Tag Archives: creativity

IN CELEBRATION OF IGNORANCE

 

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source: angrylearnerr.com

You may choose to build an altar in my name

And sing eulogies as you get drunk all day long

Or follow my blog and all social media accounts

Secretly harbouring admiration for me

Having abandoned your own work and family

Doing these totally at your own peril

 

Coz I won’t be waking up chanting “oms” or burning incense

Reading the stars and ancient manuscripts at night

Writing long philosophies and moral codes

Or walking down the street followed by a picking of spiritual seekers

Carrying myself like someone who really knows what he is doing

And that that thing he is doing is nothing

 

What do I know of divinity

What do I know of hatred

What do I know of love

What do I know of weakness

What do I know of happiness

What do I know of knowledge

What do I know of art

What do I know of prostitution

What do I know of hunger

Maybe if you wait long enough

Burning the midnight oil in cyberspace

You might have the pleasure of being the first

To see another work of my art

To see another grand expression

Of the depth of my ignorance

Of the richness of my shallowness

Maybe you will then finally see

In that precious midnight moment

That there is really nothing new

To learn from another human

Who is just a stuttering mere mortal like you

Trying to say stale things in great ways

Sounding like he knows anything about nothing

And actually saying nothing about anything

 

And

Whilst countless shamelessly beg

At the doorstep of knowledge

Priding themselves as masters

Of art and science and law and philosophy

 

I will turn myself in bed

And continue snoring

As I dream on

Laughing in my sleep

At those who thought I had something grand to say

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THE SIMPLE WAYS OF ART

source: pinterest

It’s 1 am

How do I do something no one has ever written

Write something no one has ever done

Outstandingly creative or ingenious

That gets the reader stuck on its pages and lessons

A real page- and life-turner

That remains evergreen even when my hair turns grey

Something that will cost some sweet sweat

The kind that precedes a particularly delightful rest

The kind that only comes after rock-hard labour

 

This is the question I keep asking

At 4:30 am

 

This is the eternal curse of the artist

That high bar we have set for ourselves

That forever keeps us below the scientist

That high bar we never attain to

That makes a mockery of us before the scientist

Whose life is so simple

A very theoretically pragmatic mix of principles

No matter how actually chaotically inadequate this mix is

 

We forever fawn over our inferiority before them

The scientist who needn’t rise beyond his senses

The scientist who needn’t read between the lines of this piece

The scientist whose neurons fire away in peace

We artists be forever murdering ourselves

Suiciding and homiciding all through life

The artist wakes up every morning with a hammer to the head

He then picks at the pieces with long nails

Same nails he used to scratch his itchy under a night before

He scatters the bits with his scrawny feet

So bony from years of starvation

Because inspiration did not give 50 kobo if he survived

In a world of indie publishing, miscellaneous blogging and facebooking

He peers with eyeballs painfully straining hard

For something beyond the senses

Something truly beautiful

That could not have come from among those neurons and equations

Something more than a mockery of his senses

Writing simply as his eyes have seen or ears heard

He has to spin the magical into it

He cannot paint that drab leaf the way it is

The leaf has to look like a flower

A glorious flower nobody has seen before

art, draw, drawing, eye, eyes, freak

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The artist has to produce a work of wonder

A work that the senses have to adore

A work the scientist has to bow before in awe

 

Make no mistake the scientist works hard

Starting from the imagination

Creating a complex question

But he then turns the simplistic way

Reduces the wonder to a series of observations and equations

 

The scientist has his own merits

 

But,

 

The artist has to dig into the supernatural

He has to bridge the realms of the seen and unseeable

He has to produce a wonder

The scientist did not know existed

In a way that could not be explained by equations and mere observations

Using tools the scientist did not know existed

He looks at the simple elements

Eats them all up

Regurgitates lying down

Whilst the scientist scorns

Calling him a lazy goat

Who cannot handle the rigours of elaborate farm work

 

Only to produce a wonder the same scientist can apprehend

And adore with his own senses

 

A world beyond mere observations and simple equations of life.

Thoughts Of The Constipated Writer

image

(Source: online)

Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts

 
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/

 
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas

He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena

He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision

(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)

Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do

Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.

image

(Source: online)
 
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.

 
__________________________________

BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.

P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.

The Writer’s Pity-Party.

The poor writer's "big" feast.

The poor writer’s “big” feast.

Let’s roll out the table
Burst open the kitchen
And serve the tea
This writer has had enough

Days of struggling for inspiration
But there was no rain.
And despite his hard work,
The ground still remained barren –
A perpetual desert-ed piece of white paper
Lying on the writer’s table,
Devoid of any ink.
Days of trying to express
What little drops of inspiration
Splashed his way.

Whilst showers flooded
Neighbouring villages,
Those farmers could hardly gather
All the harvest bounties.
See the many followers
Sitting at their festivals.
Even days these rich farmers give no food,
They all still get wine and drunk
And discuss the ingenuity of insanity.
After all, a king’s ragged chair
Is still seen as a throne to others!

I could just throw a writer’s tantrum
And decide to ignore all,
Settle for another more profitable occupation.
Or plant crops which cost little effort
But ain’t worth much either.
Ha! Yes. Something like a vegetable
Seasoned with some spices
Which really lack true nutritive value!

Or I could just be a subsistent farmer
Who grows crops barely enough
To satisfy friends who come visiting,
And they end up in almost-meaningless talks
So neither the farmer nor visitors
Feels bad for a visit
That could not quite give them what they needed,
Till the visitors start making excuses
For not showing up again.
Who dares blame them?!

Or maybe I should just be a seller –
A reviewer/critic who assesses
And re-presents others products.
That way I can get to distribute some food
To my visitors,
And I un-enviously advertise others’ products
Whilst not being guilty of theft or plagiarism.
Well, give some credit to thieves even.
Cloning others’ crops ain’t exactly easy too!

Oh! Of course, I still visit them rich folks.
We can’t be enemies or even literarivals
But today, I just want to sulk
And serve bland tea
To anyone who happens to visit,
Hoping they don’t think me desperate
And they are in the mood to talk,
Not just tick a “like” as a review.
After all, it still takes a real farmer
To grow even bland tea!!!

PS.
Hope the visitor/reader is savvy enough to know if this piece is really about farming, or writing. Please check the title again. Just in case.
*Literarivals -rivals in the world of writing/writers.