LIKE ME OR LUMP ME
I have been lampooned for my romantic sensibilities, by none other than by my own daughter, but honestly speaking, I would never shake them off, and will cling to them till my last breath, and, like Oliver Twist will keep asking, “please, sir, may I have some more, please ?”
Yes, some more time - to indulge in my romanticism, which, I am told, is outdated and ludicrous.
I have yet to come across a greater writer than my dad. A polyglot, who wrote with a unique poetic panache, with equal ease in Urdu, Persian, and English. But, he had only a small circle where his poems were read and appreciated, for that is the way he wanted it.
I have seen him rolling on the floor with laughter at his own humorous – rib-tickling satirical poems before Facebook became the trend. And no, he was not a narcissist! He wrote for his own pleasure, and I can never forget that twinkle in the eyes of this extremely popular professor of English when he recited his poems in his impressive baritone to a small, but appreciative audience.
But, one has to change with the times, and one cannot deny the aura, charm, lure of Facebook. Honestly speaking, I have come across some very good poets through Facebook. There are thousands of literary groups on Facebook, and if one scours all the groups one will conclude that there are only a handful of poets who are the genuine ones. Yes, the flip side of Facebook is that every person has started thinking that he\ she can become a poet. Suffused in a certain stiff–upper–lipped complacence that arises from the number of likes they have garnered on their posts, they don’t read others, which, they conveniently forget, is extremely important for the growth of any writer.
Every writer has different poetic sensibilities.
Recently I was shocked to read a poem that had received a cash award in a prestigious international contest, but, I found no redeeming feature in the poem. Maybe I lacked the poetical erudition, or was too dimwitted to read between the lines of that award-winning poem -
The critics, it goes without saying, had showered immense praise on it.
Maybe, it was beyond my limited poetic sensibilities, and anyway, I have never claimed to be a critic.
So, it is not right to view poems through our poetic lens alone [which might be skewed, like mine] and try to squeeze the poets into straitjackets of our own liking.
Yes, poetry is cathartic, therapeutic and it heals- why deny ourselves the luxury of its healing prowess?
And, let me reiterate, with no claims to originality, that times they are a-changin'….and one has to change with the times. My purist -perfectionist dad would have crinkled his nose at the stuff that passes off as poetry these days, but he was the product of his time, which is now, passé.
My twenty-five-year-old daughter, with a post-graduate degree in Literature from a very prestigious university, is also a product of her times, with a different vocabulary which makes me scuttle for cover, a different mindset, which makes me shout in indignation, a different body language, which is a language which raises my heckles – but then, times they are a-changin' and I am also trying to change by walking gingerly between the past and the present – and sticking to my romantic leanings, come what may.
I will never be able to use certain words in my writings -I am happy to be caught in a time warp.
Like me or lump me. I am happy to be me!
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