Intent to create is the fountainhead of poetry. Without it there is no awe, no wonder and we remain asleep. Only a ray of poetry makes us alive.

           In a strange sense a true poet is without an ego. He is always transcending himself or the human condition, by becoming here a cloud, there the sea, a bird or a flower. He feels more, lives more, suffers more and creates more than the rest of mankind.

           The wisdom of poetry is beyond happiness and suffering. It is a journey taken into uncharted oceans of mind where strange things happen under the intensity of emotions and sometime new creations are born.

           A true poem is a rare phenomena. As Mayakovsky pointed out that making verses is like mining for uranium ore. You have to shift millions of tons of dross to find an ounce. But try must we to shift dross of the mundane life and conventional expressions, to find a passage to our inner being which is beyond both psychology and rationality.

           Creation is not a one off process. Everything is in a flux. We are born and die each moment and so is the world. To catch an illusive essence of life is the task of a poet and thus a poem so created becomes a work of art.