Of the Origins of Poetry

The genesis of true poetry lies in the vituperative, viscid, visceral coils of frustration.

And when I say poetry, to the dismay of perhaps the more regressively maturing part of the population, which also constitues a predominant chunk of my blog readership, I coup-de-graced at the grave risk of alienating them and rendering my uncommon blog forever common in the forgotten realms of obscurity, that 'Roses are red, Violets are blue, O my Dahling, I love You', does NOT count as poetry. Even if you use it to mark the momentous occasion of the first-week-together anniversary with you girlfriend. (I am surprised she hasn't ditched you yet).

And when I say frustration, sleeping on the scorching bed on the first floor of Parijat does NOT count. Even if the foreigners get air conditioners and we 'natives' dont.
Grow up folks! There is more to frustrate a spirit than temperatures imported from supermarkets in hell. Like what? Like lost battles. Like jilted love. Like socio-politico-economic hegemony. Like bankruptcy in a financial crisis. Like a writer's blog err..block. Like existential crises in a pre pubescent, jocund world (courtesy, a recent conversation). Like a never ending conference that begins at 6pm in a software company.
Not in any specific order except that the most poignant, gut-wrenching, heart rending poetry emerges from the last cause on the pathetic list.

And I am sure that all organisms of the fast proliferating species called software engineers would agree. So when you read the lines below, I request you to keep in mind the fact that this was written on a happy day in spring when the bees buzzed and the birds sang; the sun had mellowed to a warm ruddy glow in the distance and the night was riding in fast. And I sat, with a group of other wretched creatures, trying to ignore the insistent, muffled speaking from a Cisco IP phone , battling an AC induced brain numbing draught. The pathos of the situation will melt your frigid hearts.

"And I stand at the horizon,
Watch the Sun set,
At the other end, night creeps in,
At this amalgam of light and dark,
I cross the threshold and step beyond,
Into the lap of eternal sleep,
Beyond any life giving force,
Outside the grasp of life itself,
I embrace the only permanence,
The only change to stem all change,
The only stop to constant transience.
I open my arms and welcome thee,
Take me with you Death, I am ready."

Ah! The pathos!
To all of you reduced to tears, I am much indebted. You may shed sympathetic tears and write warm reviews below.

To all of you inclined to laugh - beware you infidels! Unless you forward this link to 20 more people who religiously leave comments, your lead will call a meeting at 6 every evening!

To all those concerned about my suicidal tendencies and preparing to raid my closet for boa constrictors and rodent poison, R.I.P - I have resigned.

P.S.- If you feel unable to feel sufficiently frustrated to spew out 'deathly' poetry, contact me. I'll lend you my ex-boss.