Making of a Poet

?Text is ETU-Easy to understand stuff. ‘Tell me exactly what you want to say’ is the most disturbing cliché for a poet. If you coax him into doing that, he will probably forget what he had to say because apparently, he had nothing to say in the same spirit that the listener wants to listen to. The yes and no are mere means of setting crass social formats with no clues to the utility of the words. What is for everyone, a poet is too shy to put his finger in the same pie. His body chemistry is a fine regulation; he is hungry for something else.??

The poet is a saint sitting for ages without an appetite for food. Something else apart from the appreciation of a thing, an item, content, or the present, for he knows, it means nothing without the milieu. He is daringly critical. When he dis-possesses the present, he has the boundless prophecy to hand in the past and the future that makes his magically indiscernible fortitude to create a new world of possibilities. Few take to writing because they have something to say; others never knew what they would start and end up scribbling!?

When you look at a poet, you look at the suppleness and the speed without the velocity; you look at the turbidity and the sinuous moves. His mind is not an embodiment of an idea because he hates the finite; deterred by the possible chasm out of an excavation. He, therefore, moves briskly and clicks pictures of his spectacular universe. The space entices him and the lustrous scenes move and constantly expand the shimmer to?infini.?

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If the cliché looks at life as a voyage, a classical poet looks at the journey through space; a space of his mind. His lucid convoy is a simple tête; many physical encounters and mundane events of life are forgotten right the next flash because the nerve was occupied somewhere else.?

That, what the mind carries, could be replayed again and again because the mind had captured that. Look nowhere else. Just feel the span of your siege right here as you read this piece; neither could have geometrically prudent astronomical judgment, nor you could have the dimensional finesse of your angle. You suffered twice; neither did you know that you have to know, nor did you know ‘the know’. You have probably noticed or felt this after a breathing space of a few trans-pharynx because so far you were gripped in reading this; trying to read! And of course, you can read through it!?

An antithesis of the logical chronology and the timeline approach is that you meet the abyss of an accident; life’s?abime?is threatening as always. But fanaticism is all about an open invitation to such despairs. The poet is a big fan of Fantacism, although poetic despairs are about something else and look up and over; a poet is not a street driver! He habitually rises from the dusty aurora like a phoenix; rise, if it could only mean knowing the higher and privy.?

Apart from the conventional conviction, if you have confusions, you will read this again and again and if you have understood the stuff, you will mull over its sanctified exploits and diagram to put this in allusion to something that would ensue very shortly of the fourth dimensionality. Sometimes the effect is so overwhelming that you want to create an incident to suit the application or use of experience of what you thought, has pricked you or burst you. Poets do not?want the readers to agree to them amenably or coarsely; they have a cognition that disagreements would create more straits for them to be understood by the reader. Poet de-promotes adherents because it could create capitalistic content that is frigid. He is consciously sentient about the fact that He is only a proposal, just a conjecture, only a hypothesis; he has not conceived any posit, and he is not on a scientific mission to theorize anything.?

The psycho-dynamics of a voracious reader would mean he has that peculiar chemistry of the in-liva corpus corporis, being impressionable as always that causes him to leave something more urgent to its fate and make him dig himself in the sea of volatility; the refreshing mare maris and turmoil of congestive arguments. The mundane, the pedestrian, and the repetitive cause no excitement to the fervent sub-adrenaline; that makes the poet lose their momentary vivacity. And they take recourse to dig deep into someone else’s mind; readily offer the seat and the space of their mind sparing from the unconscious syndrome, ‘body and no-mind keeping a finger on a default button of the drudgery and the laborious mince.? ?

If love is a siege, the poet typifies his helplessness because he is in love with a lady, nature, the song, the time, the space all in one, all at once. Love at first sight is not a wrong accusation you can have on him, probably you were eager to fix one shade a shade too early. That is the suffering of the truth, as always, that he keeps people guessing. Allow him; otherwise, he will end up writing a huge mathematical regression.?

Poet’s mind has that rare in-libertas ascetic; a recluse that looks like the imprisoned ideas of living different from what exists. That is a reason why narratives like accounts, chronicles, and histories are so very conspicuously absent in his discourse. A subject attached to the verb, an object attached to the adjective is the very adult identity of the linguistic grammar and morphological syntaxes. But he knows, it is also the fallacy of a cloistered living. His scientific temperament is very shyly and very modestly placed subterranean, deep below the meaning. He hides his process of thought-making so much to invite the wrath of the reader who he knows loves him that way.?

A greater of the poet’s passione’ proudly and diligently overlooks parsing because he hates the contest between the words and the fiesta of the poser-how to say. Grammar involves logic and his spirit is about the spirited break away from the bud and pole judgments. The logic is the fructification for academic doer-ship in the lingua-franca class, whereas the freedom from posit, is the journey through the emancipation of the human lives. It is when you tend to look neither the left nor the right of the things that the larger portrait reveals itself.?

Implied sans context, is a farce and in isolate, a question without the 'questioned', is unfair playmaking. It is a seething ground for an intellectual prank, although any lineage with farce may not be acceptable to the poet. The seminal force that pervades the space and the time is the poet’s mandate and he pays a little price for that, the price of being socially disintegrated, inherently un-economic, and unbelievable.?

Once he leaves that shore, the rest is the journey in the sea, and there are very few people that live there. That is his new home as he perennially buffets on imperial recipes of tailor-made brew that his fanatic chase fabricates; what for if there is nothing in the end? Poet comes with his moral twister of rationale and says, how we can talk of that; most of us will not live till THE END.??

A poet is never worried about the end; that is not to flatter his bio-genic differential and legal deprivation along with the superior instinct to match definitional and derivational creativity un-perforce; but to talk about his unplugged non-tradable magnetic bourse where words traffic for ingenious values. (I beg a pardon for being lost in the perjury of extension). That is his home of toys and plays and a complete turn off of the auricles from the perfunctory rectitude as it swells, hovers, and transposes up the permeability of the new mind and new destination; seemingly unfathomable and his detour is intellectual philanthropy that need not be sold as a fiscal opportunity of surpluses to all who decide to make the poet their host by the virtue of their para-phrasal-para-pedagogic aspirations. (I beg again!) It is engaging, it is psychedelic but purist, and it is a selfless laboratory synthesis of artistic eco-molecules; of matching pearls for the eyes and gold for the chest. Everyone feels rich because the quantum is out of the contest!?

Poet is not one with a subject for he has an intergalactic and the subjects are nothing but themes that melt into a more refined form. His thought is not a course but a highly amalgamated concourse. His is a wondrous departure from the make-up room ideology; of ‘who looks the best’. He quietly dictates and re-poses the new onus; who thinks the best nee who thinks the most!?

It is natural to expect that a poet is an innate debater and without the result of the raucous. He speaks monologues; that is his fashionably virtuous ego.

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Thankfully! Since he cannot be taken down to practicality, it is impossible to say for anyone that they do not agree. Because there is no borderline and therefore there are no border politics. The poet, therefore, makes inordinate but unquestioned deferrals to arrive! That is his way of raising people’s expectations. Poet doctors this and converts it into an image; and then it is his song and orchestra, the grammar of ragas and the chord symphony play differently so well that even the musical logic does not matter!?

Many souls are unwritten poets; many poets are unsung. Maybe I will sing one day; that music to your ears!? ??

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