Editorial || Of Poetic Infidelities
Would it be too ungrateful an act to claim that poetry refused to aid me at a time when I needed her the most?
What constitutes infidelity in the realm of words, she asks me, especially when they are scarce spoken aloud or recorded and almost exclusively put in verse in the proverbial beats of one’s heart?
Why does it appear menacingly fictional – the communiqué across space, across even time, that which might exist in a metaphysical contour of nothingness, yoking together with unpoetic violence two that were never meant to be – a juxtaposition unjust that would only necessitate a little time to be trampled under the merciless critical scythe of a mighty Samuel Johnson?
She, poetry, met my abject stupidity with choice derision of her own. I would claim to give and give while she would claim to provide sans cease. I would claim to scale stepped mountains for her while she would enunciate fancier stories of risqué paraglides from the moon to the earth below.
She would, poetry, if she were here right now in this column in place of my incoherent prose, berate my ink for circling about my incongruities – attaching a limbless accusation to my accursed name, encircling the follies in red – colours of fidelity – to mark the indifference that would keep me from caring for my first child, the dead one I decided to resurrect with this blandly christened ‘poetry issue’.
Poetry has seldom been the issue in my case, having resolved to stick to my identity behind the camera instead – a quick medium that, my hubris would claim, has transcended its queasy analog days to transform into a medium immediate – that which manages to capture a spontaneous burst of emotion with twenty four times the fervor of a goddamned nib or a rickety typeset, perhaps even a beating heart?
And yet, as I keep returning to pagemaking and the pen, confusing transient forms with unlearnt lessons of the whole, marrying art-sets and words of fellow poets to infuse life into this dying child of mine, I keep reminding myself that poetry couldn’t prevent the undoing, if not causing it, when, in my humble opinion as a fallen editor, I needed her assistance the most. 
First Published in Issue Seven (Poetry Issue) of CultureCult Magazine