Do you know the problem with art? It’s shy. It is insecure, vulnerable, and hyper-sensitive. I have spent most of the last couple of days working on a poem. After dozens of crappy pages, and hundreds of lines, I couldn’t gather enough for a few verses. It seems that the writer, the poet, the artist in me just couldn’t work on timelines. It never could. For him, it’s about the timelessness of the work. Sometimes, a few minutes are enough and sometimes months are short.
To quote the Dead Poets Society, “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” A poet instinctively knows when his words come alive.
So, after uncountable inanimate verses, I couldn’t stall this post any further. There is something special I am working on, that too on my precious genre–letters, and hence the added excitement, and anxiety with this project. So, whilst I try to blow life to these letters, you can drown with Pablo Neruda and figure out, “what spring does with the cherry trees.“