What is writing but writer’s vanity?
Invitations and exhortations to write articles for
magazines have assailed me in the past. I am ever skirting the half-urge to give in to them. But
what holds me back from submitting before an audience is the unwelcome thought
of an audience itself. Maybe I am a solitary reaper; or maybe I am hiding
myself a bit too much!
Crabby by
nature that I am, thoughts racing through my mind are made of a line of reasoning
that seeks caution. Thoughts that consolidate my stand , like – Writing need
not have any readership (As if a piece
of writing was an end in itself, I wish it is though!) And that - A writer’s glory
is always clamouring for a certain propriety (At least a certain class of writers –
like me!) Also somewhat similarly, A writer on a forum, must maintain some kind
of decorum, for he is a cynosure of many minds (So much for policing one’s own
conduct – or trying to ).
A deluge of thoughts, nay feelings overwhelm me and
I am awash with them – submerged for a long while – in limbo. I wonder what to
present from the limitations of my perceptions. The abstractions interest me
and invite me to delve into the realm of poetry.
Leaving men to fight over the pettiness of routine
measures, for men in the business of living, will most often be gross; it’s a
poet’s privilege to be able to talk about the myriad aspects of life and of
this passing world. Nature holds a huge canvas for the painter. Man’s affairs
and his struggles in life, tug at our hearts, pulling strings that make for now
a clamour and then a medley of sorts , -
and yet someone somewhere hears sheer melody and breaks into a song . .
So goes my reverie …, the rivers of life flow on….
A poem
What is writing – but writer’s vanity?
Sometimes a shout shrieking “Hear me’’
Between the folds of memory and the ticking of time
Who has the patience to etch and dole out perfect
rhyme?
Besides, rhyming is only just the start
Of a poet’s budding talent or unfolding art
That pales in comparison and will smart
If overused thus – like a profuse poetic fart
What is writing – but giving in to an urge
Or like trying too hard in the fight of the bulge
To chisel gems and stones that will dazzle for a while
For every writer or poet has a certain guile
What is writing - is it mere expression?
More importantly, is it useful against depression?
There is nothing to authenticate a writer’s status
At best it is functional; at it’s least, anonymous
Or is it the cause or origin of a certain malaise
That has one thinking more than one says
How can writing ever be an end in itself?
Only by consigning it to the wind from the shelf !
So toss it up and cheers, say
Seize the moment; go out and play
Have fun for life is in the living
And even humble participation is a form of giving
Perhaps writing is for the rainy day
Leaking batteries too need a place to stay
Besides, for them there is no other way
But to recover and then again to tick away
