Whose Poem Is It, Anyway?

What it really takes for me to write a poem and what makes me write a poem? I think, I will never be able to understand. And I am not too sure either if it has got anything to do with what I feel. I still remember various one-liners, quotes and sayings on poems and why people write poems, more or less with the rhymes and forms. In fact, my poems are more of words in whichever form or order they wish to come by. We have got so many poets and self proclaimed poets amidst us; sometimes it is utterly amusing even to think of poets and this trade of being in poetry! For me, I think, I write poems, my so called poems, in anger. Yea, as a kid, I used to compose words to impress my friends. May be I still do it. But, those friends have left with their lives and I am here alone, seeking friends within myself, who can understand what I feel and why get angry. I think, I write for myself and to channelize my anger.

Good times have passed since I first wrote my first poem. Theme was rather funny; on a tree. A tree soaked in monsoon rain. I borrowed the words from the books I have read, listened and imbibed in the classes, in tuitions, in playgrounds and from funga wari. Those words have able to leave a permanent mark on my life. I still think, I think with those words. Even more, there were stories, real or make-belief, from my parents, grandparents and local guardians. The bullets whizzing past my grandma's ears, long rifles with bayonets, saving the last cruse for another day, having to eat only the dried fish while hiding…during World War II and many duels involving Japanese and British armies. Those stories were real stories for me and I can still relate with places and remnants of that great period. The stories of many a rituals and celebrations, those stories still reverberate and I compare those events with what is happening, including my own part, playing roles. Unluckily, these recurring roles eclipsed the stories I have heard and cherished for so long. May be, I have also changed. I might have involved myself with these roles I am playing, sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a poet, sometimes a thief and?

Then, whose poem is it? I don't know!

Today, death comes easy in my poems. Everybody dies in my poem and the graves are the pages I save to write. Those stories were overshadowed by the events I cannot understand. I have beautiful memories. I enjoyed my childhood in the abundance of nature and freedom. Until this happened?
They carried my first poem in school magazine. From that day, I have become the seeker of angst. And my land also started to fume, giving company to my anger and restlessness. Now, I am comfortable with death poems and happy to harness the anger within. Hope, I will be able to keep this anger as long as I am alive. At least, it will keep me busy.

Reasons for anger: everybody knows!

The fields I once roamed freely have become killing fields, my classrooms where I first learn to respect the National Anthem have become barracks of armies carrying the National Flag of that very nation, our famed Nine-ridges have become another thousand ghettos; what else? I am angry because, places that live in my heart have been reduced to ashes. I am angry because my Motherland is bleeding. I am afraid if our children will ever understand the stories I have listened from my grandparents! And I really doubt if we will ever have our children!

And most of my poems, they manifest the anger I harvest. I think our children, at some point of time, will read these poems in their full glory! Hope this is how stories continue…