Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Of poets

Dizzying heights. Last flights.
The rush. Shush. Hush. 
They think there is poetry in death.
But there isn't.
There is only the indignity and tragedy
of a human being gone to pieces.
In life perhaps,
there is still some hope of finding a poem. 

5 comments:

Unknown said...

Awesome!

Anonymous said...

Why indignity?

Nivedita Agashe said...

Have you seen a person go to pieces? There is nothing dignified about it. It is pitiful. Poets may romanticize it but i don't think there is any poetry in it.

Anonymous said...

Yeah. I've seen both. A person die and a person fall apart. Indignity wasn't where my mind strayed. Maybe it should have.
i don't think there's poetry anywhere naturally then isn't it?
But then I'm not a poet so maybe I'm being too literal minded.

Anonymous said...

“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.” – John Berger