On Poetry
On Poetry
I came to find poetry in words
But poetry found me instead
Poetry is not just found in books
Dusty , 3rd Grade Memories of verses forced down our throats
In rhyming metered lines
Ready to sound so fine
Interpreted philosophically in class
Where blue curtains in a room could mean
A) The poet was feeling sad
B) The poet seeks the sky
D) You just realized that I skipped point C because
Poetry was taught to be forgotten an exam later.
But poetry was not meant to be shackled down
Poetry is alive
Poetry is everywhere
Because I see poetry
In sunrises and sunsets
Between the silver of the clouds
The moss shades of the mountains
Or the reds pinks and purple blushes of the city lined sky.
I see poetry in rivers
In fishes who babble like
That one year old's incoherent laughter
And toothless smile.
Or the lakes that stay still
Like that calm school teacher
Ever so forgiving
Who smiled like she knew how to harness
Storms behind smiles.
And love between the folds of her saree pallu
As she swished between benches unfolding
Minds to mathematics
Like it was no big deal.
Poetry is found in the quickening heartbeats
Of 12 year olds who feel the heady rush of crushes
Flooding their heads like wild horses with untamed manes rushing through their veins
Or the 80 year old who falls in love again
Knowing that this time
This. Just. Might. Be.it.
For the lovers who have learned to love once again
Poetry is still here
Poetry is in the jars of pickles mom makes at home.
Poetry moves mountains
Breaks walls
Shatters barriers
Builds castles out of miles
That I walk like a wanderer with
Only the sky for a roof.
Poetry is the sound of rain
On tin sheet roofs
shouting louder and louder
So you can be heard.
Poetry is edges of painting
And choosing beautiful frames for art
Poetry is the dips between my rib cages
And fullness of my flesh.
Too full to be contained in lines
Poetry is learning to love myself
Poetry is love.
Poetry is not love.
Poetry is war
Poetry is an entire country pouring into the streets in protest
Poetry is that lonely girl standing in the middle of the street.
At midnight
Her chin lifted defiantly
Through the million times
Words have been branded on her raw skin.
Poetry is falling asleep to his heartbeat.
Poetry is waking up to it.
Poetry is the mundane
Poetry is the being nude
Of soul
Skin shed on the floor
Like music is not all that you dance to.
Poetry is pure rhythm and beat.
Ready to break like earthquakes
Ready to grow like the wakening forests
Ready to flow like the river.
I came here to find poetry.
I found myself instead.