Where Do Poets Go When Their Muse Leaves Them
"A poet and his muse both will die one day which one dies first is a matter of luck"
Inspired by :
"When we stop breathing poetry,
our crestfallen pen, left in silence -
where do we poets go?" - Silent one
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What happens to a poet once his mind is no longer able to conjure up poetry?
Does he die like a green leaf plucked before time
thrown on the ground
a living dead before death
Or does he still smile like spring flowers dancing in joy of soft caress of breeze
Is he struck in a maze of negative thoughts unable to come out
Or does he still hold firmly to faith and hope
Does he fall into a dark pit all alone waiting for death
Or does he still radiate beauty and wisdom although non poetic
Does he make desperate attempts to bring back his muse
Or does he laugh loud knowing fully well that everything is always in transition
Does he look around desperate for a comment or adulation
Or does he relax like a tree
strong and calm
unruffled by the winds
When he sees others creating masterpieces and getting praised for it...
Does he feel lonely and left alone, as if everything has come to an end
Or does he join others with his lavish comments on a beautiful poem well composed
How does a poet take it?
Much depends on poet's mental make and lifestyle
A poet whose life revolves around poetry
Who has no other hobbies and passions
When his ink dries up,
doesn't know what to do
He tries his best get it back,
but that is not in his hands
What God gives he can take back whenever he wants
Some poets are egoistic, riding the heights of success
When suddenly their ink fails they cannot take it
They miss comments and adulation and can even go into depression
Higher you are, greater is your fall
Best to be humble, not to think you are greatest
Like everything else poetry is transient
We are in this mortal world for short time
Enjoy writing while it lasts
when it doesn't enjoy life
There should be a life beyond poetry to bounce back when muse dies
When you are forgotten like a read book adorning the bookshelf
That's the time to live for yourself, rediscover new joys and passions
That's the time to tell the world a poet lives till his last breath
And inspires thereafter through his thoughts
which are more read once a person dies then when he was alive
Poetry should be a passions not an addiction
Date: 11/27/2020 3:23:00 AM
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