Sushrut Munje writes how a person is audacious poetry, complete enough to make sense, incomplete enough to intrigue. People are beautiful, & some even more so.

What Poetry Means To Me

Sushrut Munje writes how a person is audacious poetry, complete enough to make sense, incomplete enough to intrigue. People are beautiful, & some even more so.
“The Futility of Desire” by David Goehring

From being a mere product of emotional turmoil, poetry as an expression has become an inspiring tool for me to practice regularly. I struggle to explain why, because it’s a feeling and not a tangible belief, but explaining it is a necessary exercise else this chain of thoughts would evolve into something else tomorrow, and this chain of thoughts would be lost forever.

I prefer talking to people over a comforting beverage. Spending time with dear folks as they take you through their experiences and perceptions helps me step into their shoes, see the world as they live it. Conversations are the ultimate aphrodisiac – intimacy almost provoked by deep stirring of the ocean within, because sentences are earnest, the sincerity appealing, your very being changing the way it perceives the color blue every time you allow it.

I prefer word play, the way words fall together in a structured manner, an attempt to communicate what we feel within, almost there but yet not so, and we teaching ourselves to express within the alphabet – yet giving in at times resulting in the warm hugs, wet kisses and a range of faces which make the world go round. It’s an exercise, as if we bend the cage to our will while staying well within, like shaping the escaping smoke of a wildfire, being a vain sailor trying to squeeze the ship in a bottle.

Poetry allows you the freedom to alter the nature of reality, marry threads of different origin into one story, having oil and water come together and quench a desperate thirst to say what you are feeling. What you go through every living moment is experienced through colors, warmth and sound – being mad enough to paint it onto one canvas takes strength, translating that into words even more so – risking the feeling of inadequacy and an unstoppable hunger of not being able to find a fucking word for that feeling which just made you miss a breath.

And So I Write

Writers remember what the morning coffee made them feel like and they remember last night’s sex and everything is so intense that it’s like deciphering symphonies and as they try, they make the memories collide striving with a relentless effort to express, cradling a wild hope that they would be able to recreate what they felt and they manage but only a fraction. And they pray for better skill, every day, pray for words powerful enough to create life and relive it over and over again. Poetry is my release amidst the struggle to contain this wilderness into one farmland. But it’s too vast. And so I write.

Individuals are defined by their world view, how deep they feel the river flows and what direction they believe the wind blows. I am falling in love with people these days, all of them, for their shades of indigo and scarlet, for the songs they choose in a jukebox, for the books they carry, for the smiles they live and for the things they do to be a part of the grand story. A person is audacious poetry, complete enough to make sense, incomplete enough to intrigue.

The Unbearable Lightness

The lightness of being has always been tantalizing – teasing us to walk out of the warm coffee shop into the sunset – but we cannot leave everything behind – we are trapped by everything we feel we need to define ourselves – and we continue to warm that one bench and gather flowers daily giving these things our name and building our existence around stuff that decays. Poetry helps me imagine how things might be if we, perhaps, look within and explore the music that’s too shrill for the real world, read books that are too kind and sing honest songs. Poetry is spotting the familiar face in a strange crowd, warmth of a parent’s word and a simple breath.

Breathe In

Lost in benches and dead flowers bearing our name – we feel entitled to every breath – a joy that’s lost as we keep dreaming of the distant past and an imagined future. The joy of breathing in and breathing out is so relieving, it makes life worth living. Ensuring that I write often is my struggle to lose all feelings of entitlement, and understanding every little joy that’s around. It’s the mind within that needs work – because red can be a color of seething anger, but you can always choose to look at it as the color of boundless love.

Viewing every person and every conversation as a momentary work of art is helping – thus sinking myself into the present experience, trying not to miss the notes in tune and keen eyes which stand for individual belief systems. People are beautiful, and some even more so.

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