The Process, How A Poem Was Born
Well, like most of the creations, it's a painful process finally getting liberated into a joyful relief.
Let's take an example.
I saw a photo of wild Jasmine in Dr. H G M's photostream. I got mesmerized. Words started dancing. A familiar process got initiated. Few days ago the spring had made a short pre-arrival show here at Nashville. I had a few clicks. All these elements took a cirlcle to its course of completion. A prose-poem was created.
The original one was in Bengali. Later I posted it along with the English version and a photo in flickr. Here are all three together. The poems themselves are on explaining the process of my creation of a poem.
Let's take an example.
I saw a photo of wild Jasmine in Dr. H G M's photostream. I got mesmerized. Words started dancing. A familiar process got initiated. Few days ago the spring had made a short pre-arrival show here at Nashville. I had a few clicks. All these elements took a cirlcle to its course of completion. A prose-poem was created.
The original one was in Bengali. Later I posted it along with the English version and a photo in flickr. Here are all three together. The poems themselves are on explaining the process of my creation of a poem.
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Pain, pain my dear
It's a torrential storm in my head - all the time. A constant chase. It gives me such a pain! It twists me, grinds me, lifts me up and throws me down straight on the floor. It relishes the fun. Then, all on a sudden, comes a glimmer of hope, a river sings, a plea from the bottom of heart whispers - 'tomorrow when…,' immersed in the light of dawn - a lonely bird, a passionate girl writing names on a sandy shore, a man waiting forever to take the picture of a flower. Doors open inside my heart.
That chase then finds its way out. The words start flowing down, one by one, row after row. A tiny flower raises its face. May be, it's a wild Jasmine; may be, nobody knows its name; no fragrance, a plain white colored one - will be gone, lost for ever. That's fine. But, before it fades away, will you look at it, once? Will you, dear? Tell me, please, would you, just for one time!
Amitabha Chakrabarti, March 13, 2009
It's a torrential storm in my head - all the time. A constant chase. It gives me such a pain! It twists me, grinds me, lifts me up and throws me down straight on the floor. It relishes the fun. Then, all on a sudden, comes a glimmer of hope, a river sings, a plea from the bottom of heart whispers - 'tomorrow when…,' immersed in the light of dawn - a lonely bird, a passionate girl writing names on a sandy shore, a man waiting forever to take the picture of a flower. Doors open inside my heart.
That chase then finds its way out. The words start flowing down, one by one, row after row. A tiny flower raises its face. May be, it's a wild Jasmine; may be, nobody knows its name; no fragrance, a plain white colored one - will be gone, lost for ever. That's fine. But, before it fades away, will you look at it, once? Will you, dear? Tell me, please, would you, just for one time!
Amitabha Chakrabarti, March 13, 2009
