It was morning when I first tried to write a poem. But it resulted in millions of paper atoms being wasted-no kinetic words came out from the nib of thought.As per human nature that tries to blame other reasons for being inefficient themselves, I first tried to blame the paper and then the blocked-ink and then the pen responsible for my dearth of words. It seemed to me that the words flew from my brain or maybe the heart as I’m not sure as to where the words reside in and then it travelled all the way to my fingers but somehow receded from paper.
Keats told me that ‘poetry should come as naturally as leaves to a tree’. So I looked at the tree near my window, straining my eyes for a while, seeking for inspiration. But apart from the dusty leaves it failed to inspire me. There is no less poets who could inspire me. So next I turned to Sidney with some hope as he asked to “look in thy heart and write” but I guess he wasn’t seriously asking me to do the same. There was an abundance of feelings in my heart but I could pen down none of them. I turned the pages of well-known poets and somehow wanted to gain a little help from thousands of pages of English literature, but all of it resulted in me biting my pen in vain. I wanted a muse, like that from the old days of literature but I never got one, however much I sought for.
In the meantime, unnoticed due to my random efforts in writing verse-it started raining in the evening sky. The clouds murmured and the reddened horizon seemed to be washed by the fresh water drops that stuck to the fading light of the sun. The rusty evening sky stuck to my window pane with tiny pearl like water drops trickling down the cheeks. I put my pen down silently. Well outside was the very inspiration, the subtle dream of every poet that had inspired poets of all ages and all climes. Well, Nature was writing poetry for me, I need not write anymore this time. I realised that poetry was all around me, whether aware or unaware it weaves a mesh of delight all around us. It de-familiarises our humdrum existence. Just like the air we inhale, so is the poetic inspiration. We got to feel that and I think that’s what literature is about.