First, a poem. It’s a poem I wrote about fifteen years ago. I was undergoing a psychological turmoil at that time. There was a longing for escape with a simultaneous knowledge that any real escape of the kind I wanted was impossible except in death. And I did not want to die yet. So I wrote poems. It was one of the escapist measures I resorted to.
The cosmos ends there:
Beyond the gravitational field
Of this planet is vacuum
Where the Absolute sits in modesty
Watching the cosmic machine turn
As Heisenberg watched the electron:
The consciousness that creates
As it watches what it creates.
Into that infinity of nothingness
Let our souls awake, my son.
Our rocket cannot penetrate
The barrier between matter and vacuum
The chasm between Dives and Lazarus
Return we should to the earth
And learn to wait: Wait
For the wingless flight
To where light shines
Without a thing to burn.
I was reminded of this poem when I read in today’s [Nov 28] Times of India that a planet (Gliese 581g) with liquid water and probably life has been discovered. The report also says that many other such planets are possible. There may be life on many planets out there.
Will poetry take me to such a planet now?
Most probably, no. I don’t write poems now. I can’t write poems now. Is it because the poetry in you gets strangled by life’s experiences? Or is it because poetry happened to be just a temporary escapist measure in my life? There’s nothing to escape from now?
There’s nothing to escape from once you learn to accept the reality… Yet I’m really not happy that poetry has abandoned me.