For the last couple of years (since Moving On) in which I have continued
my flirtations with the poetic, and kept working at the whole process of
letting a poem take form, penning (or noting) it down and then kept at it
further, through various re-visitations and revisions -- intent on giving
it the time and effort it calls for, the days have more or less moved on.
Largely because that is the nature of time, it moves along implacably
and we cannot do much about it; but then again we do have a lot of choice
about what we do with it -- be it the apparently aimless pursuit of the
poetic, or this and that -- and a very clearly ingrained acknowledgement
of it.
Or rather -- in a peculiarly dystopic way of looking at it -- time's
like an invisible puppeteer's hand that's making us dance to its tunes,
with the years comprising acts and the months scenes and though we
may not be aware of what is happening in the play by and large, we do
seem to acknowledge the intervals.
Or maybe that again is the nature of time or how we who follow it
have been conditioned to relate to it. Yes, conditioned -- to think
about and give a lot of meaning to the "New Year".
Which, to me (blame it on my affinity for the dystopic or blame it
on the implacability with which I have peered at an empty page, at
a blinking cursor, or at the implacable face of time) seems worthy
of no more relevance than the other important acts / scenes of time,
the beginning and endings of days.
I mean -- and no, I don't say this as a poet or a photographer -- there
is a lot, lot more meaning in every sunrise and sunset, every day
of the year as compared to the one day that we call the New Year.
I will of course readily acknowledge that I wasn't always this wise
(or half-assed) and there have been other new years when I have made
resolutions, to do lists and so on and so forth...
I will also acknowledge that I gladly participated in the bacchanal
of a New Year eve party this time around too, gazed at (and liberally
partook from) the amber contents of a glass, thrilled in the sparking
warmth and delectable fare from a BBQ and more or less again stared
implacably at time...
But I will again say this, as far as inherent meaning goes, there's
nothing much in the New Year, the days that mark the beginnings or
endings of seasons have much more meaning(though, how many
seasons do exist any more in this age of wide-ranging climate change
is anybody's guess).
And I will say this too, for a year that started with my fall on the
road and the broken collar bone and ended with my father recovering
from his bypass surgery, this was certainly not an easy one.
Or then again, that is the essential nature of time -- it is always
easier and better in the past (?).
Or is it that I have changed in these last two years due to the
constant proximity to the poetic and the aimless (like the photography
of birds and butterflies and ramble out in the wilds).
Anyway, so one year ends and another begins. I do hope (there, there)
that I will be bringing out Ink Dries and more books of poetry this
year. And I also do hope that things ease out a bit all around, because
the year past was bloody tough.
And since I do believe in positivity and spreading the cheer, let me end
this post with some.
Here's wishing you and yours a very prosperous and plentiful New Year.
May you find a year's meaning, purpose, poetry and fulfillment in
each of 2012's days :-)
Its not that I have written only poetry, or shut out myself
