Depreciation on the Poetry Appreciation Index ©

I was only six when I caught it. And it altered the course of my life forever. And I am not talking about measles- the regular not the German variety. I had those too, but my body righted itself and recovered in a fortnight or two. Am talking about the poetry-writing bug.

On my English home rough note book( there was a Hindi home rough note book and one for Math too- my parents were teachers, what else would you expect) in a “good handwriting” the following lines, which though were in pencil, left an indelible impression on my soul.
“Red is the sky at dawn
When sun rises in the morn
The birds then fly away
But I like to play”
And was appreciated. Had the critiquing been as rough as it was for my singing- with D at the highest and D minuses also( I think they invented that grade for me) I would have desisted and not carried on. But both parents, teachers and sundry other adults said “Very good. Keep it up” little realizing what they had unleashed.

Which was not so bad in retrospect, because it did have a few redeeming qualities- it was simple, it rhymed and it conveyed something (even though it was a weird childish desire to play after the birds flew away- or some such thing, but then kids are rarely reasonable). And even though it was the symptom of a malaise that would rear its ugly head much later, it was alright in itself. People could understand what it said. But slowly the disease spread. …

Having discovered dawn and morn, I went on to the delighted realization that fly and sky went together very well, as did day and say. So I went on to muse on butterflies and funny bunnies, becoming quite the “little poetess” - a poem or two regularly featured in the Annual school magazine. All fine because the frequency of the writing was limited- one or two a year is fine, as was the content. Simplistic, easy to read, no deep meanings- in short poems that appealed to a regular audience, brought on the required appreciations- which by now at home and school had reduced to “Good, now do as well in Math sums too.”

Growing up was not easy. Adolescence never is. In my case it was exacerbated by a complete absence of male company. So the over-charged emotions found solace in verse. Passion poured out in writing, made easier because now I had learnt of free verse- disjointed prose, I could therefore write anything, throw together words, whether or not they made sense, grammar and punctuation forgotten. Just a regular venting out. And so a regular tidal wave of poems poured out. All jotted down in a tattered old diary, hidden away in an obscure corner. “Tears, tears, tears…” one unseasonably celebrated a veritable monsoon of emotions, while another took a sixteen year olds cynical view “No one is your friend, yourself save” And the feedback- which by now had become very solicited was a tired “A strong undercurrent of emotion Alankrita” how poor Ms Nishi Misra must have suffered through 17 closely typed sheets of bad to verse.

Life would have cruised along smoothly and the poetry virus cured itself, with a few minor eruptions over the years, but nothing major, as I began to get involved in more relevant things in life. Examinations, then college, MBA , my first job, then that bugaboo, GMAT- all would have managed to ameliorate the malaise, but that was not to be. Something, fate I think it was that made me start writing a blog.
“The fault dear Brutus, lies not in our stars but in ourselves that we are the underlings”( or in my case the poetry writers)
And poetry, far from dying a natural death, resurfaced. Into weirder and yet weirder forms.

The internet is a wonderful place. Because it offers a public anonymity. So feedback did not seem to matter. Virtualityforreal.blogspot.com would publish anything I wrote. And people would read it- or be coerced to. You know like classmates met after a long, long time. “So wonderful to meet you, what are you doing these days, I am doing a lot of writing, Do check out my blog. “ which the more polite usually did and said something like , “Very nice”- which was also the reaction of the others, all in the name of cordiality. As for more lasting feedback, well the “Comments” section in the blog was NOT enabled- I was conveniently technologically illiterate.

And so I found myself writing out stuff on completely arcane topics- and making it into a mission of sorts. Greek myth love stories in verse. Alpheus and Aretheusa after Ariadne and Theseus. And posted them on a public forum. Little surprise that the only views on those were my own. I mean there are limits to which a poetry demanding public will go. ( here I am assuming that those who write on literary poems actually demand poetry- but of course that is only an assumption.) They are content to gently encourage a four liner, “Minimalist, we want more” ( I am sure poor Danish must be wondering what evil day made him write that) but even their infinite patience runs out, specially if it is a repeated “Six months to stay away from me” and a completely abstruse take on the Persephone and the Hades story.

The more I write the more obscure titles and topics I pull out and the blank verse gets blanker and freer of the constraints of Wren and Martin style “correct writing” And the feedback, already slowed to a trickle has now completely dried up. My MBA training kicking in, I was musing that if my poetry were on a stock like index, I would be a pauper. Because the feedback has now almost completely gone. So even if I tried to make a living out of writing poetry alone, I cannot. Because it would not sell. It is kind of a matter of pride at times, I write such stuff that no one can understand it. Snob value but no other value perhaps.

Anyhow I need to go off and write something on Obfuscating simplicity.