For most of my life, I maintained a respectful distance from poetry. I trusted that those who wrote and discussed it knew what they were doing, and didn’t need to hear my opinions, which were all variations of “Huh?”. I felt no urge to read poems, or to write them. As for deciphering their meanings, I felt I had done enough of that in my Class 10 board exams.
Explain how fruit symbolises both life and death in Frost’s ‘After Apple-Picking’. [5 marks]
Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind’ uses every figure of speech ever invented. Why? [10 marks]
If you are a fan of Shelley or Frost, I mean no offense. These poems just weren’t relatable. What could “thou breath of Autumn’s being” mean to a teenager growing up in Mumbai, who has never seen an autumn? This is not to say that all the poems in my school syllabus were boring. I still remember reading “I’m in Charge of Celebrations” by Byrd Baylor, in Class 5. Here’s an excerpt:
Sometimes people ask me, "Aren't you lonely out there with just desert around you?" ... And I say "How could I be lonely? I'm the one in charge of celebrations." Sometimes they don't believe me, but it's true. I am. I put myself in charge. I choose my own. ... You can tell what's worth a celebration because your heart will POUND and you'll feel like you're standing on top of a mountain and you'll catch your breath like you were breathing some new kind of air.
This was the first non-rhyming poem I read. I loved how cheeky it was. The poet was letting me in on a secret—in your imagination, you can make up the rules.
The end of high school brought with it the luxury of ignoring poems I didn’t like. Unfortunately, I threw the baby out with the bathwater. I read Orwell and Kafka, but ignored Dickinson and Faiz. Some friends started writing poems and sharing them online, but I didn’t pay much attention. Occasionally, I’d come across something earth-shattering, like “Separation” by W. S. Merrin:
Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.
But for the most part, I was indifferent to poetry.
Something shifted in 2023, when I started writing this blog. I was suddenly very interested in finding the best and fewest words with which to say things. I stopped skipping past poems on social media. I had more patience for poems I didn’t understand on the first read. I started to see magic in the lyrics of my favourite Hindi songs. I began to appreciate the power of an image painted with words.
And then, a year and twenty one blog posts in, the unthinkable happened. Here’s part of a journal entry I made at the time:
I had an idea for an essay yesterday, and pulled out my phone and made some notes. Then, I felt like this should be a poem, not an essay, and I put line breaks to make it a poem. I ended up working on it till 12:30 am and really liked it.
I felt like a complete imposter. I hadn’t read any of the great poets, or Mary Oliver’s poetry handbook. In fact, I didn’t own a single book of poetry. Most of the time, when someone declared that a particular poem was good or bad, I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about rhyme schemes and syllable counts. A few days later, I posted “Nouns and Verbs” anyway, and to my surprise, people liked it.
That, it turns out, was the gateway drug. “This should be a poem” started happening more often. I wrote another one, and to hell with the handbook (before you come for me, I have great respect for Mary Oliver and the handbook is on my must-read list).
I’ve started to think that what makes a poem good is less about pleasing sounds and perfect syllable counts, and more about whether it can convey an idea so strongly that it becomes a part of the reader’s brain, something they cannot avoid knowing and feeling forever afterwards. Check out these untranslatable words from ‘Asli Hip Hop’, written by Spitfire for the film Gully Boy:
कलाकार मैं, कल को आकार दूँ
Was there ever a more powerful description of art?
April is national/global poetry writing month, or NaPoWriMo. I participated in the Ink and Quill Collective’s April poetry challenge in which we wrote one prompt-based poem every day and shared it with the group.
This was a new kind of poem-writing for me, no longer fueled by “this should be a poem”, but “what does this prompt make me want to say?”. I wrote more poems in thirty days than I’ve ever done before. I tried weird stuff. I experimented with form, length and language. It is still scary to share my poems with the world, but the other day, I saw this note on here:
Here are some poems I wrote last month.
Prompt: War and Peace
Sand
Grains of sand caress my lips, sun-warmed they tickle my nose. Head rests on cool, moist layers beneath the surface. Eyes shut tight no sand goes in, no tears come out. Soft sand against my cheeks. Is this good for my skin? Is it a form of exfoliation to bury your head in the sand? I hope so, because I do it a lot. Sand holds back the noise. BANG! Gunshot, screams (though they are muted) disturb my sleep. “No!” I shout. “Stop,” I whimper. But my voice is muffled. Noise cancellation works both ways.
Prompt: Earth Day
You Must Save The Earth
A woodcutter slept in the shade of a tree sharp shiny axe at his side. Another came by, dull of axe, sharp of eye He froze in mid swing when the first man cried, “Hark! Do not cut! You must save the Earth. By my hand, enough trees have died.”
Prompt: Nature Poem
Lily
Prompt: Ode to a Loved One
आया है ज़िन्दगी में जादूगर कोई पास मेरे रहता वो हर घडी घडी उसमें मुझे सारी दुनिया मिली वो दूर हो तो होती हर पल बेचैनी तरसता है दिल, प्यास बुझती नहीं “बस एक मिनट और!” -- उसकी जादुई छड़ी न वो कभी झगड़ता, ना रूठा कभी हर मुसीबत में सहारा देता है वही देखा उसे तो हर उलझन भूल गयी याद उसके बिना कुछ भी न कर सकी ! उसके ही ज़रिये चल रही है ज़िंदगी | प्यार ही क्या अगर ये मोहब्बत नहीं ?- मेरा प्यारा मोबाइल
A wizard has bewitched my heart, he and I are never apart. I drink and drink, but cannot sate my thirst, I need him night and day Endless fun at a finger’s flick “Just one more!”--his magic trick He doesn’t fight, he’ll never pout Whatever’s wrong, he helps me out He takes my troubles off my mind, If not for him, I’d be flying blind! Life without him would be rough. If this ain’t it, then what is love?- My Darling Phone
Fantastic!
Beautiful!
You have tried forms, languages, every kind of technic!
Very imaginative mind!
When did you become one?
When did you change from my little girl into this woman?
Love you!
Excellent! The last poem is so simple and clever. I need to learn poetry appreciation from you.