....from 'Poetry Splash!' e-zine Issue 017
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An article by: Arvind Passey.

Poetry is like the words in Lorca's DAYDREAMS OF THE RIVER:
The poplar groves are gone,
but they leave their reflection.
A poet essentially has to stare 'lovingly at the objects around him. He is
in no hurry.' There must be 'pleasure in carving small things or
describing worlds of reduced dimensions...' The mysterious beauty of life
and all that we see and feel comes from an intuitive urge to tell it all
to oneself. Some of us who write that description write nothing but poetry.
True poetry knows no form.
A verse is free.
Free to sing like a soprano or bleat like a sheep.
Free to roar or whimper.
Free to be easily understood or be elusive.
Free to preach or beg for understanding.
Free to silence or remain mute.
It is a verse that walks up to a poet -- any one of us -- and asks to be
expressed in words. Verses are helpless by themselves for they can only
sing in dreams. Even when shaped by words, verses find themselves mirrored
in myriad shapes, unrecognizable even to their own souls.
Jill's 'Black Country Cruise' or Saro's 'Sunrise' or Pablo's verses or any
other poem by any other poet could not have been given the shape they have
by anyone else...but each poem written, though an intuitive translation of
an experience cannot be translated back to that experience.
But no one loses.
Neither the experience nor the poem.
Neither the poet nor the reader.
Unconnected bits of truth and beauty form moments that connect a reader to
the poetry in life. These disjointed bits adopt a cohesive form which is
different for each one of us.
But all of us do have it in us.
The poet lives in every heart.