Petals of flowers blossom slowly one after the other, waves rise and crash as the ocean breathes, the moon fades in and out in cycles, and just like that man puts words together, capturing and reflecting the essence of life. It's the inherent expression of life flowing through man, abiding the laws of nature that are eternal. He can do nothing to stop it but simply allow it to. Who could stop a rain-bearing cloud, its affair is to rain and so it will. We cannot ponder over the origins of the universe, or art without realizing that the answer we are looking for does not lie in a floating rock but deep within our hearts, our souls. And only some, possess the power by the grace of god to hear those whispers and secrets of the universe. That they birth into our material world. Therefore the essence of life itself has always existed in the form of art and poetry before the beginning as we know and there shall be no end to it.

Poetry is a powerful reminder of the presence of a higher self in all of us, the one who lives deep in our hearts, listens to us, and talks to us in the hard and sweet moments of life, it is that which articulates human feelings. Words merely spoken through the mouth and the tongue hold no value over the raw and original feelings articulated by our souls, that which is universal and unchangeable. Deep within - you, I, trees, fireflies, star-fishes, the sun-moon, and the stars are all made of the same light. The all-pervading cosmic energy that holds us all together, in one nest. Beyond age, sex, race, or any other identities we refer ourselves with we connect irrespectively. And to be able to capture and express that, the poet will often have to dive deep into the cosmic ocean, finding a magical string onto which he will bead his words and adorn our plain lives.

You might have found the above paragraph a bit too far stretching but then explain to me, the rush of patriotism that dances in my blood when I hear Mr. Tagore’s powerful words, why my heart aches for every word of a broken heart by Mr. Bukowski, and how could I ever heal the wounds that Sylvia Plath and I share. Sometimes I imagine how serene it would be to lie by the riverside in the dreamy wild forests of Mary Oliver’s world. Oh, I could go on and on and dedicate a never-ending ode to all the great women and men who bled their inks onto papers and now those clicks on their fingertips. Like a magical fountain, we’ve never run out of words or poems in our world. Yet we can’t quench our fire for desire. That is poetry, that which keeps me up at night to read just one more, that which occupies my head when I watch the clouds on a busy metro, the voice that echoes the words in my ears and just won’t settle down. And if I said anything less, I wouldn’t be true to myself. The world of poetry enchanted us, just surrender and maybe you shall hear the whispers of the universe too.

I believe in and follow the philosophy of living life one word at a time. The times I spend alone, in the morning at home, waiting for the train, gardening, the work becomes the word and my life becomes a poem. No sense of real-time, no sense of mind chatters but pure bliss and full body and mind experience, all in the present time. Now think about that, you know when to pause, stop and continue your words, mainly how you view and express your life through the highs and lows. You can never skip to the future or refer to the past cause the present is always new and growing into something of its own. Poetry as a philosophy for living life on its own might seem alienated and boring but the key to it lies in finding our language, momentum, and degree of openness and to keep within obsessive lines. We see some poets who lay open their entire hearts out, you see them inside out. On the other hand, few carry it in just a few words, subtle but powerful. And it does not matter which one you are, you might even have a style that you have never seen anybody do before. There are no rules, no boxes and surely no regrets. Cause we know that we believe that, it’s that one magical fountain, we all have within us. So make up your own words as you go, in the style that befits you and your life. In every work, every word, every thought, and idea of yours, see how you can bind them with that cosmic string, make it more real and blissful at the same time.

But what about those days, when I don't even understand myself, my own words unclear to me, my tongue slurring, every word hence written by me drifting away in the high winds, and I lose all sense of reality? I dig deeper into the bottomless abyss of my past, crooked words, nice words, calm words, screaming words, I go through all-encompassing me and I can’t just find the will to do it anymore. In that storm, I call upon God himself, in the tranquil and pacific eye of the storm, lays his shrine. I howl in pain, a cry for help, a prayer. There in that light, I saw that the prayer in itself is a poem. Prime and authentic. A pioneer to all the poems that have ever existed before and will in the future. Therefore we come back, in a full circle, to where we began, the inherent quality of our souls to reflect the cosmic light of life. We cry at our first appearance, then we laugh, play, and love. Then we learn words, and someday may even forget those words in old age, so find a way to curate your life in one way or another. Poetry for one is a splendid way just to do that.

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