Whar Is Poetry To Me? Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

A beautiful question. Let me start with the second question. and add. What is poetry for me? How have I taken poetry? Taken to poetry?

In the past I used to write Songs of Soul, The Paternoster, The Light Divine, again did I My Father, My Love Poems, Chandramukhi in one slot to move for Pinda-dana, The Dark Daughter, the journey from to modern pamphlets and documents of it to Ananda-Ashram, Ananda-lok, Anand-mela; Anandamurti, Nagamani, Yama, Devadasi, Ptita to A Singer of Rama, The Blue Boy of Vrindavan, Death, My Death, Talk To Me.

Poetry to me, in the words of Arnold, is criticism of life and I do the critiques of life and the world, as I see, observe, comprehend and contradict with a set of ideas. Poetry is philosophy and the poet a philosopher. The unconscious mind of man, have you ever tried to know it? Poetry to me is biography and biographical sketches.

Poetry is a way of life. Poetry is in philosophies. It also depends on your sensitivity and sentiment to capture the flying images and to restore them. How you use and recreate them! Poetry is satire when you do the critique of men and manners, take to the manners of the world for a reading and comparison with an oblique approach to defend and correct what it ails society.

Good reading and writing are lovely. Good thoughts and ideas can invigorate you. Historical and antiques things can engage you mythically. Nataraja Shiva, go and see you in the museum. Avalokiteshwara Buddha found from the Nalanda complex, the blackly clay or basalt statue telling in a different pose. The blue statue of Krishna found the excavations of the Parmar kings, the spade falling upon with a clink, how to rejoin the pieces of broken art and history? Vikramshila, I think of its ruin and heyday, glory and historicity. The terracotta temples, small-small with the clay-baked plates, embossed wit sculptures and figurines paint the shreds of thought and idea.

How do the poems come to? Poems come to me as a trail of thoughts and ideas in an inter-connected way. sometime as haikus, the tidbits or residues of thought and idea and I search for meaning in them briefly.

Poetry is flight of imagination. Poetry is some colourful dream, dream you. The girls siting on the platforms and waiting for buses at bus-stops and looking no less than heroines can take your poetic scape.

Poetry is thought, idea and reflection. Pray you to Buddha, hear you the chorus, Buddham sharanam gachami, / Sangham sharanam gacchami, / Dhammam sharanam gacchami. Read you, go through the lines of Kabir, meditate you n a Kabira's hut with, Bura dekhan jo mei chala… Gandhi's Tin Bandar, Bura mat dekho, / Bura mat shuno, / Bura mat kaho, I too have seen from my childhood, heard about Gandhi and Gandhism, plain living, high thinking. How to be a man of character and integrity? How to take to a simplistic living? How to take to a moral view of life? Ethics and morality too are important.

What can poetry give? That I cannot. It has not, it will not to you too. It has both good and bad parts which but I shall someday. how has it spoilt and ruined my life? How has it added too to my spectrum of thinking, perspectives widening the horizon?

Poetry is in poetry, in the idea of conceiving and perusing and perusing the art and craft of it.

I gave it to the world of poetry, but did it give to? What did it to me?

Poetry of the pagal manna, achetana manna, write I, as has its origins therefrom. Can we negate Hamlet, Macbeth, Oedipus, Paglet? What did it pass over the heart of Hamlet? Can you say? What does it pass over a neurotic heart, over a pagal manna and that we know it the manna is always pagal? How did ambition over possess Macbeth as a ghost? What did he feel after committing the murder? How did the fates conspire and plot, how did the stars see the crime being done and how did the walls whisper it to be passed on as hearsays? How dramatic is the scene purging with the horror and terror element?

Poetry is journeys that take you, undertake you. Suppose you go to Ladakh. How the ways leading to Kailash, Mansarovar, Vaishno Devi? How Sherawalli, Jhontawalli, Paharnwalli? How the Shivaling making and unmaking from ice and icicles? How Mount Kailash?

How Gangotri? Why is it Mandakini? Where Neelachal? Kamrupa-Kamkhya? Let me have a darshan of Kamrupa-Kamakhya. Where the Sagar islands? How the penance of King Bhagirath for absolving them of sins? These tell of a saga of myth.

Once we used to say, how to keep jungles? Why not to clean them? But how important are they ecologically, environmentally that we do not know it. Havanas we need to purify the environment and the atmosphere, we need to purify and make it holy. Yoga we need to do to keep us fit. How to awaken the kundalini? We have not learnt it.

Emerson's Brahma I have forgotten it, the concept of trinity, Brahma Vishnu Maheshwara. how did I learn from Coleridge about Vishnu drifting on the ocean bead?

Bare realities of life, I mean ground realities, had had you a tryst with ever? The problems of life and living you do not, how do they live, struggling to make a living? How do we in every sphere of life? Hard realities, hard realities of life talk I. This life is full of problems and we have to live, sustain with and bear them.

The world I have not travelled, I have not seen. How and parts of the world do I know? Where Yeats' Meru? How the Himalayan wisdom lighting Eliot with the black clouds gathering over Himavant for an outburst with Om shantih shantih shantih for resurrection and vegetation? I wonder, wonder to feel it about.

Poetry is birds, beasts and flowers, a description and depiction of exotic flora and fauna, depleting and vanishing out of sight, where to see that scenery and sight? The owls looking strange, bizarre and grotesque take us otherwise with their sighting and imagery, ogling it differently, as if for a talk. The blue birds flapping wings and basking in the sun in winter, I have seen them. The golden orioles break the tunes beautifully. The coos coo it beautifully. These songbirds with their song notes have always soothed the hearts.

Wild flowers too can be ravishingly beautiful. A maiden going with the roadside or pathway blooming yakand and datura blooms in her basket going to worship Shiva and to visit the pagoda flashes over the mind's eye. The yellow golden chains hanging as the chains of wild blooms beautify and adorn the forest ways with strange floral decoration. The jaruls beating the summer heat can charm you with the violet blooms and so lovely are the clusters of ornate reddish gulmohars. The wild palash decorates the hilly terrains of the plateau region as the flame of the forest.

But sorry to say the foists have been cleared, trees have been cut down. Now we see it not the vultures, We are facing an ecological crisis. There is environmental pollution all around. Fanatics are o the rise. Terrorists have grown out with their gun-toting ideology and they speak the language of horror and terror. as are the harbingers of that. To wreak havoc is their job; to spread chaos and anarchy. The elephants are trumpeting. The jackals abandoning the forest tracts live it by the waste heaps of the town locality and the dogs seem to be quarrelling with them.

A drunkard living for wine, by bottles, have you seen him lying fallen by the footpath? Hoe has he dumped wine bottles behind his house? Where to hide in bottles, wine bottles emptied and gulpled? Daru piyo aur masta raho, eat, drink and be merry.

A daru man, living for daru, for daru, by daru is he a modem guy, a bar man, a restauteur, a club man, a party man. But how long will the disco jockey keep him entertaining? Modernity too has a close of its own. So are our resources. Is urbanity the all? Where will it lead to ultimately? Where the goal of life?

Have you seen the red eyes of the drug addict selling his all for drugs and the gangs looting him? How does he keep scrambling for, struggling to live for wit his survival strategies? Though he promises, but quits he not, a slave to his old habits and tastes letting him not go. The old company too will not let him go who keep lessoning otherwise, extorting money from.