Death of the poet

Nietzsche once raised a question of how something could emerge out of its opposite. For instance, how could truth come out of error? I wonder if it could be answered by pointing towards the beautiful poetry of resistance that is a product of the ugliness 1/n

ugliness of oppression. It is quite apparent that poets adapt to and thrive in the times of conflict and produce powerful works of human intellect. This isn’t to say that a poet of resistance enjoys being in such a chaotic state. On the contrary, poets seek to break free from2/n

from the shackles. However, the chokehold that such a poet seeks to loosen is many a time the very condition that had created him in the first place.
The words that flow from the gushing stream of a poet’s mind onto a barren piece of paper are a manifestation of his need to 3/n

need to be free. The pouring out of the heart begins as an escape but snowballs into something bigger; a powerful expression of resistance which isn’t brute in its nature and yet hits the hardest. It holds the power to make a nation of conscious people rally behind it and 4/n

and usurp the unjust powers that be. Perhaps that’s why Sir Muhammad Iqbal once said, “Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians”.
In all of his gorgeous whining about the overpowering pain and the mental trauma that results 5/n

results directly from the rotten reality imposed upon him and his people, he is occasionally visited by thoughts of hope and joy. These thoughts are pleasant but momentary visitors that sojourn in a hideous house sitting nestled within the ruined mountains of a forlorn land. 6/n

However, poets kindle a hope that one day these thoughts would come, glance around in the forsaken land, find that things have changed for the better and decide to make it their home. It is the hope of a tranquil future where the need to pen down poetry of resistance would 7/n

would never arise. The peace that would ensue might be the death of the poet but that’s the death poets of resistance dream of. n/n

(I had tweeted it earlier as well. Then deleted it. Today I followed my heart & tweeted it once more. & perhaps I'll delete it again. Just because)