Hard work has canopied my mind for the last week like a cloud, still these rays of ambition, I see them shining through the dense foliage onto my mind. I participate to win. Not winning the Picture Perception competition was an unpleasant surprise to me; I decided to flow in verse while its common for most to use prose as it is quicker and of course easier. Indeed I was particularly hopeful over the tragic poem that I had woven within 15 minutes of torrential verse downpour. It beats my understanding and my bloated ego as to how one cannot place that entry on the winner's rostrums, but yet all I can do is remain graceful about it.
"Death chases thee,
As life cheers from audience,
Run, Rabbit, Run!"
The opening entry for the Haiku contest I participated in was farther in depth than words could have conveyed. It explains existence as a run and chase between the individual and Death as if in a sadistic show where the victim runs about in horror as the assailant chases him amidst cheers and jeers from a lusty, bloodthirsty audience around. Life, full of miseries, woe and sorrow, like a sadist audience, cries to the Individual as he is assailed by Death incessantly. The thought came in a split second as I read the words 'death' and 'life' from the list on the blackboard, and the moment I had conceived it, I was positive. Must admit I had expectations. This entry going unrecognized brings me a teensy bit of despair, not over my prowess in verse, but over the state of affairs. I should have just gone in mundane prose, for these dunce cannot fathom deeper waters. Poetry is a very subjective affair and demands a judge who could bring justice to the vast scope of subjectivity - a judge or a jury with a mind that encompasses all the ranges of imaginations that the contesting poets may have, a judge who is aware that the verses are steads not upright but treacherous; what he may consider a fault, a dike may actually be an orifice to a deeper chamber, a chamber where the gems may verily be hidden. That is where the crux of the matter lies. Pulakesh Upadhayaya is a wonderfully competent poet, yet I have some well-founded doubts over the skills of the other judge. I doubt whether he is accomplished enough to be considered as an abstract poet, much less a judge of abstract poetry. His poems, as I have read, merely center over themes of intoxicated, dope, marijuana with a clever and convenient use of the blank verse to enshroud his lack of finer skills like verse length perfection and others. Alas, Shakespeare! Your age was one where poets began from writing nursery rhymes, till they got the perfection in abstract to such a great apogee that the rhymes could no longer keep up with the convolutions in the abstract; and thus was born the blank verse: the most accomplished, most exquisite rendition in poetry where thoughts were rendered as the ulterior eye of the poet perceived them.
Alas, for now the blank verse has turned into a starter block for people who are invalid even to write nursery rhymes!
Without a doubt, dope and intoxication have served as incomparable windows of abstract poetry for great poets in the history of literature, but teenagers experimenting with weed using blank verse to guise the incoherency of their thoughts into what one may call a poem is a futile and retrogressive exercise. Pulakesh Upadhayaya, but really, Raheef?
The silver lining being, I won the fan-fiction contest. All dead poets, I must say, are writers of great acumen which is only sharpened further by their voracious reading habits. As Anam said, they were confused till the very end over the results, hence I am glad I could finally snatch away the first spot.
That being said, my associations with the dead poets have added a whole new dimension to the literary discussions that I used to indulge in, and this fact gives me enormous satisfaction. Of course, there are rotten apples in every basket, but the fresh apples are too keen to jostle the rotten ones out. Its an association of ideologies. Way to go!
As of now, I am overburdened with the financial aspects of the weekend, the ambitious aspects having been settled gracefully. This, too, shall be over.
"Death chases thee,
As life cheers from audience,
Run, Rabbit, Run!"
The opening entry for the Haiku contest I participated in was farther in depth than words could have conveyed. It explains existence as a run and chase between the individual and Death as if in a sadistic show where the victim runs about in horror as the assailant chases him amidst cheers and jeers from a lusty, bloodthirsty audience around. Life, full of miseries, woe and sorrow, like a sadist audience, cries to the Individual as he is assailed by Death incessantly. The thought came in a split second as I read the words 'death' and 'life' from the list on the blackboard, and the moment I had conceived it, I was positive. Must admit I had expectations. This entry going unrecognized brings me a teensy bit of despair, not over my prowess in verse, but over the state of affairs. I should have just gone in mundane prose, for these dunce cannot fathom deeper waters. Poetry is a very subjective affair and demands a judge who could bring justice to the vast scope of subjectivity - a judge or a jury with a mind that encompasses all the ranges of imaginations that the contesting poets may have, a judge who is aware that the verses are steads not upright but treacherous; what he may consider a fault, a dike may actually be an orifice to a deeper chamber, a chamber where the gems may verily be hidden. That is where the crux of the matter lies. Pulakesh Upadhayaya is a wonderfully competent poet, yet I have some well-founded doubts over the skills of the other judge. I doubt whether he is accomplished enough to be considered as an abstract poet, much less a judge of abstract poetry. His poems, as I have read, merely center over themes of intoxicated, dope, marijuana with a clever and convenient use of the blank verse to enshroud his lack of finer skills like verse length perfection and others. Alas, Shakespeare! Your age was one where poets began from writing nursery rhymes, till they got the perfection in abstract to such a great apogee that the rhymes could no longer keep up with the convolutions in the abstract; and thus was born the blank verse: the most accomplished, most exquisite rendition in poetry where thoughts were rendered as the ulterior eye of the poet perceived them.
Alas, for now the blank verse has turned into a starter block for people who are invalid even to write nursery rhymes!
Without a doubt, dope and intoxication have served as incomparable windows of abstract poetry for great poets in the history of literature, but teenagers experimenting with weed using blank verse to guise the incoherency of their thoughts into what one may call a poem is a futile and retrogressive exercise. Pulakesh Upadhayaya, but really, Raheef?
The silver lining being, I won the fan-fiction contest. All dead poets, I must say, are writers of great acumen which is only sharpened further by their voracious reading habits. As Anam said, they were confused till the very end over the results, hence I am glad I could finally snatch away the first spot.
That being said, my associations with the dead poets have added a whole new dimension to the literary discussions that I used to indulge in, and this fact gives me enormous satisfaction. Of course, there are rotten apples in every basket, but the fresh apples are too keen to jostle the rotten ones out. Its an association of ideologies. Way to go!
As of now, I am overburdened with the financial aspects of the weekend, the ambitious aspects having been settled gracefully. This, too, shall be over.
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