By Vijay Phanshikar
Deep within
A spec rises ...
... inspiration !
Deep down there
A poem
Is calling
A tumult
Mills around
Silently violent
Emotions
Scurry about
Searching words
Words stay away
Constrained by
Conscience
The poetry within
Struggles
To germinate 

 

 

THIS is a universal experience ! -- of how poetry struggles to find expression ! Each poet -- or even a non-poet -- has suffered this trauma, this tumult, this tribulation. For many, it is a failure of sorts when a poem refuses to emerge. For many, many others, even that trauma, those birth-pangs, have a beauty, a romance of their own. A poem, possibly, could not emerge. Yet, the silent -- and even violent -- struggle to find expression to poetry offers its thrill, complete with emotional stress that may wreck the nerve.

 

Yet, countless people have sensed that romantic trauma of the birth of a poem. For them, even when a poem cannot be born -- or dies within -- the thrill remains intact, so to say. The struggle within -- for them -- is an exciting phase, no matter the exasperation of a failed attempt ! Beyond doubt, that entire episode is beautiful -- every inch, every grain, every nuance, every successful grapple with a word, every jilt when the word turns its back ... ! If really a poem takes birth -- converting poetry into form -- then the joy has no bounds. If, at all, the poem is still-born, the raw encounter also offers its poetic torque whose ecstacy cannot be denied. When a poem is about to be born -- or when inner poetry tries to find expression -- one’s being gets filled with fragrance of creativity, with resonance of one’s own resurgence of emotion, one’s exploration of self in a way, one’s (even) chaotic response to an emotional turbulence howsoever momentary. But in that moment -- when poetry struggles to find form -- the feeling of bliss cannot be denied. It is, of course, accompanied by certain trauma, certain pain, certain torture !

 

Yet, the beauty of the expectant moment is beyond normal human understanding of the inner pull and push the poet within senses. Of course, every poet has jostled with this experience all life. But then, every other artist, too, does the same, goes through similar pangs, gets tortured with anxiety of creation, enjoys its emotional violence ... ! In those stages when a poem -- or a piece of art -- is being born, there is nothing right or wrong, so to say. For, when creation takes place, there are trials and tribulations and triumphs and traumas -- and trivia blocking the path ...! So, something is written and scratched out, something is drawn and erased, something carved or sculpted and set aside for another day (or to be rejected completely) ... !

 

If the creator -- the poet, the painter, the sculptor -- feels that something is not right, he rejects the idea, takes detour and tries to start again the journey to completion. On some moments, everything falls in right place. On other moments, nothing appears to go right. Despite all those uncertainties, the overall experience is truly beautiful -- if one has the time and the tendency to pause and ponder. In those moments -- of pause and ponder -- also can one corner the glory and gladness of creation.