Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand" – Plato
"Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful" – Rita Dove
The once-great power of poetry that many poets held are now gone entirely. It is 2120. The year where the beauty of one's words in a lyrical form have been abolished by the government. Poets' great and wise thoughts in their magnificent minds like an everlasting light have been extinguished entirely.
But how did it all happen?
Between the years 2100 to 2120, there were continuous uprisings against the government due to the political clashes between the people and the all-ruling government – the revolutionaries believed that an idealistic world without the government could happen successfully.
I remember the first uprising I witnessed which was in Piccadilly Circus in 2106. There was a never-ending stream of people of all ages who were crowded at the popular tourist attraction. Being pushed back and forth further into the bustling crowd, a line of police officers with riot shields approached the protesters, shouted at them to stand down or they would risk being arrested.
At that time, the uprisings were in full swing which had already caused the deaths of thousands – including police officers, revolutionaries and innocents – hence the heavy protection armour. The threat of arrest was empty as none of the angered revolutionaries cared if they got arrested because, if anything, it helped show their cause for change.
That was the first time I had a panic attack. The feeling of your chest tightening as though your lungs were caving inwards, leaving you breathless. My head was spinning uncontrollably as my battered white converse were frozen firmly to the ground.
What would be seen as ironic if I knew what I now know, I started reciting poetry as something for my panicked mind to focus on. Great words of poetry from classics like Plato and Romantics like William Blake flowed from my mouth seamlessly as my hands gradually stopped shaking.
If it was not for poetry, the chance of me getting out of that hostile situation with the imminent threat of arrest would have been little to none – and I would have been arrested simply for freezing up and being unable to move – seeming guilty of defying our nation.
But that comfort is now gone.
In a time of détente after several years of gruelling turmoil with the uprisings, the government were desperate to maintain peace within society. The uprisings did not end successfully for the revolutionaries and the 20 years of continuous fights against the government resulted in no positive change.
It made everything worse as the government began to launch full-scale home invasions and arrests of those suspected to be anti-government (even with little evidence). In their eyes, this was a reasonable safety net to help maintain their control and, therefore, societal stability. However, and rightly so, the people were enraged by their actions but they were soon silenced.
Those who were imprisoned never came back.
They just disappeared.
After a series of repetitive news bulletins showing multiple arrests and anti-government home invasions, the bulletins stopped.
Not because the home invasions and arrests with no evidence stopped.
But because the news agencies were banned.
It was soon after the banning of news agencies that all poetry and poets were forbidden as well. This was due to the vibrant graffiti of key poems on government property that suggested another revolution would occur with the great, wise and provoking words of poets as their inspiration.
Now, if I was caught writing this account, especially with specific references to poets, I would be for sure damned and outcasted from British society with the giant label of 'TRAITOR'. But everything that these poets have said is true.
Shortly after the British made poetry illegal and punishable, the rest of the world followed its lead. Children in schools across the world were no longer exposed to the beauty of poetry, its craft and the fabulous minds before it.
Unfortunately, my generation is the last generation that learnt about poems of war, love, peace and tragedy. Even more unfortunate is the fact that most of my generation decided to forget that they were ever introduced to the beauty of poetry. But not me.
"A world without poetry and art would be too much like one without birds of flowers: bearable but a lot less enjoyable" – Aberjhani
Life and society practically continued as usual after the government banned poetry. However, there were some elements of society that seemed a little duller and a lot less enjoyable.
Shortly after the ban, the school curriculum had to change for English. Instead of studying and analysing the meanings behind some of the greatest poems and poetry, students now learnt about novels that praised the government and their ways. Education now basically teaches pupils how to be 'perfect little government supporters' so they could be the future generation of traditional politicians.
What is a 'perfect little government supporter' you may ask?
Well they are the future generation who are incredibly pro-government. They are non-aggressive, their minds are empty of creativity like an artist's blank canvas and they are completely oblivious to poetry. To the government, they are perfect because they understand the true importance of government rule and are not 'clouded' by the supposedly wrong words of poets. To me, they are like Mutes with no beautiful minds, with no freedom to speak.
Aberjhani was right. The world now without poetry is dark, dull and devastating. There is no beauty. There is little to no freedom of speech. There is nothing.
Just like in the 1920s in the Prohibition era, illicit underground businesses, similar to speakeasies were established where you could read banned poetry. Everyday afterschool, I would visit one of my local ones, which was located at the back of a music store that, from the outside, appeared to be a storeroom. But in the inside, it was much different.
Old shelves lined each burgundy wall with anti-government books and poetry anthologies neatly organised in alphabetical order and in genres. I was a kid in a candy shop every time I went as I used to compile 10 anthologies onto one of the rickety desks that I would sit and read on for hours and hours.
The man who ran this poetry speakeasy was Albert Forest – a 50 year old musician and poet – fortunately for him, as he did not publish any of his poems before the ban, he was not recognised as an enemy of the state. He was quite simply my idol, he would sit with me for long periods of time and discuss the fantastic techniques of the Romantics like Shelley, Blake and Wordsworth – always with a butter mint in his mouth.
Mr Forest's place was a place of safety for me. I was a regular and he was somewhat like a wise grandfather to me.
That is why it hit me so hard like a punch to the gut when the town gossip spread that he was imprisoned and the poetry speakeasy was ruthlessly ransacked in the middle of the night, just a few hours after I had left. In that moment, my hatred for the government grew even more as they took away the one person and the one place that made me feel as though I was truly home.
The same day, after school, I found my heavy eyes staring emptily at the mess of the ransacked poetry speakeasy – my home. Pages of the anthologies were ripped and strewn across the floor with the shelves that once stood tall broken. I still remember how heavy my heart felt that day as nothing whole remained, except from Mr Forest's golden spectacles that sat delicately on the floor. The only bright and glimmering object in the destroyed dark room.
The only remnant I took of Mr Forest that I still keep to this day were his golden spectacles that used to sit on the tip of his crooked nose when he read poetry to me whilst sucking on his signature butter mint. A part from that, I could not have anything else in my possession as it would have been used against me to send me to prison where I would never return – just like Mr Forest.
To this day, poetry is still banned. The younger generations are clueless about the beauty of poetry that I am aware of.
For me, 2120 will always be the year beauty left the world.
The year that took my safety away.
The year that took away the one person I could relate to.
The year that everyone was silenced.
Although I am still fuelled with rage and anger after what happened to Mr Forest, I am still silenced like the rest of my generation.
Perhaps then, without me even realising, I am a 'perfect little government supporter'.