Poesy Muse


Poetry 

Poetry (ancient Greek) is an art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. It consists largely of oral or literary works in which language is used in a manner that is felt by its user and audience to differ from ordinary prose. Poetry is important. It reaches inside people and heals their wounds like nothing else can.  It is an escape from reality and a method of coping with reality. It has a certain feeling inside.

In “Windy Nights” by Robert Louis Stevenson :

Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high, Whenever high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about ?

It’s a blessed world---Whereupon we flourish and carry on each entity---diverse in itself. Lest unified by one commonality of humaneness, of humanity a kind gesture. A lingering smile, a benevolent deed. Though we define time nowadays in terms of relativistic theories, for such novice as ourselves, we visualize time as some sort of a work flow surging forward. That is, we--moving forward with time, time progresses, we grow and move on, we cannot plausibly get what we have lost, on the progression  of temporal reality. Simply speaking, we, quite incapable of backtracking except in our minds on the parameter time.

Though there are people who would say that when we all die, we are not lost, in the sense that we are nothing , but an integral part of the massive cosmic energy, being thrust into this world time after time, to encounter this enigma named life; and as we stare spell bound at the awe of the  nocturnal sky, our limitations of the mind frame, constrained by the parameters of space and time, make us all but realize “We can’t be what we are“; we might be, as many believe, a part of the cosmic forces, a part of indestructible energy, yet as long as we live, we can never be this hypothetical “we”.

On the outset of thy believe, these people can think beyond of which “We” can...& create some auspicious creations, not skewed in judgment Impartial, unbiased and scientific. Colored dreams, ideas bubbling out...& It may call Poetry.

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5 comments:



  1. I know how, day by weary day,
    Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade.
    I have not trudged in vain that way
    On which life's daylight darkens, shade by shade.
    And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased,
    Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,
    Keep open, at the annual feast,
    The puppet-booth of fun.


    poetry is always a valentines' song for us...just lashing our emotions on dat thirsty road of unconsciosness...

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  2. This is beautiful. Let poetry live on forever !

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  3. yes let the poetry go on and on

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  4. I said poetry is dead, Long live poetry. Because in the name of poetry the trash that goes is amazing, and then in the name of good poetry some great ones are lost. This is the paradox we have to get. Language is not for expressing but hiding. What we want to or need to express we dont need language for that. We only use language to hide what we really want to say and portray what others want to see of us. This is the beauty of language and I salute to thee

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  5. The night
    Hath been to me a more familiar face
    Than that of man; and in her starry shade
    Of dim and solitary loveliness
    I learned the language of another world...

    -LORD BYRON, Manfred

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