It is not so easy that my brain cells decipher poetry. I see numerous blogs by budding poets and flattering comments. People dissect each line and some quote them in their "wha-wahs". I sulk my face thinking why am I like this?
I have a better understanding when it comes to Malayalam poems. I can still recite some of my favorite lines. But in English, I hardly went beyond our good old Twinkle Twinkle little star.
I wondered why that if I can appreciate those forwards wishing you good luck or photos of nature with amazing captions, I am not able to appreciate poetry far better. Though I had acquired a taste for reading at the early stage of my life, poetry as such was never so in demand. One or two books of Vayalar and ONV was there at home. I have evn one prices for poem recitation at a very innocent age when I didn't really think but just mugged up the whole lines.
The real problem is, I guess, my language. Most of the times I stick to simple words, the reason being I am not so confident about the hi-fi words. I kind of feel that most of the poems and even fiction or some posts we read here in the blogosphere is mere showing-off of language. It is hard to come by a genuine blog.
Oops ... I am digressing from what I had intended to write. Confident that poetry can never be my cup of tea, I had even stopped trying to read them even if it was from the Worsworth or Emily Dickinson's of the world. I just don't get them. They are always a mystery and misery for me.
It is accidently that I read a poem by Neruda once. I couldn't believe myself that I not only understood but also enjoyed !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Neruda is a staple diet these days. Reading poems has also given me the courage to try reading some other poets as well.
Neruda is simply The Best. He wrote about the least important and the most trivial of matters with the same ease he wrote about intricate subjects. He isn't showing off his talent but letting us enjoy sparks of his genius. His language is genuine and free flowing. While reading him I get the feeling that he might have written them in 10 or 15 minutes, just as they came to his mind.
Poetry
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Pablo Neruda
Labels: people, poems
