Poetry in Action

"Why have you stopped writing; so favorite of your pastime? The
orchestra of words that used to gently mesmerize the gallery of artistic
minds. You decorated not only your feelings but also our emotions into a
bouquet of wondrous vocabulary. The words arranged in delicate rhythm
and feelings, juxtaposed in meaningful exhibition, value added to
ordinary conversation, and crude attitudes rendered into beautiful
sublimation; all this you made possible for us, O poet, and that was the
reason we loved you, adored you. It was not you as a person, whom we
worshipped, but the personification and artistic arrangement of our
hopes and aspirations in your poetry made you praiseworthy. Our faith is
on the brink of collapse, our dreams are sure to shatter, O poet, why
have you stopped writing poetry?"

The poet emerged out of his shell and looked around the assembled crowd,
and said in his mind. "Oh, what have I done? I have hurt the sentiments
of so many silent worshippers, who firmly believed every word of my
poetry as a symbolic representation of their unexpressed feelings. How
was I misled to think otherwise; why indeed did I stop writing poetry?"

Brooding all alone, the poet came to understand the reasons for such
misdemeanor. He had sold himself to the irresistible forces of loss and
profit; had confused creativity with popularity. The source of
inspiration was subtle, unseen and silent, while the exuberance of
compliments was vociferous. In reality, he realized, the sensitive
people, who provided the inspiration to paint the feelings and emotions,
and allowed arranging the flowers of words in a bouquet, could never
read his poems. They did not purchase his poetic artistry, for they were
the books of poetry themselves. And those who lavished money in putting
a price tag to his work, and decorated their libraries and drawing
rooms, could never understand the symphony of subtle sufferings and
sensibilities. Their compliments were opulent but hollow; their comments
were vociferous but superficial. The contradiction and dichotomy of
poetic creativity and popularity dawned in the heart of the poet.

He came out from the prison of his own creation and started running to
the gates of the factories, to the thick of slums and ghettos, to the
war-ravaged locales and cultural disasters. In the process he
imperceptibly began to create poetry in action by compassionately wiping
the tears from the eyes of orphans and widows, from the eyes of the
afflicted and those in ruins. Words were no more needed for writing
poetry; it was being created in the silence of prayerful activities.

c s shah