Epiphany at midnight
Somewhere around midnight, on the bus to chennai did this epiphany strike me - a vague analogy that I have taken a fancy to. About how life is so much like poetry. I have been trying it to put it down to words. But somehow, what I want to say is getting lost in translation :(
Let me try ... again.
Poetry is probably one of the most all-encompassing work of art - be it in form or substance. And if one were to map poetry in the axes of structure and substance, we end up with a two by two matrix with the following squares.
Structure Major and Substance minor
A poem that is written by the book - with rhyming last words, the right beat and oxford's chosen words for public etiquette. The words bounce on and off like a nursery rhyme and proud mothers would read them out to tea time friends. These poems don't search for a greater truth, nor define an epoch. They are daily observations, travel diaries and corner jokes.
Like so many middle class lives which are lived by the book. There's a fixed template for every life - as to how someone should be named, nicknamed, the school he should go to, the engineering or medical degrees he has to get, the age has to get married in, the house he has to build, the children he has to tend. Hundreds of millions of people can live their life adhering to this template, this rhyme and rhythm and not even once bother about the purpose of all of it. about a greater truth, about how far this rabbit hole can go. I envy the bliss of ignorance these people bask in - and trust me, everyone around them is completely content and happy with this life. Like my mom was with my poems in sixth standard - innocous, rhyming and look-my-son-can-write statement of pride.
Structure minor and Substance Major
Go back to all the songs that linger, all the words that sting and all the metaphors that haunt you and make you think - lines beyond rules, driven by this burning desire to express something that's so stifling, so strong, so overpowering that existence stops and starts again with every punctuation. A form of art where structure is considered a constraint, a useless wall in the way of a gushing stream of thought.
And so many lives that come to my mind that fight tooth nail with these questions and answers all their lives; Lives that search for a purpose; Lives that find the norms of the society, the trends of the pseudos suicidal; Lives that hurt themselves and scream in pain not out of a masochistic drive, but because the void that fills them is much more painful than the scars and wounds
Lives that went wasted and destroyed because there was no place to go, nowhere to begin, nowhere to end. Lines that rambled and shrunk into a huge, decisive dot before they could end, before they could say what they wanted to. Lives that flew beyond infinity for they lacked the one thing they couldn't live with - Structure.
Structure minor and substance minor
Poems that were too lazy to conform, and too shallow to have any truths to confirm. Poems that are devoid of structure because it's hip, because it's a transcendental trip, because it's a whole lot of gibberish that no one can relate to and hence question. Poems that can fake the style, quote the lines, choose the words from the 16th century dictionary but can never infuse the soul, the pain painted in the abyss of the eyes. Poems, people, that never go anywhere, say anything, and never even wanted to.
Structure major and Substance major
And those that know how far this rabbit hole goes, how futile every breathing moment is, how all these words by themselves form a paper palace waiting to be destroyed by the next whiff of thought. How without purpose, this huge edifice (structure) is such a collossal waste of time and lives (not just yours but many more). But still hold onto it, work within it and make every moment count because that's all they have got.
Lives that are grounded by reality - at least a part of it that they choose as indispensable, inevitable. Lives that have realized (knowingly or unknowingly) but still don't use it as an excuse to fly away, to escape. Lives that don't abhor life for its emptiness but spend a lifetime trying to make it count. Trying to touch lives. A lifetime of tightrope walking where you take turns to question either ends - the structure or the purpose - wondering if all this is worth it, but go on in the hope that in the end, when everything's over, you have at least said a few words that count, done a few deeds that matter or left a thought in the wind for some soul to sense.
I don't know if I am making any sense to you :) But, that's all I gotta say about Life and poetry.
Let me try ... again.
Poetry is probably one of the most all-encompassing work of art - be it in form or substance. And if one were to map poetry in the axes of structure and substance, we end up with a two by two matrix with the following squares.
Structure Major and Substance minor
A poem that is written by the book - with rhyming last words, the right beat and oxford's chosen words for public etiquette. The words bounce on and off like a nursery rhyme and proud mothers would read them out to tea time friends. These poems don't search for a greater truth, nor define an epoch. They are daily observations, travel diaries and corner jokes.
Like so many middle class lives which are lived by the book. There's a fixed template for every life - as to how someone should be named, nicknamed, the school he should go to, the engineering or medical degrees he has to get, the age has to get married in, the house he has to build, the children he has to tend. Hundreds of millions of people can live their life adhering to this template, this rhyme and rhythm and not even once bother about the purpose of all of it. about a greater truth, about how far this rabbit hole can go. I envy the bliss of ignorance these people bask in - and trust me, everyone around them is completely content and happy with this life. Like my mom was with my poems in sixth standard - innocous, rhyming and look-my-son-can-write statement of pride.
Structure minor and Substance Major
Go back to all the songs that linger, all the words that sting and all the metaphors that haunt you and make you think - lines beyond rules, driven by this burning desire to express something that's so stifling, so strong, so overpowering that existence stops and starts again with every punctuation. A form of art where structure is considered a constraint, a useless wall in the way of a gushing stream of thought.
And so many lives that come to my mind that fight tooth nail with these questions and answers all their lives; Lives that search for a purpose; Lives that find the norms of the society, the trends of the pseudos suicidal; Lives that hurt themselves and scream in pain not out of a masochistic drive, but because the void that fills them is much more painful than the scars and wounds
Lives that went wasted and destroyed because there was no place to go, nowhere to begin, nowhere to end. Lines that rambled and shrunk into a huge, decisive dot before they could end, before they could say what they wanted to. Lives that flew beyond infinity for they lacked the one thing they couldn't live with - Structure.
Structure minor and substance minor
Poems that were too lazy to conform, and too shallow to have any truths to confirm. Poems that are devoid of structure because it's hip, because it's a transcendental trip, because it's a whole lot of gibberish that no one can relate to and hence question. Poems that can fake the style, quote the lines, choose the words from the 16th century dictionary but can never infuse the soul, the pain painted in the abyss of the eyes. Poems, people, that never go anywhere, say anything, and never even wanted to.
Structure major and Substance major
And those that know how far this rabbit hole goes, how futile every breathing moment is, how all these words by themselves form a paper palace waiting to be destroyed by the next whiff of thought. How without purpose, this huge edifice (structure) is such a collossal waste of time and lives (not just yours but many more). But still hold onto it, work within it and make every moment count because that's all they have got.
Lives that are grounded by reality - at least a part of it that they choose as indispensable, inevitable. Lives that have realized (knowingly or unknowingly) but still don't use it as an excuse to fly away, to escape. Lives that don't abhor life for its emptiness but spend a lifetime trying to make it count. Trying to touch lives. A lifetime of tightrope walking where you take turns to question either ends - the structure or the purpose - wondering if all this is worth it, but go on in the hope that in the end, when everything's over, you have at least said a few words that count, done a few deeds that matter or left a thought in the wind for some soul to sense.
I don't know if I am making any sense to you :) But, that's all I gotta say about Life and poetry.
posted by Rathish at 9:10 AM
6 Comments:
And that's all we need to know on earth. Amen.
That was truly wonderful. Kudos to you :)
this is one of the best works,i wud say! :)
Beautiful!! Simply beautiful!!
I wish I could write like you do Rats!
@Kumari and @Samudraa - thanks :)
@Jax - That's some compliment :) This is not the usual I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine compliment bartering. But as I told you last night, I really think you really have an awesome style.
Good attempt at trying to brand all humankind into 4 categories :)
Most people are a mixture of more than one type... To adapt to various situations, man plays different roles at different times, sometimes substance is the more important, while during others structure is...
Sometimes life itself is a great anaesthetic... there's so much one might have gone through that one might begin to think that things that have no answers are better left unanswered and they fall into the rut of life like everyone else around them...
@Zenmotor - I do the habit of forgetting to place the final period :) In this case, just wanted to make sure I don't do injustice to the idea by trying to confine it to some length. followed your follow up - interesting :)
@Anonymous - true - that's another category. But don't they fit into category four?
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