On Art

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Take any form of art. You can learn the technicalities of the game, but your art will only be artistic if you express yourself through it.

Let’s take four examples: Poetry, Sketching, Music and Photography.

In Photography, we have 3 key concepts known as ISO, Shutter speed and Aperture. You can also be taught how to arrive at different effects like light trails, freezing water droplets, etc.

In Sketch
ing, you can learn different ways of shading, different forms of sketching such as portrait art, still art, etc.

In MIMG_7105usic, you can learn musical notation, key terms and concepts. If you are a guitarist, you can learn sweep picking, finger-style guitar, shredding and could even memorize the fret-board.

In Poetry, you can learn the technicalities of rhyming schemes, refrains and syllables. Though, there are many popular poems that do not rhyme at all.

At the end of the day, you will learn all the technicalities. But if you are not able to express yourself through the particular form of art, the art will have lost its flavour. If your expressions are embedded in your art form, you will succeed in making the art create an impact for not just yourself, but the world.

After all this you might ask, expressing is alright but what about passion?

For that I say, if expressing yourself through art makes you an artist, passion is what drives you to be one. It is the energy; the fuel for expressing yourself.

Darkness Conquered

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The sword you have sheathed behind your back
Carries a stain of dark blood
Of a ghost that once held you back
Kept you lying in wet mud.

Today this stain is a sign
Of your victory.
Today in your palace you shall design
An endless symphony
Of a story of your brave heart.
You conquered, setting all darkness apart.
With your light, you did emerge.
To the darkness, you were a purge.

And now as you play with the flames of hell,
You laugh as they try to hurt.
You have a story to tell,
How you cleansed your soul from all the dirt.

Today’s Men

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(This is a poem about today’s “normal” men in context to the so-called “man” due to which women are made insecure.)

He sits there silently in his room,
Reluctantly spending time with a lifeless book.
He wished he wasn’t there; what else could he do?
The only friend that the world had to offer was a crook.

This man shuts his book and thinks
Why are my fellows in a rat race for doom?
Unable to conclude, he takes his coffee and drinks
And takes out a pen to write what you could never assume.

“I am afraid, not of the dark;
Not even a dagger do I fear.
But I am afraid that a fellow of mine,
Would never again let me show who I am.

For he made her an object of lust,
For he made us one she can never trust.
I despise this fellow of mine,
Who made her a broken soul.
For him, she can’t stand beside us;
I was never a party to this.
For him, we are no longer humans,
But earmarked savages…

All I do want,
Is to hold her hand.
In hope, she would not mistake me,
For my fellow man’s brand.
Yes, I am a man,
But Today’s men don’t let me live like one.
For a man would not want her to weep
But to make a promise she’d trust he’d keep.”

Writing all this, he shuts his book;
He murmurs a wish that might once be heard.
That one day his fellow would be a man,
And let her soul fly like a free bird.
That one day she may know
Today’s men aren’t tomorrow’s hollow.

The Cry of an Unformed Mind

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In an age of commotion and seclusion,
Minds devolve into the dark.
Immature minds and their whims,
Extinguish what could have been a spark.

The cacophony of restless voices,
Speak to a mind not formed.
Amidst all hopes and betrayal,
Is a silent pain that comes uninformed.

It’s not a curse,
But a phrase you’d pass.
Things would eventually make more sense,
Even if you don’t sit in a class.

It is the patience you hold,
That would reward you.
Save you from regrets,
It would release you.

The cry of an unformed mind,
Is transient.
Seek answers and you shall find.

The Purple Mist

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Underneath the shade of the dark clouds
I stand appalled at the sight of a purple mist
Wondering the source, I walk forward to see
Glowing in the dark was a mysterious pine tree.
I was afraid, my instincts said.
But instead of taking a foot back,
I walked on.

There was a lady with white hair
Under a black, hooded cloak.
Standing under the tree
She spotted me.
I was afraid, my instincts said.
But instead of taking a foot back,
I walked on.

She lifted her hood and to my surprise,
She wasn’t an old lady but a young girl.
She smiled at me and I was dazed
Something was wrong with me,
I wasn’t ever so amazed.
I was afraid, my instincts said.
But instead of taking a foot back,
I walked on.

She asked me, “Do you come in search of something?”
I replied, “The purple mist.”
I didn’t know what was happening,
Not even aware of what I was blabbering.
I was afraid, my instincts said.
But instead of taking a foot back,
I walked on.

“Come with me,” she said
And led me to a house behind.
“You must be cold,” she said,
“It’s just the lavender amidst the fog.”
We sat outside on a log
And talked endlessly.
I was afraid, my instincts said.
But who cares,
I liked where I was
And where the clouds had led.