THE POET

It’s all in the start. Give ’em a startle. Transport ’em to a world of typhoons and desert storms, a world of weeping girls under the umbrella, a dark world where the air reeks of symbolism. And then pull out your Thesaurus, ’cause you’re gonna need one mate, trust me.

It’s a strange breed, these poet-types. We mortals can put up starry flags on the moon and database every species there is, but when it comes to voyaging into the depths of a poet’s mind, even the best mind of our times sits clueless in his wheelchair, at a loss of words. And yet this breed understands its pieces of work as clearly as anyone (which is ironic since their poetic awakening was born of the desire to explain their existence).

Anyways, here’s an easy “dummy’s” guide to identification of this not so rare breed. But before that a caveat- Do not get fooled by their timid appearance and scrawny hands ’cause man they’ll cause havoc once they get their hands on their weapon of choice, be it the pen or camera or guitar. Oh they’ll squeeze the meaning out of the fabric of the universe and hang it in their drawer. They’ll bedazzle you with their grandiloquence and gift of gab for they have a way with words (well the thesaurus is just a click away, isn’t it? But that later). And you’ll scratch your head and wonder what the author meant by “So , he left the door open.” Connotations.Connotations.Connotations.

You must be wondering at the sense of alarm in my tone. So what if a species is busy discovering itself? What do we care? Well my fellow mates , the age of the devil, the age of the “www” is upon us. The dotcom boom of the late 90s has given them the arsenal they need and our shields won’t protect us now. “Walls” would be written on , “Tags” will follow and then “Pings” to “Like” their creation will be floated. Oh my friend I fool you not for I’ve seen the “Invites” myself. These appreciation hungry creatures feed on your thumbs and an unhealthy obsession with numbers.

So God help us.

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