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Dec 21, 2016

What Is Poetry? Who A Poet?: Bijay Kant Dubey

What Is Poetry? Who A Poet? (A Personal View)
By 
Bijay Kant Dubey

What is poetry? They said it, poetry is music, rhythm and beat of music, poetry is music, the rhyme and rhythm; poetry is music, lyrical thought. But said it not, words, poetry is words, poetry is also words, words, words, that make and unmake. Poetry is an arrangement of words and their alignment; poetry is  a re-arrangement of words, so re-arrange you to make them meaningful.

Poetry is views and ideas, thoughts and opinions. Review them. Poetry is statements, so give you. Poetry is poetry as you think, as we think, they think. Poetry just carries our views and thoughts, words and ideas presented moodily.

Poetry is language and style, the way you present, take to. Poetry is in mannerism. You teach the manners of writing. You break the lines abruptly and present them. Break and say.

Poetry is thought and idea and presentation. Present them. Present you paper, read them what you have written and the poet a presenter, presenter of paper with the paper on poetry.

Poetry is emotion, your emotion for, poetry is passion, the passion of living, so live you, feel you the emotions, passions of life and living, the heartthrob.

Poetry is aroma, poetry is flair, flair for writing. Get tempted, tempted to writing, have the flair for, passion for writing. Flair for writing.

Poetry is poetry. Poetry is music, the music of life and the world, music of thought and idea, dream and sensation, colour and imagery.

Poetry is beats and vibes, jazz and cacophony. Beat in consonance with, beat you something as discordant and jarring and broken.

Poetry is images and pictures. Draw you the image. Poetry is pictures so take you the snaps, draw you the sketches, portraits and silhouettes. Take you the selfies.  Selfies from the digicam. For your sake, for your pleasure, the pleasure of the self.

Poetry is colours, colours, the riot of colours, fast and faded; poetry is dreams, dreams, sweet dreams that see you, see we, see they. Poetry is dreams, dreams, the dreams of a dreamer.

Poetry, poetry, the types of poetry, tenors of it, poetry poetry, poetry and its types. Poetry lyrical, musical, rhythmic, poetry beat and jazzy. Poetry, poetry, the poetry of life, life and the world. Poetry musical, lyrical; poetry rhythmic, incantatory.

Poetry philosophical, giving the philosophy of life, of life and the world. Poetry abstract and material. Poetry metaphysical, giving the metaphysical vision, of Iife and the world. Poetry material and cosmic, earthly and divine. Poetry spiritual, religious, transcendental, cosmic; poetry theological, allegorical; poetry poetry, the poetry of the aliens, the aliens with the UFOs intercepting, interrupting the people.

 Poetry poetry, rhythmic and vibrational, full of beats, rhythms and cacophonies, vibrating, jarring and musical, sounding and resounding, sometimes dearer to, sometimes monotonous.

Poetry poetry, poetry of life and the world, the music of life and the world. Poetry poetry, material and mundane; earthly and terrestrial.

Poetry social, sociological, poetry economic, describing the economic history, poetry poetry, poetry psychological, psychological and penetrating, poetry geographical, telling of cartography and topography, poetry geographical, poetry material, financial, town and planning.

Poetry poetry, poetic, poetical, the art of poetry, the craft of, the art and craft of, writing and of poetry, the art and craft, the craft and art of poetry, poetry poetry, the poetry of poetic and writing, the history of poetry.

Poetry poetry, the love of poetry, the love of art and culture, art and culture and society, love of letters, letters, .love letters, writing the poetry of freedom, freedom and liberty, freedom, of freedom, freedom of speech and expression, where the mind is free and without fear and the swans taking the flights, the swans of imagination.

Poetry love, .love, old love, love letters, letters, the letters, the letters of heart, loving and writing, loving and writing, writing and writing, writing and loving, writing and loving, taking to one’s heart and soul, the letters of heart, letters of soul.

Poetry poetry, poetry, the poetry of life and the world. Poetry poetry, poetry architectural, love of art and architecture, with plans and designs, columns and pillars, poetry poetry, poetry sculptural, full of sculptures depicted as myths and motifs, flowers in stones, carved and chiseled, the stone carvings and inscriptions and terracotta plates.

Poetry poetry, getting poetical, going poetical, poet and poetry, poetry and poet and creativity, the sense of creativity, poetic sense and justice, poetic rule and canon. Poetry poetry, in being poetic, poetic and poetical; poetry poetry, the poetry of life and the world.

Poetry poetry, sensation, poetic sensation, feel you, sense you the sensation, the sensation, the sensation and its quiver, the fire and frenzy of it, the fire and fever of writing, putting, putting down the unputdownable.

Catch the fire, fire and fever of frenzy, catch, catch the fire, the fire and flame of writing, the fever, the fever and frenzy of madness, madness poetical, madness poetic and vision you from earth to heaven, heaven to earth, wherefrom comes the sun and go there where the sun is.

Poetry poetry, poetry is imagination, poetry poetry, poetry is thought and idea and reflection, reflect you, poetry poetry, poetry is dream and vision so vision you, taking the visionary glides. Poetry is poetry, vision and truth, truth and vision.

Poetry is poetry, poetry beauty, goodness, truth, what it is beautiful is but truth and truth goodness so poetry an embodiment of the all three, truth, beauty and goodness. But forget you not the ugly which but the other side of the picture in search of beauty.

Poetry our history, art and culture, history of art and culture, poetry history of history, art and culture, thought and tradition. Poetry our temperament and we poetic, poetic and poetical, poetry our mood and moodily take we the words in a mood to think and opine, review and reminisce, remember and brood over.

Poetry is a dream and dreamers are we, dreaming sweetly, seeing sweet dreams, sweet dreams as well as nightmares where the goblins, genii and ghosts keep frightening; poetry poetry, sweet dreams and nightmares, good and bad, bad and good dreams.

Poetry poetry, aquatic and marine-view, of the rivers, lakes, ponds, marshes and water bodies, the seas and dams and bridges, the marshes with the pink, white and blue lilies, the ponds with, the water herons fishing in the muddy pond all day long, in the marshy plot the white cow, the white lily and the white stork looking lovelier an image, a picture.

Poetry is imagery, imagery full of scenes and sights, scenic and landscapic, landscapic and scenic, so lovely, so beautiful, full of panoramic view. Poetry natural scenery painted against the backdrop of sunrise, dawn break, twilight, the rising sun and the setting sun radiating and glowing red. A night full of heavily-scented kaaminis, but under the moonlight.

Poetry of man and machines, machines and man, write we, the poetry of modern man dependent on machines, robots doing the jobs for him and he sitting as a master; the mannequins kept in the glass house showrooms failing original beauties.

Poetry poetry, of the goldsmiths, blacksmiths and coppersmiths, poetry of jewellers, ornamental, making the anklets of nautch girls, necklaces; making Buddhas, Buddhas of peace, statues, statues of the ashtadhatu, eight metals.

Poetry ethical, mythical, poetry didactic, full of ethics, myth and mysticism. The myths of life and world want we to divulge, but still clueless; the myths of light and darkness want we to delve into, but how to, say you?

Poetry poetry and the poet a lover madly after, waiting for impatiently, restlessly with the heart beating fast, the heartache raking him badly, thinking of the dream girl and her love letters, love at first sight. Poetry as the sighs of love; poetry as heartaches, heartbeats, heartthrobs.

Poerty the art of loving, bird watching, flower seeing, see you the birds dancing, hopping and playing, flowers cackling . The aromatic seulis, kursis, kaaminis, champas, cchatims are there to enthrall you with their sweet fragrance, the dew-smeared tiny seuli  blooms lying fallen in the winter morning. Poetry as dahlias, pansies, salvias, petunias, chrysanthemums, calendulas, poppies, asters.

Poetry as bakul, asoka, gulmohur, palash, amaltash and jarul clusters of tree blooms, the clusters hanging by as wreaths of flowers. The cchatim tree blooms too heavily scented. 

Poetry earthly, real, down to realties; poetry imaginary not, realistic, down to realities, earthly values. Poetry poetry, of this life and world, poetry divine not, earthly, mundane, humane. Poetry of scavengers, sweepers, cleaners, write I, the cleaners cleaning the urinals and toilets.

Poetry poetry, of the road makers, those who make the roads, bituminous roads under heat and dust, heating the coal tar, mixing with concrete chips, braving heat and smokes, fire and flames to build it under the heat of the scorching sun. Poetry of the tillers, workmen, write we and without them where to find poetry? Poetry is poetry, of the tillers working in the fields, ploughing and tilling the lands as for crops, to quell the hunger of the belly with barleys.

Poetry poetry, modern, post-modern, contemporary; poetry modern, modernistic, post-modern and up-to-date, poetry prosaic and jarring, broken and patched up, darned and tagged, inclusive of the twentieth century and the twenty-first century.

Poetry linguistic and manneristic; poetry phonetic and transcribed, stressed upon the manner of pronunciation, written in imitation of Western style and manner of expression. Poetry bombastic, verbose and terse; poetry simple and lucid.

Poetry rural and pastoral, of the countryside, of the people dwelling in thatched houses, mud houses with the sheds full of cows, goats, sheep and ducks. The small girls with the small goats into their lap, how lovely is it to look at holding them!

Poetry of the skyscrapers, urban space and metropolis and megacities, cities and towns, busy, fast and active with no time to talk, no time to think, life spending as commuters, coming from the workplace and going, coming and going, going and coming boarding the train. With fly overs, parks, picnic spots, shopping malls, bus terminuses, airports, platforms, stations, discotheques with disco jockeys, F.M. radio stations, theatres taking our moments away.

Poetry poetry, catching the rhythm of life, rhythm of speech, the vibe of lived, the vibe of the urban world, the Iron Man not, the Spider Man not, but the Space Man. Plugging the wires into the ears, he hearing music, chatting while going on road or moving; on the Internet he doing Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp.

Poetry eco-centric, vibrating with and echoing, reminding us of the impending danger lurking in terms of Environmental pollution, ecological disaster, global warming, climate change, atomic summer and acid rain, deforestation taking a toll upon life, social forestry needed to change the scenario.

Poetry romantic and romanticism, dreamy and colourful, imaginative and fanciful; poetry poetry, romantic, dreamy, colourful, imaginative and fanciful. Poetry romance and romanticism; dream and dreaming. Poetry of flowers, poetry of dreams, poetry of beautiful girls.

The foreigner blondes and belles I saw them at the airport, the crew men, airhostesses foreigner talking in their tongues and speeches which but I could not understand, just saw them, saw them, so lovelier to look at and attractive and charming, English, American, Australian, French, German, Italian, Dutch; Ukrainian, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese; Bavarian, Austrian, Serbian, Croat; Japanese, Korean, Thai, Chinese, Tibetan, Burmese; Azerbaijani, Mongol, Tajik, Uzbek, I saw them, saw them, but could not, could not talk to. I saw so many misses from Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, Chile, but I could not, could not kiss them. The girls from Uganda, Kenya, Senegal, but could not hear Afrikaans music.

I had a desire to see the girls from the Northeast of India serving as the airhostesses of the flights taking off from there, I mean the Naga, Manipuri, Mizo, Sikkimese, Assamese, Bodo, Karbi. The promising hostesses from Assam, Sikkim, Nagaland, Arunachal, Manipur, Mizoram, Meghalaya, I saw them, but could not forget them, took the pictures with me along. Together with them admired I the Nepali, Tibetan, Ladakhi lasses for regional flights, cute village girls in Ladakh saw I, viewed I going far from my Aryan view for the first time.

Bavarian, Albanian, Czech, Slovak girls saw I them at the airport, seeing them, hearing their speeches, marking the tongues, their dress and costumes, attire and manner, I too turned global, felt I to be closer to them by being a restaurateur, an interpreter, a cabin attendant, a guard and thought I living near the port. Frankly speaking, I could not resist my temptation from having a look at them passing. I could not, could not.

I saw the burquawallis, in the burqua and purdah, Miss Purdahwalli, Miss Ghumtawalli, in the hijab and the niqab, hidden from top to bottom, head to toe, I could not see her, see her, but presumed the eyes  to be .lustrous. Though had the desire to ask, but could ask about her identity and nationality taking her to be orthodox and conservative. A young maiden in the dark blackly veil standing before me and viewing through the latticed clothing, but with the sticky, lustrous eyes and luscious lips, glimpsed I, peeped I into. My shadow, walking shadow was she, my genii, calling me, leaving me not behind, wherever go you I shall, said I, I shall not leave you, mistress, my ghost, my shadow, said I to myself, the girl I saw, saw with love.

Poetry poetry, personal, impersonal, about tours, travels, visits; poetry poetry, a visit to travel destinations, resorts and beaches, taking tours around the globe becoming a globe-trotter, a traveler travelling, taking journeys to.

Poetry poetry, the theme and matter of it the same. There is no change in it, nothing to deviate and digress from. Poetry is poetry, a feeling of heart, an emotion fitful; an expression passionate, passionate about poetry, passionate about life.

And the poet as a lover and poetry his love. As we cannot, what love is so is poetry, we cannot, what poetry is. Poetry is poetry as you see it, we see it. Poetry is emotion and feeling, feeling and emotion; poetry is thought and idea, knowledge and wisdom.

Poetry is broad and encompassing, the range and dimension of it very vast, vast and vaster, all-inclusive, nothing exclusive, all-inclusive, not exclusive, including it all, excluding it not. Poetry multi-dimensional, multi-disciplinary; poetry multi-cultural. Poetry arts and humanities; poetry science, write you the poetry of science. 

Poetry a news matter; poetry occasional, eventual, pertaining to events, happenings and incidents. Poetry as news, newspaper-clippings and cuttings with the news items, matters poetized.

In this of science and technology when man has reached the frontiers, the globe has shrunken into the palm of the man and we talking about the global village and its positioning on the world map, going from one village to another to do the bazaar work with the mobile hand phone set into the hands.

Even in the debris of the terrorist bombings, the world fraught with modern wars and horrors, discerning the fanatical mind-set and approach, think I development and novelty in thought and idea rather than sticking to one’s old and dead customs and beliefs rather friction and fissure want we harmony and adjustment. If we cannot create, why to destroy the beautiful world made by God?

I find the refugee girl going, uncouth and clumsy just like the nomad, but like my daughter devastated by mindless bombings and mad fundamental provocations. Seeing her going, the refugee girl on the paths  unknown and untaken so far, I lift her to my home to give shelter and refuge and here lies my  affection, the affection of my heart.

Under the canopy of the war-torn, war-ravaged and ravished world, torn and dazed, devastated and destroyed, how to save humanism? But the refugee girl comes to my rescue rescuing in my emotional crisis as the gift, unknown gift from god the Almighty.

As write I the poetry, the poetry of joining hearts, not breaking hearts and my job is to stitch, not to break, to join not to break; the poetry of connection, connection and relation, mutual contact and relation. A joiner of hearts lie I here, not a breaker, a breaker of hearts as join I, join I the heart, break I not.

Who am I, where am I, what my identity, where my home?, who to answer, reply the queries, who am I, what my name, where my home?, what my identity, what my name?, where to go finally, what the pathway end?, who to say to me, answer me back?

Poetry existential, poetry nihilistic; poetry questioning our existence, telling of our presence, sojourn, short stay; poetry of the vacuum, space and nothingness what lies it here, nothing, nothing, what hereafter.

Poetry poetry, poetry of faith and doubt, doubt questioning faith and faith in crisis, never-never logical and reasonable. Poetry poetry, what can it, what has it? With merely thinking, what can man do?

Poetry poetry, neither leftist nor rightist, communize it not with the red flags fluttering and embossed with the hammer, sickle and wheat sheaves, Reds marching, protesting, demonstrating, gheraoing, giving deputations agenda-wide for grabbing power, the power-crazy, power-hungry people. The rightists go you not to extremes in interpreting nationalism, pan-nationalism as you too are not good. As a man I am but a liberal.

Poetry political and the poet a politician, with bills and agenda, suppose a politician writes poetry or a man of literature turns into a politician. Poetry of movements, revolutions, rebellions, overthrows of power and establishments, bloodshed and violence I favour it not.

But if you ask me, what is more important, poetry or science, I shall say it science as the poets can just dream, dream and dream, can never materialize into reality, but the scientists do it with their brain-work.

Is poetry dying in the modern age?, I cannot say it, has poetry declined or  not? But only one thing that I can say is this that the poets are readers, poets are writers, readership has definitely declined, who has time to read poetry in this age of the search for bread and butter?

The fanatics I can never bear with, the orthodox and the conservative people, those who strictly adhere to their faith and belief, the medieval men. There is nothing as that to give priority to masculine prowess. Mena and women are all equal to me in my eyes. And fanaticism is but a type of madness and all those who fanatical are the mad-mad people. So, avoid them avert your gaze from.

A poet of reasoning faculty, logical thinking and reasonable approach am I, taking to logic and reasoning in confidence before I arrive at as because superstitions have wreaked havoc. An iconographer, an iconoclast I am believing in iconography and iconoclasm, making and re-making, making and breaking and re-making to create.

The poems come to me as the train bogies tumbling down in their trail, scrambling for, covering a distance, the train, train coming, covering a distance, the train, train of thought and idea, imagery and dream and reflection it approaching the station, visible from a distance, chugging closer to, whistling and coming, gathering pace and covering the distance to reach the platform to halt.

What in karma, what in my dharma, I know it not, my karam-dharam, this the dharma-shankat, which feel I, brood over my wrongdoing, my good action, which but will go with me and my poetry of  my karma and dharma and their calculation. What it is in my destiny, I shall have to bear, what it in my lot; what in my  bhoga, suffering, as I sow so I reap.

O karmayogin, move on, move on, on the path of .life! Your karma is your dharma, you go on doing your job, you go on , go on doing your karma, your dharma. Move on, move on, on the path of life, you are all alone, alone, all alone, O karmayogin! In your karma lies it your dharma. The poetry of karam-dharam. O activist, do you the action!


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