Of a graveyard of creativity
   Date :04-Jun-2019

By Vijay Phanshikar:

A midnight scribble,
a morning sigh,
you watch the words,
curl up and die.

Madness lives
inside your head,
of poems lost,
and pages dead.

A mind possessed,
by unmade books,
unwritten lines
on empty hooks.

- Poem ‘Lost Words’,
by Michael Faudet.

There may not be a more simple description of a still-born creative urge, so copiously available in all humans, but so rarely emerging from the unfathomable labyrinth of the mind. There may not be seen such a wonderful capability of a poet to capture in words the terrific creative activity that goes on in the human mind all the time -- of wonderful poems being born and dead, of beautiful statements being made and forgotten, of great books being written and pages torn all inside a fertile mind that actually lives in a physically sterile zone. ...! But each of us can identify with this simple but all-important activity that inhabits our minds all along, which Michael Faudet captures so capably, so simply, and so much in tune with reality.
That’s our reality, we can assert. For, as each one of us knows, there is a Shakespeare or a Kalidas hidden inside each one of us. There is a Rabindranath Tagore and a Kusumagraj and a Raja Ravi Varma and a Picasso or a Subramanya Bharati or a Lata Mangeshkar or an Amitabh Bachhan waiting to emerge from our inner beings, thrusting against the frigid walls of our minds, making efforts to liberate himself. With this reality, all of us identify ourselves so easily. Naturally, this is our reality -- which remains locked in our timidness to let it emerge in concrete form. Timidness? Yes, very much ‘timidness’! Most of us have no courage to get bold enough to say what we wish to say, write what we want to write, paint what we have the urge to paint, sculpt what we are so eager to do, or stand up and get counted when the moment of crunch comes.
The poem ‘Lost Words’, thus, is an expression of our still-born creativity, a tribute to what we are capable of but often refuse to actualise. Michael Faudet has brought out this aspect of the timid facet of our existence so wonderfully, so succinctly yet compendiously. Unfortunately, we do fall prey to some cheap expressions when we fall in love and write letters or poems that actually mean little, for example. We also make statements whose words carry little meaning on many crucial occasions. And that happens because very rarely do we peep into our inner beings and know what we are actually capable of. But then, why does this happen?
This may be happening because we have never been schooled in the idea of courage -- to look deep within ourselves and pick up the gems of our own expression that never see the light of the day or the whiff of fresh, brand new thought (that we often refuse to inhale!). Many a poem is lost thus. Many a book is never written thus. Many a fine work of art never is born thus. Michael Faudet does not just describe this process of still-bornness, so to say. He actually expresses a sense of hurt, though apparently nonchalantly. But deep within, he grieves such a copious death of human creativity in the graveyard which the human mind is capable of turning into.