An old write-up

 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