When does Poetry occur to You?

This piece, unlike most of my writings, has a title implying the direction of this journey. Mostly, I go with subtle titles that are related to my write-ups but do not give away the gist right away.

So, back to the title, when does poetry occur to you? When is it that only a poem inks itself down on the blank page in front of you? When do you know that only a poem can pacify your inner tornado? Who am I to answer all this for you? I can and will speak only for myself.

I’m not one of those people who claim to be writing since the time they can remember. I neither am one of those who claim to have started writing just the day before. I, like many, lie somewhere in between these two spaces. As a kid, I used to write letters. Since school, I liked writing essays (never poems) in English as well as in Hindi. As a teenager, I loved giving longhand written letters and notes to my special ones, which is a much preferred way of mine even now. So, in that way, writing had always been a part of my life; more of a dormant part, which used to wake up on occasions and then would go back to its slumber. Not even close to boasting, I feel I had the innate talent for writing from my very start.

Back in 2016, it happened; I gave serious thought to pursue this teeny-tiny talent of mine and hone it for its ultimate utilization. And that is how this blog started. But this piece is not about it, right? Okay, don’t fret! I’m going back to making the point I started this whole write-up with.

The very first day I started my blog, I knew it was going to be about stories and more stories and some more of them. Poems? I never even considered them inculcating them in my place. Not because I think low of them, but because I knew I am not capable of writing them. Most of the poetries in school, as far as I can recollect, used to pass over my head. I must have gotten wise after my school days, but to an extent of writing something that I never understood before, I doubted it.

So naturally my first ever poem was not at all a conscious effort of mine.

My first poem, that I penned down, was when I was in an inner turmoil, when I was all tears, when I was all but high-spirited. I vividly remember lying on my bed in a dark room, tears streaming down my face, and typing something on my phone. It was only after I finished typing it, I realized it was somewhat like a poem. Yes, still a somewhat poem. It needed some rework, I noticed when I got sober. I’m not a natural poet. I still do not consider myself even a poet.
So, this was the story behind my very first poetry.

And then it began. Began the journey of poetries whenever I was too blue and numb or too red and fiery to put it all out through fiction. Take it from some of these poetries,
Why can’t you be what you want to be? and Gone are the days! when questions buzzed.
Over a Blank Page and Let me Mourn and Seethe and Tears behind Smiles! when nothing seemed right.
I was born a Human when fury raged.

Soon it became evident to me that poetries are my escape from sadness and bewilderment and unanswerable questions, or is it more of their retention? I’m not sure; and stories are for me when I’m anything except blue or red.

Never did I force myself to write a poem though. I did, once or twice; all went in vain. And, thankfully, I learned my lesson with these initial failures. Poetry cannot be forced. It cannot be put out on a paper when your heart doesn’t feel like it. Or can it be? In my short experience, I have felt otherwise.

Forced poetry will show itself, it will reveal the missing heart, it will unveil the unnatural execution. With stories it’s different. Isn’t it? Not that a story can be weaved with no heart in it. But a poem, with only limited words and lines, asks for the poet’s heart in its each and every word; stories ask for the same, but are not that demanding; not every word or line of it has to have writer’s heart in it.

Whenever tears made their way through my eyes, a poem was born; whenever unanswered questions buzzed inside my head, a poem was born; whenever fury burned my heart with passion, a poem was born. My poem, in figurative sense, really rose from ashes. It is the phoenix risen from the tears and fire. Oh yes, it is the phoenix!

In this one plus year, I have become as fond of poetries as I was of stories. Both of them save me in their own ways, both of them have my back in their own ways. What one does, other cannot, and what one cannot, other definitely does. It’s this balance that has made me fonder of both kind of writings.

This was all about me. How about you, my lovely talented mates? When did your first poem came out in this world? When did the idea of writing poems become dear to you? When does poetry occur to you? Share your stories, your experiences. I’d love to know about them, and I’m sure many more around would too.

IF YOU ARE A FIRST- TIME VISITOR OF MY BLOG, DO REFER ‘First-Timers‘. IT WOULD HELP YOU IN EXPLORING THE PLACE.

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