Lately, I have received a comment that I often write without aim and without knowing what I want to say. Protesting, let denying apart, is the last thing on my mind. I, on the contrary, want to thank Roselu, my ardent and sincere follower for reasons best known to her only, for this minute observation.Wonderful insight you have.
I wonder often, how logical or ethical it is to write without a purpose or aim and to my utter dismay, I find it quite influential in the history of literature. Absurdity, which may be a close ally of aimless writing, was the only ingredient of Alice In Wonderland, wasnt it?Or, the Italian revolutionary poem writing technique by the new renaissance poets. Cut a newspaper article, word by word, mix them, pick them on a random basis and keep them pasting on your notebook and, somehow, you have a poem ready with possible needs of grammatical rectification. As poems are often placing words in a way never before so this randomness in choosing words were not far from the much more conscious efforts of known poets like Hafez, Ghalib or Hikmet.
Poems are poems, they cant be described, like I said to Roselu a few days ago, on which of course we disagreed (for anyone will disagree with such an absurd claim) and had a good discussion. My point was poems must be felt not understood but the problem was with my overtly simplified statement. Indeed poems needs to be discussed but not in a way to impose the teacher´s interpretation of the poem on the student but gently and subtly explain the nuances which the young mind may fail to grasp at the first go. A poem is a thought or a feeling which the poet himself has explained best in the form of the poetry. How absurd can be explanation of an explanation!!
Big words bore me, tire me and most importantly beat me. So, lets go back to the usual trivial,unworthy and really forgettable writing style I originally have. After death of a great modern poet, people found a scrap of paper in his pocket and felt it was his last masterpiece. In the ceremony when people were bestowing best respect on him, they read aloud the last poem.
few cigarettes, two toothbrush
please get the clothes from the laundry
deposit school fee without fail
potatoes two kg, onions one
.............. A shrill sound from the recently widowed wife came and said, that is not poem, it was my note to him before he was going out, he was forgetful lately.
That is what I make of modern poetry and poets and, mostly the admirers.