“A poet in his senses knocks vainly at the gates of poetry.”
No human experience is unique, but each of us has a way of putting language together that is ours alone. Youth really is an intriguing period in one’s life. If one adds writerly ambitions to the difficulties of youth, one must possess an exceptionally strong constitution in order to cope.
Whenever we sit down to write a piece of poetry, our minds are flooded with a million remembered ideas, a billion derived thoughts and a zillion words to link them with. Whether we should follow the rules or simply let our words flow in any form or direction remains the greatest internal fight. The seasoned poets do not face such problems, but the novices or the untrained ones (like me) sometimes go through real dilemmas in choosing ‘what to pen down’ and ‘what not to pen down’. Added to that, distractions of various kinds commove the thinking process and unsettle the mind. Tranquility is sought after. Compromises and sacrifices become quintessentially necessary. In the end, forced eliminations often drain out the core thought that was the source of the written piece initially.
Most poets (rather creative people) often meet an untimely end, due to their obsessive and eccentric nature. This unorganized piece of verse is an attempt to map the mind of a poet embarking on a noetic journey to create a written piece. It has a dual layer of monologue to highlight the dilemmatic nature of the mind. The words written in italics imply that they have a louder impact on his/her cognitive process, and punctuation has been minimally used to bring out the continuum of musing.
string of illusions
staring at the mirror
mirror staring back at me
I am torn between the two
I keep thinking it over and over
and over and over
a strange new world of another era
with blurred images of a hidden chimera
for some reason it is dark but not black
I stand facing a cul-de-sac
rhyming is fun but tricky
limits the flow of seminal reverberation
here I ponder sitting in a tired bowl
waiting for change
hoping to be free
free is fun
free verse is fun
or is it?
free verse is only free when stirred
free verse is brave and promising
two pesky crickets chirping inside a tin can
a cat mewing to seduce the workman
the gyrating cry of the exhaust fan
I can hear
I am not here alone
there are others around
I am at this apartment where I know some family
and there are others here who have no reason to be
the trouble is still not gone
I am torn between worlds
free verse world
nothing but a dream separates them
I grab a raincoat from the rack and head out
let it rain alright
O Raincoat thou art a knight!
a poem and it’s raining
O Raincoat why aren’t thou complaining?
that rhymed fine
ting of the elevator
weary wet heads ready to embark
onto the elevator of which I disembark
the lobby with its broken socket
key and phone in my pocket
walking down the street
on the odd numbered side
the rhyming side
the even numbered side is always the free verse side
do not ask me why
do not ask me how
I am rationalizing
and that is how I am torn between worlds
between worlds of recurrence and freedom
I walk down an alleyway aimlessly
I hear a noise other than that of the tin roof
a noise of a car coming this way
a voice excuse me, are you okay?
that rhymed badly
I look back only to reassure him
he walks up to me and I do not know what to do
he is not very tall but his footsteps are loud
be gone my temptation to wander
there is someone else in his car
the car is heading this way
the next thing I remember is cold
and I can barely move
a knock on the head
back of a car
and all I am thinking besides the wet cold
is how do I express these feelings
do I rhyme?
do I free verse?
am I torn between words?
am I torn between worlds?
© Tanumoy Biswas and The Nomadic Soliloquist 2013. All Rights Reserved.