Poetry, poetry everywhere, not a poem to love; the world is full of poetry, yet, it’s all about an angry shove. It’s the age of rage but don’t take our word, just look at the herd following Donald Trump — there’s a ballad of the adoration of a frump. His hair is gold, but not his heart, which, by a wall, will tear apart, his country from others; by the same key, there’s Britain, once mighty, now pushing away its European brothers. What is this, if not a tale of love gone sour, the champagne-fuelled arrogance of brute power, that causes you to overlook history’s debts you owe, and instead deliver the world a painful new blow.
But Trump cannot be accused of lacking a poetic care; after all, he’s so fond of the Russian bear, an animal sans warm, cuddly charm, but Trump’s fondness persists, even if it does America harm. Such desire is the stuff of lyric, this adoration that is pyrrhic, although that’s not how the US media sees the affair; the NYT keeps growling about the Russian bear. But Trump hasn’t expressed much care; he responds by terming the media “fake”, with gold-tinted flair.
And why just the West; there’s such ironic poetry amongst the rest. Look closer home and you’ll see a tome. Everyone wants their say — and to muffle the next guy; think of Gurmehar Kaur and heave a little sigh. But poetry is also fashion, celebrating the nation as your new passion. Which nook to finesse is your call, that’s the best part — Siachen, Rajputs, JNU, whatever enrages your angry heart. In the fury of such poems, reality slinks by; the way things are going, more Nirbhayas may die. Yet, such is the intoxication of the times, we remain mesmerised by mutton over real crimes. Truly, the age is poetic, but the poetry is dark, and in this age of towering supermen, few hear the poet’s soft hark. It is an age of rage but the poets still say, take heart — fifty shades of grey is still a cliché.