Prose and Poetry Blues

Falling in love over and again with the romantics is never about expectation. You love because you do. In school days, there were no better people than Keats, W Wordsworth, Coleridge and their ilk. Time-they-are-a’changin today. It has changed completely over the years. I cannot believe it is now more than a decade when we bid farewell to our nostalgic schools.

Time, it changes everything. Now, leave alone the romantics or the English maestros, the focus is on original creation. I would admit the Grecian urns, the skylarks, writings of early spring, the odes of dejection, and even additional works like Blake’s paintings, would stay as fresh as ever. Yet, as in the necessity of life, we have to change and adapt. We were taught that literature is the mirror of the society, and now, we have even redefined the concept. The reflection matters less; the emphasis is on creating a template in it, on how we want our surrounding should look like.

When the surrounding replies to our ingratitude, when we are in a sinking ship, when we are in a collective mess, there would be a thin line between the desperation of change and sheer self-righteousness. 

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Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind (an extract)
— William Shakespeare Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

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I would say if we were convinced, we must give a damn about popular perception. The caveat is that we might get lost in a shrouded existence. Else happily, we might be able to go home with our heads held high.  

So we graduated from Keats to Bukowski, from rhyming masters to blank verse virtuosos. At least, the transition makes some sense. Otherwise, there are only two possibilities: either we are always a conservative, hard-core Keats’ fan or simply we are just hopeless and voiceless. In the same breath, literature is no propaganda tool but it can be a medium of our beliefs and ideals; especially during trying times of our lives.

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rhyming poem 
— Charles Bukowski

the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars

I’m sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother’s neck is dirty,
and the whores go down with the etc.,
the whrs. go dn. with the etc.

I’m sorry jack you can't come back,
I’ve fallen in love with another sap,
¾ Italian and ½ Jap,
and the whores go
the whores go
etc.

(Poem text from Poem Hunter)

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 News of the month (Text source: The Sangai Express, 13 May 2013)

May 13, Imphal: A seminar on the topic "Changing Contours of Manipur and Way Ahead" was organised by Army's Red Shield Division at their Leimakhong auditorium today.

While GOC 3 Corps Lt Gen AK Sahni gave the inaugural address, Chief Minister Okram Ibobi presented the key-note address. In his address, O Ibobi reminded that different communities have been living peacefully in Manipur since time immemorial.

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Apparently, the army has not found any bloody moron to kill, rape and murder. The people appreciated the gesture from the men in green, because democracy is fucking too mainstream. On the other hand, the chief minister know clearly we have been living peacefully in his bathrooms and courtyard. 

No, wait — is June 18 a general holiday or a celebration of two civil organisations observing the Great June Uprising Day together? It is historical because just for once, we are going to see that two organisations are coming together, regardless of the schism that runs in our blood.   

How do you say we are in democracy where there is an army man, the gunmen 1, for every 20 people? Yes, there are legal, but the problem is that we have another set of self-proclaimed army, the gunmen 2. The ratio is marked N/A now. We have every right to say, to hell with the gunmen. The spirit of peace and justice has streamed down the River Ningthi.

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