Painting by Debra Hurd @ http://debrahurd.blogspot.com/
To
day I
have
bailed out
that
day
clouds held back your tears
thunder outcried you
lightning hit flashes
in your eyes
sky wore
colors
of your skin
brown
black
yellow
grey
Will you
not
today
come out
play with me
raise castles of wet clay
I
I am
drenched
in memories
of days
that never were.
Copyright, Tina Rathore
I often think about the process of our growth from early childhood towards becoming an adult. There is a certain innocent and loss of it involved in the process.
Life creates awkward situations for us so often in the whole process. We count out to ourselves a list of dreams, aspirations and desires with an assurance that they will come true; this is what I want to be, this is where I want to work, this is how I want to live… But as we grow, a simultaneous list takes shape, a list of fears, anxieties, disappointments and failures. We later realize that the second list often outgrows the first and gradually replaces it. My list also included many things and a parallel list of fears et cetera. On top of the list was intellect. I want to be called an intellectual. In my race towards being one, I lose the meaning of being intellectual.
When I came to Tina’s blog today in order to read the latest poems and comment on the same, it was only a discovery of my own lack of insight into poetry, into literature. However much I may force myself to think and put those thoughts into words, they refuse to enter my thick head.
But when I read the poem Drenched, it opened up a new world of self realizations.
Reading the poem was an experience, both for the senses and the heart. It would not be wrong to say that it was a kick to my self-obsessive egocentric intellect. It is one of those experiences where one feels the sheer dearth of words and expressions to emote the ideas and represent them in words.
The poem takes the reader down a memory lane, each reader’s lane being a different space, different place, different time zone and different culture. The impact of the rain is emphasized by the uneven pattern of stanzas. The words are scattered throughout the poem unevenly much like the drops of rain leaving some completely drenched and some thirsty, asking for more.
We enter a world of illusion, a half dream, a hazy vision of union, eternal bliss, perfect happiness, in that one moment where there is hope for togetherness. Hope for fulfillment.
But, to our utter dismay we are left with some shattered desires, unfulfilled, perhaps unexpressed. The longing, the incomplete feeling often rush at us at the beginning of the poem, only to leave us with a feeling of dismay at the realization that the feelings never really existed.
The question lurks, were the dreams there? If they were, were they concrete enough to be real? Clouds, thunder, lightning are the ultimate signs of realization, realization of the unfulfilled dream. They are as sudden as an unexpected streak of lightning. Nature reflects in its aspect what we try to hide… Nature sends out a signal to be careful as we tread the tight ropeway leading to the dream once more.
But, as always we do not want to pay heed; we shut our ears, eyes, and senses completely to its outcry. We move on, keep moving until we realize that the rope was weak. It could not bear the heavy burden of THOSE dreams. It snaps. Leaves us in space. A feeling of null in a void. In the air. Light. Very light. Yet very heavy in the heart. That makes you sink deeper and deeper. Move down at double the speed. The force of gravity. Nature at its best. Once more.
Hema,
Your reading of the poem is poetry in itself. You have brought to surface the undercurrents that flow beneath the words.
I often wonder, what actually makes a poem? who really writes it? Is it the writer on the page or the reader reading the unwritten. Your insight into the poem brings me closer to the latter belief.
Thanks for bringing the poem to life. I value your thoughts.
Keep Writing and stay around.
The question who actually writes poetry reminded me of the beautiful lines by a great hindi poet – Sumitra nanadan Panth who said:
Viyogi hoga pehla kavi
Aah se upja hoga gaan
Umad kar aankho se chupchap
Bahi hogi kavita anjaan…
but at the same time a reader who is reading any piece of work tries to connect his own thoughts with that work and make it a new creation as was done here by Hema…really a comprehensive commentary of the poem …Tina, once again you are rocking with your creative ideas and style…..
Hello Vaibhav,
Thanks a ton for such wonderful lines. Sure, poetry is an outburst of emotions that pour out on its own. It is an automated process, as is beautifully expressed by Panth. yea, and personal too, even if the finished art is impersonal.
I am glad you liked the poem, and I second your observation; Hema’s interpretation
is, indeed, a “new creation”.
Thanks for reading. See you arou