Guest guest Posted February 4, 2012 Report Share Posted February 4, 2012 I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire a definite form. I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar in the lower classes. Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my thoughts. There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to understand why he has sent them back. Bharat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 4, 2012 Report Share Posted February 4, 2012 It's interesting to note he still had your poems. He probably wanted to return them as he found them in a cleanup at home and wished you to know he had liked them so much, he still had them. What if they were never returned to you? You wouldn't even have known they had been so worthy, your writings :-) Ravin '82 > ** > > > I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about > my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of > pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in > strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe > externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, > which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, > sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire > a definite form. > > I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every > student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of > time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt > surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different > from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I > also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early > writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar > in the lower classes. > > Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts > took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at > school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never > felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a > poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the > first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any > more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my > thoughts. > > There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and > death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even > have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father > decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in > English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic > worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his > friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression > of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the > nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. > > My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an > enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any > longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I > tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two > old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is > difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that > were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to > understand why he has sent them back. > > Bharat > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 4, 2012 Report Share Posted February 4, 2012 Your fathers treaured gifts..... are now yours.! Good Luck. Continue your writings. Parag 1980 The Poet I Never Was I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire a definite form. I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar in the lower classes. Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my thoughts. There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to understand why he has sent them back. Bharat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 4, 2012 Report Share Posted February 4, 2012 It was my father's friend who returned those poems after more than thirty years. Bharat ________________________________ To: mgims Sent: Saturday, 4 February 2012 7:39 PM Subject: Re: The Poet I Never Was  Your fathers treaured gifts..... are now yours.! Good Luck. Continue your writings. Parag 1980 The Poet I Never Was I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire a definite form. I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar in the lower classes. Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my thoughts. There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to understand why he has sent them back. Bharat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 5, 2012 Report Share Posted February 5, 2012 Wonder if you could send the poems for us to read. Kishore Shah 1974 -------------------------------------------------- Sent: Saturday, February 04, 2012 10:24 PM To: <mgims > Subject: Re: The Poet I Never Was > It was my father's friend who returned those poems after more than thirty > years. > > Bharat > > > ________________________________ > > To: mgims > Sent: Saturday, 4 February 2012 7:39 PM > Subject: Re: The Poet I Never Was > > > > Your fathers treaured gifts..... are now yours.! > > Good Luck. > Continue your writings. > > Parag > 1980 > > The Poet I Never Was > > I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about > my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of > pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in > strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe > externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its > own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly > or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to > acquire a definite form. > > I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every > student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of > time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt > surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different > from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I > also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early > writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar > in the lower classes. > > Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts > took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at > school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never > felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a > poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the > first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make > any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my > thoughts. > > There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and > death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even > have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father > decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in > English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic > worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his > friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his > impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me > understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. > > My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an > enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any > longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I > tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two > old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is > difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that > were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to > understand why he has sent them back. > > Bharat > > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 7, 2012 Report Share Posted February 7, 2012 Dear Bharat I read your this communication with interest.These are all the characterstics of a born writer where onehimself does not make any effort to write, rather they are generated by some usual or unusual, visions events, stimulus oor even a dream. your father has sent your poem to awaken you about the forgotten talent to rejuvenate it.keep it up. Most of the people write for their own satisfaction-- " Swantaya sukhaya " . It may please others as well .With best wishesOPGupta To: mgims From: bharat_7910@... Date: Sat, 4 Feb 2012 15:53:07 +0530 Subject: The Poet I Never Was I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire a definite form. I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar in the lower classes. Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my thoughts. There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to understand why he has sent them back. Bharat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted February 10, 2012 Report Share Posted February 10, 2012 Dear Vijai, My father simply forwarded the poems to me. It was my father's friend who sent them back after more then thirty years. He had them preserved them for such a long time. I find it absolutely overwhelmed. Regards Bharat ________________________________ To: mgims sewagram <mgims > Sent: Tuesday, 7 February 2012 10:59 AM Subject: RE: The Poet I Never Was Dear Bharat I read your this communication with interest.These are all the characterstics of a born writer where onehimself does not make any effort to write, rather they are generated by some usual or unusual, visions events, stimulus oor even a dream. your father has sent your poem to awaken you about the forgotten talent to rejuvenate it.keep it up. Most of the people write for their own satisfaction-- " Swantaya sukhaya " . It may please others as well .With best wishesOPGupta To: mgims From: bharat_7910@... Date: Sat, 4 Feb 2012 15:53:07 +0530 Subject: The Poet I Never Was I have spoken about my reading a few times. However, I cannot speak about my writing. I just write to please myself. It is certainly a matter of pleasure for me. I feel good if I write about something. My mind works in strange ways. My writing can be initiated by something I observe externally. On the other hand, an idea may germinate in my mind on its own, which later transforms into a story. The story may shape up quickly or, sometimes, gradually travels out of the zone of mental haziness to acquire a definite form. I wrote even in school. It began with the customary essays which every student is required to write as part of his assignments. With passage of time, I got familiar with slightly more complex issues. I always felt surprised when I found my essays appreciated for being good and different from what others wrote. Apart from writing for the school-related work, I also started writing for myself. Mostly, nobody got to see my early writings except my father, who helped me understand the basics of grammar in the lower classes. Writing was acceptable, but the matter was complicated when my thoughts took on a lyrical quality. I loved some of the poems we were taught at school. The message contained in them is still there in my mind. I never felt I would reach even rudimentary level if I ever decided to write a poem. Yet I did write a few poems. It was a basic construction. I was the first one to see my inadequacy as a poet. It did not enthuse me to make any more attempts for quite sometime. Anyway, my father appreciated my thoughts. There were two particular poems I would like to mention which had rain and death as subjects. It is rare for a schoolboy to think of death and even have the audacity to write a poem on it. It just happened. My father decided to send these poems to one of his friends who had a masters in English. I think he wanted to have him (his friend) to assess the poetic worth of my efforts. I also knew that he felt proud enough to let his friend know about me. I vaguely remember that I was conveyed his impression of my poems. There were also a few suggestions to make me understand the nuances of poetry. The matter was soon forgotten. My father told me last month that he would post me a letter with an enclosure. This aroused my curiosity because we do not write letters any longer. Finally I received the envelope with my father's letter inside. I tore the cover open and retracted the letter. I was surprised to see two old yellowed pages with my writing (as I had it then) also inside. It is difficult to explain how I felt when I realised these were the poems that were sent to my father's friend. I find it even more difficult to understand why he has sent them back. Bharat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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