Poetry and Me

Most of the time, it brought me sheer pleasure. Sometimes, it brought me disquieting, indescribable feelings that only I could very well comprehend. To put these feelings into a deeper perspective, I express them into words that most people could not grasp but clearly illustrate the hindsight of my existence.

“What will I be without it?” is a question I wouldn’t dare entertain. For I know that mainly thinking of it would cause me pain.

A lot of people had appreciated its beauty but I do think that they relished it only superficially. Because behind the beauty of poetry are hidden messages that only the poet could very well empathize with although the readers could put so much meaning to it.

Poetry is like casting a stone on the ocean. It will cause ripples on its first touch, and as it is surrounded by the ocean’s immensity, the stone is bound to go deep. And the more you are entangled by its artistry, the more you are immersed until you get lost in its beauty.

And so I live with it. At times I feel like I cannot do without it. And even though some of my friends say that, “Poetry only makes people harder to understand,” I would like to always be part of it.

Then maybe, I’ll know why Sylvia and Anne had the greatest compulsion to kill themselves and be considered as one of the most sought after poets of all time. Or why E.E. Cummings had to disengage from the conventions of society and be well known for his avant-garde innovations, controlling both the looks and content of his poems.

Or maybe then, I will be able to understand why I keep on reading other people’s poems and not my own!

“…and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing…”