What is a poem?
I have never been able to connect with English poetry that doesn’t rhyme. This is only limited to my understanding of English poetry, mind you. When it comes to Urdu sher-o-shayari, I think I do just fine. I wonder if that’s because English isn’t my first language.
I understand and speak English fairly well, but I don’t love it the same way I love Hindi/Urdu. When I read English poetry, I focus on the words. But when I read Urdu, I focus on the meaning.
Or, maybe it’s none of those things, and I’m just not reading enough English poetry. And, to be perfectly honest, there are enough Urdu couplets in this world to satiate my love for poetry; so I don’t think I ever will.
I discovered the beauty of poetry only after I wrote my first poem. It was a terrible poem, of course. However, it made me realise that a poem is not just the words on the page; it holds within it both what is said and what remains unsaid.
For me, this complexity is what makes poems beautiful. I’ve always wondered, while re-reading some of my favorite verses- what I would have to go through, for a thought so beautiful, to ever come to my mind.
दिल नाउम्मीद तो नहीं, नाकाम ही तो है
लम्बी है ग़म की शाम, मगर शाम ही तो है- Faiz Ahmed Faiz
I’m not saying I’m an expert in Urdu; there are plenty of couplets that go over my head. So, I keep a dictionary close at hand. I don’t think good poetry is anyways completely understood by most, on the very first attempt at-least, if ever. So even though I might be a little dumb, I’m in good company.
My love for poetry didn’t come from within. My brother was the one favored by Calliope, and being his only sibling, it became my duty to be his first reader and audience. He would recite, while also explaining to me what the verses actually meant.
One of his works that has stayed with me to this day is:
किनारों से मौज लूट लीजिए हुज़ूर,
खूब शामें, ग़ज़ब की सहरें भी रखता हूँ।
हाँ पानी में लेकिन, उतरना संभल कर,
समंदर हूँ मैं, लहरें भी रखता हूँ।- Shoonya
I think that now, when I read new poems and look up difficult words in a dictionary, I’m transported back to those times.
अंधेरे से कह दो बचपन बीत चुका है
अब तुझ से डर नहीं सुकून मिलता है..- Gulzar
So naturally, when I wrote my first poem, I turned to my brother. This was a long time ago when I was dealing with the full force of adolescence and my poem was crude, with everything laid out and nothing left to the imagination.
Here are a few lines that I can still recall, for your amusement:
गर हर लम्हात वापस ले सकूँ,
तो पल वो वापस लूँ,
जिस पल टिकी तुझ पर नज़र।
और सब बदल गया।जिस पल से पहले, था मैं जैसे
शान शाम की,
जिस पल से ढलता यूँ रहा,
के आँधी रात हो गया।पर दुख नहीं इस बात का
कि गैर की तू हो गई,
है दुख, के तू है खुश तभी,
जब मैं वहाँ शामिल नहीं।
Needless to say, my brother couldn’t control his laughter after I read this. I think there was another person present, but I don’t remember who that was. And, while I laughed with them, it was all I could do not to run away.
I was embarrassed, ashamed, and for a long time, I was completely done with writing poetry. I also felt a sense of betrayal by my brother. I told myself, I would never listen to his stupid poems, or his sad little stories. Thinking about it now, I can’t help but smile.
Needless to say, while I still remember the pain, I have long forgiven him. I did, in fact, go back on my word only a couple of weeks later, when we went out to our favorite Maggi spot, and he read some of his latest creations.
माफ़ी का रंग ऐसा है,
जो ग़म के बाद भी सुकून लाए।- Javed Akhtar
It was after a few years, when I was in college, that I began writing again. By this time, I would like to believe that I became more subtle with my words and more mature with my topics.
This time I shared my poem with my friends. I remember, we were on a trek; the place was called Brahmatal. After a hectic day of climbing, we lay warm and cozy inside our tent. They were all tired and a bit drunk, and I shared a few of my creations with them.
दोबारा पूछ कर देखो,
वो मान जाएगा।
बादलों में ग़ुम है,
चाँद लौट आएगा।
This time, the reaction was different from before, especially regarding that old poem. The guys, in their drunken state, loved it; and a couple of others recited their works as well. A friend of ours threw up in the tent halfway through our recital, and we had to cut the gathering short, but that is a story for another time.
We had fun and while most of the appreciation was insincere, I realised that more than wanting someone to appreciate my works, I just wanted someone to listen. I think I regained some confidence in my writing ability after that, and I set out to write better poetry.
But then, poems just never came to me. I tried to write again, but I never really knew what to write about.
I did write small blogs here and there because I received a small bonus with my salary every month for writing one. And while I initially started writing just for the money, I grew to enjoy writing blogs.
The difference between poems and other forms of literature is, for me, vulnerability. I believe (and i am often wrong so don’t take my word for it) a skilled writer, no matter how he feels, can come up with a brilliant story/article/etc. However, I believe a truly beautiful poem cannot be written without vulnerability, instability, and pain.
I guess I haven’t been vulnerable all this time. I haven’t really felt pain, or enough pain to compel myself to write a poem.
Today, however, I wrote for a long time. I finished writing a poem - and to my amusement, and hopefully to yours, it’s a crude one once again! It is, of course, not a good poem, but it is a poem.
But I won’t share it with you now, not unless I’m sure you won’t laugh.