Dressed in multicolor gala attire
Posted by: adonis49 on: July 30, 2009
Dressed in multicolor gala attire (July 27, 2009)
“The larva of yesterday is dressed in multicolor gala attire”; you may have as well said the butterfly looked sensational in her dress but that would sound insipid and boring static descriptions in the world of poets. It does not mean that plain talk is not the job of poets: imaginations carry through the purpose of reminding the people of the spirit of the Land far better than logic and reasoning.
It might be useful nowadays to add butterfly in parenthesis as people have no time or patience to figure out anything unless spoon fed; that would not be a bad idea if it encourages reading splendid poems and retaining magnificent imageries. Kids should be encouraged to memorize imageries. Imagery in poems is the foundations of affordable imaginations: poets are down to earth and have keen eyes to see the horrors and ugliness of the “As is” and are impatient to refuting the miseries of reality, ugly behavior and customs, and transmitting the urgency for a change, always feasible changes; at least of worthy poets.
Every survivor on earth, plants, insects, or mammals, is constantly fighting the good fight to surmount the difficulty of living on earth. Long lasting changes are not done by exhibiting fire works or victory celebrations but the daily struggle to live for another tomorrow.
Earth atmosphere and environment was noxious to everything we could be seen with our naked eyes. After millions of years of evolution and catastrophes anything still surviving was incredibly lucky to exist today. Heck, oxygen was meant to be a poisonous gas to man until he adapted to a certain mixture. Earth was not created for man; he evolved against all odds, in an almost improbable continuous string of lucky hazards. Yet, we cannot withstand a tree blocking a stupid view, birds chanting by dawn and disturbing our unnatural cycle, a flower not looking as pretty as a rose, a neighbor less fortunate or more wealthy. Yet, we resent someone who decided to rest on a Wednesday instead of a Friday, Saturday, or a Sunday.
Poets need to be unsatisfied; they carry the message to communicate the will of reducing inhuman realities to a human order of acceptability. Poets are frequently revolting on the world of “as is” and changing life according to affordable imaginations. The value of poetry is essentially to be present in the center of time and space.
Imagery is to agree for passionate re-conquest of nature and our standards of living. The main ingredient for poets is the potential to creating a sustainable life by offering imageries that make changes feasible and attainable by the spirit. Poets are infusing this hope that inhuman conditions of nature or man-made could be interacted with to accommodate humanity and its surroundings.
Man has been struggling for all kinds of emancipations that cover forms of liberations such as slavery, exploitation of the masses, women rights, oppression of minorities, domestic brutality, colonized people, and so many other forms of social domination that restrained the blooming of human spirit.
Maybe one of the major factors for the failure of successive attempts for social and individual liberation was the failure to regularly read poems to the illiterates who were shouldering the entire burden of reforms and revolts. The masses of workers and peasants respect and appreciate poems that talk to their spirit far more than the well to do. If the people managed to be that patient and sustained misery and daily toils for too long it is because they were free to recite poems and sing love songs and songs of freedom after a hard day of labor. External political changes for reforms fail to mature and take roots simply because the internal changes in the people were forgotten or not taken seriously.
Pablo Neruda, the poet of Chili and South America recount the dignity of the hard working people and how they sheltered him and fed him during his escape to exile:
Along the grand night, throughout the enitre life,
Tears on paper, from attire to attire,
I marched in those misty days,
The fugitive to the police:
I was handed over from hand to hands.
Grave is the night but man disposed of his fraternal signs.
By blind roads and plenty of shadows
I reached the lighted tiny star that was mine.
I don’t feel alone in the night.
I am people, innumerable people.
My voice carries pure force
To cross the silence and germinate in the obscurity.
Neruda recites a poem to thousands of miners who instinctively removed their hat and head gears in respect:
I write for the people.
Many cannot read my poems with their rural eyes.
Time is soon; a line,
Air that disrupted my life;
Will reach their ears.
They will say ”He was a comarad”
That is enough; this is the crown of laurel that I desired.
Adonis Diaries 
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