Why do I write?
"I closed my mouth
and spoke to you in
a hundred silent ways"
I never knew I would write. But ever since I remember, I have always wanted to. I waited for the right words to emerge. When I could hold no longer, did it pour of its own and then inundated my pages in no time. I am at once in love, awe, and intimidated by words. If placed in a disorderly manner, words can ruin so much of you. If nurtured with love, it can move mountains. Words are mystical, powerful, and devouring.
I write as a respite, a kind of escapade where rules dissolve, where art is pursued for its own sake and explanations become redundant-- Kublai Khan in a fit of frenzy, wavy tresses twirling in the air, ordered the stately pleasure dome to be built-- verses which would make you wander into a state of surrealism- a temporary suspension of reality, making you the master creator for the time being in this otherwise mortal world.
The creative streak loses its sheen sometimes, rendering me helpless where I grapple for those syllables that once made my poetry rhythmic. Still, the words should flow, like the stream that fashions its journey through rocks and then merges with the ocean. At times it's muddy, while at times shining like a crystal...
At times I feel why I write
At times I question my might-
The countless words dwindle in vain,
are anchored in my heart
The countless memories shared once,
are all lost in the dust
The nameless pain shared once,
by the voice deep within
When every moment feels worthwhile,
As I believe in my dreams.
Surging of waves, provoked by words
The fire in the soul alighted with love
The spasm of the earth beneath my feet
The air that rustles the mind within
All are but elements of Nature
that create the divine aperture,
My hand should wield those words forever
forging through eternity
soldering through nature,
Falter I will, for err is human
Like a stream,
I must keep meandering ever...
By Nandini Sengupta