Word of the Week #88:



My sleep is dear to me, and more dear this being of stone,
as long as the agony and shame last.
Not to see, not to hear is for me the best fortune;
So do not wake me! Speak softly.

— Michelangelo


Word of the Week #86:


Poetry… Who doesn’t enjoy that, right?

Well, I suppose some could say the same about tea, or beer, and I happen to hate them both, so who can say.

Regardless, we must not digress.

You see, I have always been one who enjoyed a good verse. I am more old-school with my tastes, though, most familiar with the names Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, and above all, Frost. Contemporary poetry, however, seemed rather alien to me.

From the outset, it appears somewhat formless. It is not bound by any conventional lyric meters or rhyme schemes. Now, I’m not a purist, but playing with no rules whatsoever seems like cheating.

However, over the course of this year, my opinion has changed, and after having spent the past weekend almost entirely dedicated to Spoken Word poetry, I have finally begun to get the hang of it.

You see, traditional poetry is like a fragrant mist. It will envelop and entrance you. Spoken word, however, is quite different. It is simple, stark, and unconstrained.

It is actually quite like an axe—hits hard and cuts deep. It is not a chisel that delicately shapes the world around us. Instead, it is better equipped at chopping away at the flaws.

Spoken word is not cheating. Instead, it is a different game altogether.

And, like with most games, I have no interest in staying a mere spectator for too long. I am here to play.

PS: All sportsmen will tell you that there was one moment towards the beginning, one flash of brilliance, that made them fall in love with the game. For me, that came as a line I heard this past Sunday:

Liars will say that they are artists.
Ironically, they are not lying.

Aditya Mankad, Pseudologia Fantastica