heart & soul spill – poetry

Brittanica defines poetry as literature that evokes a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience or a specific emotional response through language chosen and arranged for its meaning, sound, and rhythm.

_{Please click here for more from this series! It’s also an open tag if anyone would like to write their own take on it!}

“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
― Leonardo da Vinci

cherished firsts and fleeting scraps of thoughts;
these kindred words – dear, are they
for bitter freedom do I hold when they depart.

veiled sight and crumbled scribbles,
chronicling hazy childhoods with
cherished firsts and fleeting scraps of thoughts;

tales of adventures and sonder mysteries –
a haven for confused souls were
these kindred words – dear, are they

which time gazes upon with benevolence
while I linger for a moment or two,
for bitter freedom do I hold when they depart.

Photo by Yulia Ilina on Pexels

Beneath the night sky, with starlight bouncing off the walls, trees, and nocturnal critters; the world shimmers with a delicate, silvery glow radiating memories of all things sweet and beautiful, with perhaps a hue of sadness. When the sun sets and souls rest, when the music flows uncontrolled, in a friendly rage, overwhelming the grand silence of the night, it’s poetry that I think of, see, and wish for.

“I hope to write like that one day,” I say every time I read a poem. Poetry flows and seeps into people; it makes you pause, read the words and watch how they sound when recited aloud and see how they bleed into the next and close your eyes, to see what the writer possibly saw when they wrote something so gorgeously divine.

There are times when I’m walking along a street, choked with people, drenched in noise and brimming with stories, when I see a person, graffiti or even a car and think, “That is poetry right there.”

It’s the most splendid of all human constructs. Open to interpretations and glorifying the core of humanity, poetry has got this subtle hold over hearts and minds, a silent touch, a warm embrace that disperses images and thoughts – some so incredibly and wildly imaginative, exploding with colours and screaming in one’s thoughts – it’s hard to comprehend all of it was caused by a few mere words on a blank page.

Photo by Yulia Ilina on Pexels

Poetry is the wonderful form of expression it is, because it personifies honesty more than anything else does. Poetry is human and personal and authentic and soulful, and the originality of it all is so refreshing in a world where illusions of perfection thrive on the flaws that give them meaning.

I can’t resign myself to the notion that poetry is merely a group of words simply because I don’t believe it is. I think anything can be poetry – a colour, a flower, or simply, a word. The core of poetry, I think, lies in how one perceives beauty, and to me, a thing of beauty, while a joy forever in John Keats’ words, is also what births the soul of poetry.

An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
― A Thing of Beauty, John Keats

When the world goes to its rest and all is young and green, it is poetry that I think reigns human existence at its most rawest, vulnerable root — poetry that spreads dreams of hope, poetry that sustains life, and most of all – poetry that gives purpose. I cherish the day I wrote my first poem, for it was the day I had my first brush with joy that heralded freedom.

Photo by Valentina Ivanova on Unsplash

“A good head and good heart are always a formidable combination. But when you add to that a literate tongue or pen, then you have something very special.”
― Nelson Mandela

Thoughtfully yours,
D

Source: The Skeptic’s Kaddish

The poem in this post was written in response to the Wea’ve Written Weekly; W ³ poetry prompt hosted by David @ The Skeptic’s Kaddish. This week’s prompt given by Punam Sharma was to ‘Write a poem in ‘Cascade’ form on the theme of ‘Freedom’ and to use personification in it.’

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