Posted in Art Scene, Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Social Commentary, Society, tagged affection, angst, around, art, beauty, behind, belong, between, brand, brave, bring, buy, carry, centuries, chance, change, childhood, chosen, conversation, corner, country, craft, day, despite, difference, digging, dying, easy, engaged, everyone, exile, express, fail, feelings, four, future, gentle, going, gold, hearts, heavy, hole, hope, impress, interest, keys, leave, life, line, look, lost, loud, love, lyricism, maintenance, masterpiece, men, mind, mine, mysticism, narcissism, never, night, nonchalant, notice, One, otherwise, out, paradise, passing, past, people, pieces, poem, poet, poetry, pretend, rant, reading, recording, reputation, room, self-absorbed, sell, slow, songs, space, speed, spend, stalk, streets, sung, survival, things, time, toil, travails, unfurling, unhurried, walk, walls, want, way speak, window, without, world on July 5, 2013|
2 Comments »
Some say love is never about speed but a slow
unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.
That makes the difference between the passing
of time and the crafting of masterpiece-
not everyone is interested reading about angst.
And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged
to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain
to survive and keep up one’s reputation.
And if you think that poets spend their lives
holed up in their four cornered walls and a window
looking in from the world changing night and day.
Self-absorbed about feelings or digging of the past
and wanting for love that they never have.
Or won’t have.
Some say about exiles to another country
or to another time or another space would
make people stalk on your mysticism.
Or the lyricism of recording things-
one have chosen to leave behind.
You can be exiled even without a room.
That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant
and pretend you didn’t carry anything.
You must know how heavy it is to bring
one line of a poem and to bravely express it.
Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.
For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds
of men and keep them going on despite travails.
Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise
or lost keys of their hearts.
Or lost childhood. Or lost future.
Art that was losing chances and losing hope.
That made poems became songs sung out loud.
It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.
And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy
affection and things people would want
and impress people whom they would want
to belong with. But this will never be.
25.279868
51.499433
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Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
Hames 
Who Says Poetry Is A Dying Art?
Posted in Art Scene, Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Social Commentary, Society, tagged affection, angst, around, art, beauty, behind, belong, between, brand, brave, bring, buy, carry, centuries, chance, change, childhood, chosen, conversation, corner, country, craft, day, despite, difference, digging, dying, easy, engaged, everyone, exile, express, fail, feelings, four, future, gentle, going, gold, hearts, heavy, hole, hope, impress, interest, keys, leave, life, line, look, lost, loud, love, lyricism, maintenance, masterpiece, men, mind, mine, mysticism, narcissism, never, night, nonchalant, notice, One, otherwise, out, paradise, passing, past, people, pieces, poem, poet, poetry, pretend, rant, reading, recording, reputation, room, self-absorbed, sell, slow, songs, space, speed, spend, stalk, streets, sung, survival, things, time, toil, travails, unfurling, unhurried, walk, walls, want, way speak, window, without, world on July 5, 2013| 2 Comments »
Some say love is never about speed but a slow
unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.
That makes the difference between the passing
of time and the crafting of masterpiece-
not everyone is interested reading about angst.
And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged
to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain
to survive and keep up one’s reputation.
And if you think that poets spend their lives
holed up in their four cornered walls and a window
looking in from the world changing night and day.
Self-absorbed about feelings or digging of the past
and wanting for love that they never have.
Or won’t have.
Some say about exiles to another country
or to another time or another space would
make people stalk on your mysticism.
Or the lyricism of recording things-
one have chosen to leave behind.
You can be exiled even without a room.
That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant
and pretend you didn’t carry anything.
You must know how heavy it is to bring
one line of a poem and to bravely express it.
Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.
For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds
of men and keep them going on despite travails.
Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise
or lost keys of their hearts.
Or lost childhood. Or lost future.
Art that was losing chances and losing hope.
That made poems became songs sung out loud.
It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.
And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy
affection and things people would want
and impress people whom they would want
to belong with. But this will never be.
Read Full Post »