Word after word on reams and reams of paper often fail to express what a swift, short poem will. Reams and reams of paper, with lines and lines of ink, will often fail to move us, the way a few short lines in verse will.
For a poem is a nugget of conciseness, of consciousness,
holding together a scattering of ideas, experiences, emotions... Set often to
rhythm and meter, that resonate with the beating of our heart, evocation of
times and moments, of thought…
Last week, Literary Arts hosted a virtual talk by author,
Madeline Miller. In talking about her craft, she mentioned that she often
starts her workday by reading poetry. The succinctness of poetry helps her keep
her prose tight and adhere to a certain economy of words, finding the choiciest
and the most succinct.
For poets do that. They must. They compress into a few scant
lines, reams of narratives, stories, feelings, and emotions.
I too have returned to poetry, ahem… even if my “art” has nothing
to show for it. But in times of illness, when I did not have the energy to read
pages and pages, when reading a few lines was all I could do - before my eyes closed,
or nausea struck. With poetry, even if my eyes shut after a poem, or at times, after
a few lines, the words and emotion carried further and longer than their sparse
characters. It gave me the opportunity to remain surrounded by books and ideas,
and the creative thought process. It allowed me a sense of normalcy when there
was no semblance of any. In my heart and in my body.
I too have returned to poetry, mostly unfinished, unpolished
poetry. I seem to not complete it, to not finish saying everything I started
out to. And while it would be nice to finish and polish the poems, with poetry,
even in a finished poem, sometimes, you do not need to fill the blanks. The
wholeness seems to come together, in its scattering, from the juxtaposition of ideas,
from sparse strewn words, compacted with meaning and emotion.
It may be the blank spaces, the negative space in
art, that draws the eye and the mind to that which is most important and
moving.
I have no delusions of being any kind of a poet, trust me. But
how can I forget the joy it brought me as a kid? In my childhood I wrote verses,
with the clear and lofty literary goal to infuse in them, as much silliness as
possible and incite as many giggles as possible. Move over Shakespeare.
In school, whilst something way-more-important was being
taught was invariably the most “creative hour” in this young poet’s life. Silly
rhymes scribbled on chits of paper and passed around, to be received by muffled
giggles to more “literary works” (sic) written in college classrooms. These masterpiece
verses sometimes involved Baudelaire, Flaubert, Montesquieu et al, melodramatically
lamenting, in their own genre, of course, the treatment that their oeuvres were
being put through at our hands. Irreverent, metered, pointless and futile words,
even if at-times intelligent – even if the intelligence, largely misplaced. Oh,
the irreverence and arrogance of youth. Seems almost a delicious thing –
noticed only when gone.
In Journalism school, I was surrounded by enough crazies,
all very talented, of course, that the notes we passed in class, all in rhyme,
the rhyme continuing as it passed, resulted in nothing short of literature.
Poetry has always been a part of my life, and I realized why
when a friend recently commented on social media oh how our school (K-10, in
India) forced poetry appreciation in English, Marathi and Hindi upon us. It was
one of my most favorite part, surprisingly, in all three languages and I
remember the slim poetry books we had in addition to our regular school
curriculum.
Poetry recitation was also a thing and an expectation. We
were required to learn poems “by heart” (as we called it) or to recite from memory. And as
we grew older, and smarter (ahem), we got more creative. Wordsworth would most likely,
turn in his grave to hear his beloved Daffodils, set to the music of the
then Bollywood hit, Papa kehte hain, or Madonna’s True Blue - both
work beautifully, by the way.
Our Marathi teacher insisted we put a tune to the poems (she
also refused to teach us the tune), and that may be where this began. Boy, how
we adapted. 80s music prevailed and renowned Marathi poet, Kusumagraj’s Saagar,
was set to the Bollywood hit, Chehra hai ya… When asked to recite the
poem, (I think it was part of our testing), I do vaguely remember standing in
front of the class and belting out the poem Bollywood-ishtyle. Our
teacher was okay with it (I think). I adored her and she instilled such love of
poetry in me, even when we were singing it Bollywood-style.
I may not remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I
spout random verses from my childhood. Some years ago, a friend started reading
out a poem at a dinner gathering. I realized I still knew it “by heart”. Before
I could hold my tongue, or my excitement, there I was reciting it, (such a showoff…sigh...). And as I
got further into it, I realized I couldn’t do it without the Bollywood tune.
Ahem… so I added that in as well (cringing now… Sigh…). Apologies to this
friend, his calm reading of the poem would definitely, have been better than my-partly-set-to-Bollywood
version.
Yes, poetry has always been a part of my life. And I can’t
help wonder, if it is a dying art in today’s world? A dying art, in terms of appreciation,
of relevance, of its lack in the educational curriculum. Yes, you can imagine
the many eyerolls I receive from my teenager, each time I lament that they do
not have enough poetry in their curriculum. Like a stuck record, I repeat, each
time, how when I started learning English, it was the third language I was being
introduced to, and yet, I have studied way more poetry than she has. Another eyeroll.
Sigh…
Poetry, and art in general, have their place and always
will. But will we consider it a thing of frivolity, and not serious-enough to
deserve our energy and our attention?
So, imagine my joy to hear that the absolute superstar poet,
Amanda Gorman will recite poetry before the Superbowl. To see a poet receive
the same stature of recognition and of coolness as a pop diva artiste.
For there will always be poets. There have been from the
start of time. And there will be, till the end of time. That I know. For there
are things that need to be said, there are emotions that need to be felt… and poets
with their exquisite scattering of words take us there.
And as a way to apologize to Wordsworth for setting his beautiful
poems to 80’s music, I will end with his quote, that says it all…
“Poetry is
the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion
recollected in tranquillity.” — William Wordsworth,
