Thursday 18th June 2018

by Siddharth Soni

It is now a number that exceed many thousands if somebody asks me the number of poems I have written. Most of my poems dies the other moment they are finished, while others are exhibited, stored, loved, cherished and rewarded. In both cases, however, I equally love my poems because they are written honestly by my prompt self. And that they feel like daughters. While these sentences seem too overused in my writings, it is urgeable that they are utter truths. Today, rhyming and other poetic artistry have started to loose their beans, and the more contemporary styles of writing which include flat poems, open verses, and prose poetry have replaced them. It sometimes upsets me that ‘Sonnets’ which are otherwise the toughest style of poetic arts are dominated by poems that have no rhyme, flow, punch whatsoever.

The queen’s English, which exhibited enthralling words, engrossing imageries, alluring flows and flawless rhyming – They have become extinct. And the otherwise thought brilliant styles of writing today- are easy, as if writing a ‘letter to the principal’, and bear no artistic resemblances. They require no skillfulness and can be delivered by laymen. However, poetry is not as easy as it is today. Have a glimpse at this Harissham Sonnet which says that only 7 syllables could stand in odd lines and 11 in the third line of a stanza. Notice that every first letter of the next line is the last letter of the first word of the previous line. This has an impeccable rhyme scheme: ababab-cdcdcd-ee

Spectacles of vast, wise hills in the chestnut sun,
Sacred words that their crooked turf land hoots,
Dauntless waters, amid the narrow vale would run,
Sea of prawns flow above the weird inquisition of roots,
And only the lasting chime of nature – full of fun,
Delivers the last of the poet’s tributes,

Whimsical works behind the grey beard face,
Lurks in awe of the ultimate surrender,
Smiles where the death proximate, nature he’d grace,
Sense the last breath of the life so tender,
Effaces with nature in a basket case,
So passes by a poet, so his splendor,

They call him an iron hand in a velvet glove,
Yawl he, “Earth was my first love”

Siddharth Raj Soni

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