Abhijit Naskar's Blog - Posts Tagged "genius-poet"

The best poets are the ones,
Who don’t know how to write poetry.
Just like the best scientists are those,
Who practice science as everyday curiosity.
The more you focus on the definition,
The more you lose touch with the essence.
That is why I never know what my work is about,
To explain love is to lose love’s fragrance.
Painting of a landscape is not the landscape itself,
Depiction must never be confused with the depicted.
I don’t know how to do small talk, hence the sonnets.
Poet doesn’t write poetry, poetry writes the poet.
The moment I think I am in control, I lose all control.
Craving no control, the river just nourishes the soul.

"Writers have limits, I don’t, I am not a writer. I am a dimension immeasurable – siphon all you want, I won’t run dry."

“The Immeasurable Dimension (Sonnet 1014)

During my bouts of nirvikalpa samadhi or trance,
I have no perception, which language I’m writing in.
When the trance breaks and normal awareness returns,
It looks less like literature ‘n more like exotic cuisine.
It is not only difficult but plain impossible to adapt
the immeasurable to the measures of a prison camp.
So I rewrite the original light simplified by love,
Hoping it may reach the heart across cultural handicap.
Handicap of culture is a choice, it’s not your destiny,
Only you can sign the release orders from your imprisonment.
We cover our eyes from the evil outside and its cure inside,
Then we run here and there chasing fictional treatment.
There is a dimension immeasurable intrinsic to every human mind.
Be immersed within, and you shall rise with an immeasurable light.”

No matter how much
they plagiarize my work,
I won’t say a word to condemn.
No matter how much they
monetize solar energy,
you never hear the sun complain!

It’s okay that limited minds
got to care about such matter.
What does the ocean care about
a few buckets of stolen water!

I am infinite, I am unbound –
Come, steal all I’ve got,
strip me of all my legacy!
I started out as a vagabond,
I’ll gladly perish in vagabondcy.

I do the best of my writing,
When I don’t feel like a writer.
I create the best of my philosophy,
When I don’t feel like a philosopher.
I write the best of my poetry,
When I don’t deem myself a poet.
I publish the best of my science,
Walking just a pilgrim of knowledge.
Labels we hold dear often hold us captive,
So do not take the acronym for the act.
Designations can’t contain the designated,
Move past the noun and let the verb enact.

“Miracle and Migraine (Sonnet 1370)

Words are my leisure,
Words are my life.
Words are my gift to thee,
Use ’em wisely for light.

Kind words cost us nothing,
Cruel words will cost us all.
Faith in people costs us nothing,
Systemic mistrust will end us all.

It is common knowledge in the circle,
I don’t control words, I get visions.
However, every miracle takes its toll,
Hence, the migraines are getting worse.

I don’t mind, so long as I am ointment.
You keep the magic, I’ll keep the pain.”

“There is nothing supernatural about visions – or to be more accurate, contrary to traditional belief, it’s not messages from some extraterrestrial domain. Visions are indeed messages from a mysterious realm alright, but like the everyday realm of human perception, the transcendental realm as well is creation of brain chemicals. I won’t go into details here, as I already did that in my early days. One of my earliest works, Autobiography of God, contains a detailed analytical account of the neurobiology of transcendental experiences. However, the question is not whether there is an explanation, the question is, is it worth explaining! Because, while sometimes the lack of explanation facilitates superstition, some things are better left unexplained – such as, love.”

Any gargoyle can google
the definition of a sonnet,
Any robot can write and
rhyme 14 lines of a sonnet.

Number of lines don’t make sonnet,
Impeccable rhyme don’t make poetry.
Critics, police and gatekeepers are
usually least capable of originality.

It’s okay if it’s few lines extra,
It’s okay if it’s couple lines less.
It’s okay if it doesn’t rhyme at all,
It’s the soul that matters, not vessels.

You’re welcome to your dead laws of poetry,
while I bring poetry to life, shaping society.

You only know my infinite radiance,
you got no clue to my innate hurricane.
Day in and day out I struggle autistic,
Genius is outcome of a mind broken.

There are cracks across my heart,
nothing can bar the pouring rays.
Light is but suffering harnessed,
Genius is brokenness harnessed.

There is no end to my exuberance,
limits of typicals don't apply to me.
I am but an enigma of unbending tenacity,
every breath is testament to impossibility.

Divergence is nature's way to expansion.
Divergent dynamite I, am living evolution.

Over the past few years one change has taken over my writing. It’s that I no longer write from thought. Almost everything I write today is the result of subconscious grinding. In fact, these days I make it a point to not write from thought, particularly because things written from thought never quite embody the magic of my naturally flowing spring of words. Initially my writings contained occasional natural gems, bridged by materials from thought, particularly my early works of prose. But nowadays, it’s like some invisible force does the actual writing – the complete writing, I only take dictations. Perhaps I’ve gotten lazy, or perhaps the outside has gotten lazy, for the inside has come alive. The thinker has given in, for the seer has come alive. This ain’t mysticism, just the genius of nature. I ain’t a mystic, just nature at its peak.