair playmaking. It is a seething ground for an intellectual prank, although any lineage with farce may not be acceptable to the poet. The seminal force that pervades the space and the time is the poet’s own mandate and he pays little price for that, the price of being a social disintegrate, inherently un-economic and unbelievable.

Once he leaves that shore, the rest is the journey in the sea, and there are very few people that live there. That is his new home as he perennially buffets on imperial recipes of tailor made brew that his fanatic chase fabricates; what for if there is nothing in the end. Poet comes with his moral-twister of rationale and says, how we can talk of that; most us will not live till THE END. 

A poet is never worried about the end; that is not to flatter his bio-genic differential and legal deprivation along with the superior instinct to match definitional and derivational creativity totally un-perforce; but to talk about his unplugged non-tradable magnetic bourse where words traffic for ingenious values. (I beg a pardon for being lost in the perjury of extension). That is his home of toys and plays and a complete turn off of the auricles from the perfunctory rectitude as it swells, hovers and transposes up the permeability of the new mind and new destination; seemingly unfathomable and his detour is an intellectual philanthropy that need not be sold as a fiscal opportunity of surpluses to all who decide to make the poet their host by the virtue of their para-phrasal-para-pedagogic aspirations. (I beg again!) It is engaging, it is psychedelic but purist, and it is selfless laboratory synthesis of artistic eco-molecules; of matching pearls for the eyes and the gold for the chest. Everyone feels rich because the quantums are out of contest!

Poet is not one with a subject for he has an intergalactic and the subjects are nothing but themes that melt into a more refined form. His thought is not a course but a highly amalgamated concourse. His is a wondrous departure from the make-up room ideology; ‘who look the best’. He quietly dictates and reposes the new onus; who thinks the best nee who thinks the most!

It is natural to expect that a poet is an innate debater and without the end result of the raucous. He speaks monologues; that is his fashionably virtuous ego. Thankfully! Since he cannot be taken down to the practicality, it is impossible to say for anyone that they do not agree. Because there is no borderline and therefore there are no border politics.  The poet therefore makes inordinate but unquestioned deferrals to arrive! That is his way raising people’s expectations. Poet doctors this and converts into an imagination; and then it is his own song and orchestra, the grammar of ragas and the chordial symphony plays differently so well that that even the musical logic does not matter!

Many souls are unwritten poets; many poets are unsung. May be I will sing one day; in my next journ