I just visited again Otto Plath ‘s Grave ( Sylvia’s father) this morning ! It used to be a ritual that I used to carry a poem of Silvia Plath’s and I would recite it over his grave..
Poetry is truly the sound of our emotions , like Music perhaps ! There are all forms of poetry , from Gazal , Ode , haiku , shi …all wonderful indeed ..except when some are lost in translations !
Poetry is an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound and rhythmic language , an emotional response. The Art of expressive writing as I call it , is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define.
With that said , we all have different reasons why we write ?
So I will speak for myself why I try to write poems.. I love to read poems ! My country of Birth is a poetry heaven ! It is Poetry itself..Rumi , Khayyam , Saadi , Ferdowsi and the modern writers , Nima , Forough.. just to name a few..
I write poetry simply because I want to . I don’t know if they fit in any form and any genre .I write poetry because I like to go back and feel the essence of the moment lost in time..just like a photograph ! Simply to secure the fireworks inside , formulas of resonance..
There is a great sense of surrealism in my virtual reality of what I write , at least I like to think so ..Its like reciting to the Rose in the hope the petals would hear ..
Its about the power to compose with words. I’m not looking to express any profound truth but certainly a momentum to convey a thing about myself , my feelings and what I see with my mind’s eye , again like a photograph . Perhaps nothing magical except what sounds right. A sensation I get , a purity or in-purity I feel, a feel of abstraction.It is the most sublime intellectual pursuit in a world that narrows down my thoughts and has become only my intellect.
” At first , I entered the world of aroma and hope
When discovered your love
but soon rained and drowned by the truth
feared by what lurked and dragged me in the darkness
in the Blasphemy of your lies ”
I will leave you with one of my favorites of Plath :
Touch it: it won’t shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here’s yesterday, last year —
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.