The Hamlet-century has begun. The ‘not-to-be’ is, for sure, the surety. Impending too. The struggle for ‘to-be’ is the only way out. After the murder of a Duncan at the behest of an urge for ‘to-be’, after the sacrifice of a Desdemona at the pretext of a ‘not-to-be’, a despot will go mad caught in a storm at the Heath crying:
As flies to wanton boys are
we to the gods.
Gods? Which Gods? Those that we have created: our own Frankensteins!
Beyond that is the Tempest and beyond that is the isle of Enchantment. Poetry passing through all these downs and downs wistfully craves for ‘to-be’ in that enchanted abode, to belong to it, to be oned with it. ‘What philosophers think about, we poets moon about’-wrote someone. It is not for mooning about but also for sunning for that the world all the more than ever before needs POETRY. If religion has not replaced religion, if science has not replaced science, then poetry ought to replace religion, poetry ought to replace science. Let it be the religion. Science, too. A pinch of poetic spirit in all that man does and is will make the earth a better place for love. To live in.
Since poetry is intuitive imagination performing itself, itself a vision it realises nothing but itself. As a lonely child in a lonely room–when the parents go out on work and the ayah (maid) busies herself in the kitchen so common in today’s metros–plays with himself, talks to himself knowing nothing as to what he is talking, what he is playing, poetry, too, plays with itself in a lonely chamber, talks with itself and knows nothing as to what it is playing with, as to what it is talking and to whom. The parents have gone out. The foster mother is in the kitchen. How the living toy can be de-linked from toying!
It is this child called poetry that the Acdemy intends to address to. The Academy serves as a chink to peep through and have a glimpse of the child toying with himself. The ayah is in the kitchen. Out have gone the parents.