What pessimistic survey of tales untold/ reveals our heart’s desire?/ Some choice of ravenous dogs left to feed!/ On ragged scraps from a warlord’s feast/ Be kinder to an anarchist’s bunion-covered feet/ Left bleeding from an isolated trek to Massada.That's Sharon Stone. It seems she can do more than shed her clothes. She even writes poetry. Stone’s not alone in her literary leanings, though I dare say she’d rather be seen than read.Writing poetry seems to be the overwhelming preoccupation of people the world over. Especially in our very own matrubhoomi. Except that an overwhelming number of our oh-so-swadeshi citizens choose to write not in the rashtrabhasha, but in Angrezi!For one who has grown up with Palgrave’s trusty treasure house as constant companion, much that passes for verse in periodicals today is something that one can pass without compunction. For we have produced a galaxy of talented poets, ranging from doyen Nissim Ezekiel, Dom Moraes, the multi-faceted Geive Patel, Kamala Das, Eunice D’Souza and Keki Daruwalla to ‘suitable boy’ Vikram Seth. The list, of course, is far from exhaustive.Enjoy nonsense verse? Of course! Imagine life without Ogden Nash and Edward Lear! Parody can be delightful. Even the topical limericks which adorn the pages of some publications elicit a passing smile. But plain nonsense? Many with barely a nodding acquaintance with the lingo want to break out in a rash of verse, or pardon the poor pun, worse!Do infants run as soon as they discover they can do more than kick about? No, they first crawl and then learn to stand before they can even take the first step. Walking comes later. That’s natural progression. But ambition soars for folks with literary pretensions as they juggle with rhymes for the times, fancying themselves poets of note before knowing what correct prose is, never mind the metric niceties of prosody. Not to mention a pathetic paucity of vocabulary despite the enthusiastic outpouring of words, words, words, signifying, well, nothing.As the most popular subject of verse, LOVE wins hands down. Preferably in ‘flowery’ language. Form, content, originality are blissfully given the go-by. Literary allusion remains an illusion. Had but one retained some of the outpourings of angst that arrive by the bundle in newspaper offices, sent by eager beaver versifiers living in hope, one would have had a goodly collection worthy of reproduction here, if only to show how not to rhyme.However, there are exceptions. Sometimes a budding poet may exhibit a degree of diffidence and request the editor to assist him in his quest for the muse. As did a contributor from interior Maharashtra not so long ago. His missive read: ‘I want to you object about my some English verses. Which gives me suggestion about writting (sic). May I send scriptures? In waiting...’’Good Lord!
