Poetry, a deception?

 

Abstractness. Have you ever actually wondered, what abstractness is? We all have been recognizing it as something which we cannot physically see or touch but only feel the presence of. But what if I said that, this definition of ‘Abstractness’ is non-exhaustive? There is a lot more to abstractness for me, than only a lack of physical presence. Abstractness can be within anything and everything around us. We just need to resonate with it to feel its presence in the true sense. Abstractness can be seen physically, but it would be limited to the person who is under its influence. And this absence in the presence of Abstractness is what makes it, Abstract. 

Why am I addressing this attribute here? The thought behind it shall unfold over time, and if it doesn’t, then maybe it was abstract. 

Poetry can be considered as the purest form of literature to exist. Nothing in this world can possibly measure the depth and profoundness of a verse in its true essence. Not even the writer himself. There are certain aspects which make poems so loudly expressive and precisely silent. They unfold their vibrant realms, as and when the reader possesses the mindset to grasp those. It is quite fascinating, the way a combination of words can do wonders to a person, while it would mean nothing to the other. In the end, all of it narrows down to the kind of clarity that does exist in the mind of a reader. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, and nothing can qualify as an absolute bliss, being considerate of the fact that opinions are subjective and cannot be forced upon. 

Poems are normally interpreted as and what the reader would want to. But have we ever wondered, what the formation of a poem would feel like? If you haven’t, then brace yourselves, because this is going to be a bumpy ride. Be ready to unlock the doors of your imagination and be my guest in this trail of a poet’s point of view about the formulation of a poem. 

Poetry and Prose are those vibrant aspects of literature that truly fail to have their paths of existence to be similar. Poetry has no specific time of occurrence, it is just a flash which pops up in your mind while you could be thinking of anything to everything. It is an avalanche in itself. It drives you crazy and kindles a spirit of frenzy behavior all along. It is not just a thought that you mind is acquainted with, but it is the metaphors and relevance that  drives one crazy. It is quite strange, isn’t it? Why would anyone lose their mind over the occurrence of a thought? You need to be a poet to answer that, and I like to call myself one. And for me, if a thought is not as powerful enough to rip your soul apart and leave you in pieces, wondering why your mind does even do this to itself, then are you even thinking?  If a thought is not crazy enough for you to be left wondering if things like these actually do exist or its just a vague and obscure interpretation of your mind that is leading you on, then are you even imagining? A thought has to be as impossible as possible to have you on your feet, wondering about its cause. You need to posses a deep conviction towards its behavior, in order to believe in its existence in the true sense. 

“Poetry is when, an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found its word 

-     Robert Frost” 

It all begins when you are well aware of the uniqueness of your thought that, things begin to formulate in your mind. The vibrance of the thought is such, that it takes you down physically and you try to feel it through your mind. The emotion being too ecstatic towards the thought, makes its bounds specific by giving it up and taking up none. The moment is of maximum supremacy when the realm decides to unfold its colours in the trenches of your mind. The thought flows and keeps its flow, while you gather a pen to scribble down the words. The thought stays there in the trench, while you feel it up and the bounds of your vocabulary are relinquished over the only physical aspect existing in front of you.

The thought is no more stagnant and it comes down hard through your mind, peering over your arms, waiting to summon the words and be poured out along with those on a piece of paper. They slowly unburden their traits and let go of their immaculate intricacies. And there you have it. Words blossoming out on a piece of paper while they lose their identity to an intruder and surprisingly, have their wonders discovered and their limits stretched. The pen does its job of having to facilitate the existence of a vulnerable emotion, neatly ciphered in the intricacies of a poem. That’s when you know that poetry has blessed itself with its presence over that piece of paper and it knows the way the words in that verse have been worshipping its immaculate strength to battle out a mountain of a soul. There is beauty in the process. There is uncertainty in the words. But in the end, there is an immortal strength to a poem that only, profoundness can track down. 

You know it is a poem when you see every inch of your body begging to be reimbursed with the affection that anything else would fail to provide. You know it is poem when you see it coming towards your soul and tracking you down for the very existence of your miseries. You know it is a poem when you know your arms are crying for the mirth. You know it’s a poem when you know it is deceptive. Abstractness finds it way towards poetry with ease and why would it not? There is possibility existing in its impossibility of expression. 

And hence, abstract.

- RUSHIL TAMBEKAR