Poetry

Poets are the most remarkable of creatures that once lived. Forgive me for the tense, for I am yet to dwell into modern day poetry. Never mind the language, for language in itself is quite too intense for any one of my calibre to understand, twisting it to a degree to convey a message, to create a backdrop, to bring to life the feeling of the love or despair – that requires an intellect above par.

Some of the most humblest of poetry revolves around love, despair, longing, yearning, sorrow, hatred. Forgive me again if I have not mentioned the rest. Be it a tense humid air, weighing against your every move; or an air that is diffused with the smell of champak or a breezy jasmine whiff it does create a certain wanting in us. I want to relish the sense of the same – to feel the smell of the jasmine, to stand near the ocean and champion its moisture laden wind. I also want dim clouds to brighten up to a rich and amber light and then fade away to its silvery hue like it did for Coleridge.

Alas! I have, nor hope, nor health, nor peace within or calm around, to know of these. But how I feel that it’s a world that now lacks any lustre that it had to inspire these geniuses.

No more of you I know my love, no more of you I know!

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