Just Words…

Photos and text by Gazala Anver

Which some call poetry. Others call lies. Interesting dynamic that is. But cutting the ramble or rather getting to the preamble of the ramble: poetry. It happens. Out loud, but rather quietly at the same time.
Recently, (this is not a recent phenomenon however, it just somehow stays fresh) a handful of people met up: two musicians, one mad and rather eccentric poet and two what you could call loosely “people who write. Just because.” And a spectator. Who in true spectator fashion just “spectated.”
What came out of it was not just a space to express, not even a space to be yourself (if we were to go with poetry being lies, we would be presented with a bit of a problem there), or even a platform: just fun. Fun with words. Nothing sophisticated, some could argue (non-applicable when it comes to the actual poet) about the intelligence level, but it was intelligible, digestible and the best bit was, it was formless. It was called poetry, but some of it was part of a story, a dream, just a line, a song and even some creepy alien music input. It was collective, and enjoyable.
It was like talking to your close intimate friends, adding a “machang” or two, a little anecdote here and another there, but in a room full of practical strangers : but there was a link. A bridge of words. Nothing high flown, and most certainly not pretentious. Just a few hours to celebrate our existence (in some form or the other) through the use of words.
There can never be a repeat performance, but it was attempted again. Just a few days ago actually. When you were probably stuck in traffic on your way back from work, or flipping through channels looking for something interesting to watch, the celebration of words, the quiet but not so quiet brotherhood met. Brotherhood not because it was select or elite in someway but because of the wave of words uniting with different voices and different levels of word use.
One musician who never played any music, another spectator, two more who just write and of course, the crotchety old poet who I will soon introduce in more detail. And even someone physically stuck in Samanthurai, on the East Coast, but linked thanks to rather unreliable technology.
“Causal ocean,” created a bit of a debate. Just the word causal did rather. The poet, who could have a book of poetry written on him and still be very ‘fresh’, and who will probably criticise it from his grave if you used the word “causal” in there, is Krisantha. Or simply Kris. You may not have heard of him: no surprise, he doesn’t like anything much, and most certainly not commercialism of any sort (including newspapers, which is ironic in a way). You won’t see him at poetry recitals the “Brutish Council” as he says, or “Bare Pu*” organise. You might however see him being booted out of these “so called” music festivals. Why? Because he’s crotchey, controversial man. Who is a poet and who surprisingly, speaks the truth. And no one really likes the truth do they? Thus unpublished interviews and boots from platforms advocating “freedom of speech.” (Too much freedom or too much speech?)
So the poet thought it was too technical. And it went on from there, from technicalities to spiritual links to the cosmic causal everything. And poetry was read. Different forms, different styles, different voices, a lot of laughing, a cat with a mistaken identity (no jokes there) and even a short story. Called Sruti. By a latecomer, a writer about whom you might soon hear of, if he gets around to publishing his book. Strangely, or so I interpreted, it was about the music of silence. And it was read out, which was the best part.
So what am I trying to say? Voices. Words. Don’t need expensive events. Or even sophisticated gatherings. They just need a) people b) who will speak them out loud.
It’s not about establishing yourself, or listening to someone brag about their achievements and the money they make. It’s about the music of words, poetry, stories; short or long, being said out loud. Somehow breathing them into existence, and making them real (but not necessarily true?)
It’s all just words, which some call poetry, and others call lies.