I would rather have titled this as "Confessions of a self-proclaimed poet" but then I realised that, that would be somewhat exaggerated on my part because it is no denying the fact that there are indeed many who agree with me i.e my calling myself a poet.
Ever since I realised that I could note down my thoughts in rhyme and rhythm, I have prided in calling myself 'a poet'. It hasnt mattered whether I or my poems (as I would call them) have ever complied to the definitions or not and that was because of two reasons - 1. I didnt know them and 2. I didnt want to know.
Poets as I have been made to think or believe is that they are very sentimental, compassionate, emotional people. As I think it over today (I seem to have found ample time for that), I find myself awfully confused. May be it was this belief that in the first place led me to this domain. With time I developed the knack of expressing (complex) emotions in my poems. They say every poet needs some experience, some inspiration. What were mine I dont know. For, unlike the popular way, I didnt turn into a poet after I was love-struck or had a heartbreak or passed through a sea of sorrow. My life has been a very smooth sailing (ofcourse if you do not consider the change of places). As a result, I had to depend solely on others or my imaginations for my inspirations. I learnt to imagine and create hypothetical situations so that I could write. The result was good.
The only compliment that I seek for my poems is their identification with the reader. If even a single line reminds the reader of some lost memory, pain, happiness or any emotion, then I will consider my writing has not gone in vain. Strange, because quite a few times, I myself don't find that identification with my own poem. However in many cases I do. Or atleast I believe I do. For once I have poured out my thoughts into the form of a poem, it becomes difficult for me to go and retrace the feeling that instigated it. Was that emotion hypothetical or real is something I would rather not admit. The realization that the emotion was foreign makes me guilty that I could play so well with sentiments that they converge into merely a bunch of words and the thought that it was mine own makes me blush that I could express it so. I, thus try neither.
That, my creations can make someone cry, laugh, smile or even stir any other minute feeling in somebody is in itself such a prized feeling that all other feelings even the one that made me write it seems so very small. Finally after writing it down, what remains is the pride that I had something that I created myself and that it had the ability to make someone feel. Rest all vanishes. It would thus seem that my diary serves as a sink where I drown all those sentiments which I would rather never admit to or which never belonged to me. The most demanding part comes when the poem stirs a feeling among the reader which I find so difficult to recognise within myself although I agree with them whole-heartedly. It probably is what they call 'detachment' or 'the third person perspective'.
That does make me quite insensitive and unemotional (ugghhh!!!! that doesnt sound very nice) and yet a poet. The paradox is that if I stopped being a poet, I would become both sensitive and emotional because then, I would lose my 'sink' and if I were not sensitive and emotional, how could I be a poet! However it becomes difficult for me to feel and write at the same moment. But then, if I never feel, how can I write even if it were a totally hypothetical feeling!
Now thats what the whole confusion and confession is about.
1 comment:
Thats a post that I would have always wanted you to write. You will remember I used to argue with you so many times that a poem comes out of a poet only due to some first person experiences and it can't be imaginary. But you do break these bounds and I have so many times identified my self with your poems. Good luck girl! keep writing!
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