Reading through poetry I realize the vast greatness of our world.
My mind, like others is obsessed by a few things. My sexuality. Attempts, as I see them, for others to control what I am. But that is a very narrow world. It cuts short my sight, blackens and tightens all perception. It makes me feel constrained and held in. A prisoner of my own wrath.
But, there is so much more to my world, than the passion of my commitments. So much more than the validity of my beliefs, the blessings of my faith.
I am no big writer. Nor am I supremely gifted, as I would love to be. I love reading- trash it was at first. But now, I read poetry.
My mind is a kernel of thought that is tempted to expand. My heart swells with pride, and joy and the beauty of words. In poetry, a journey I take- of beauty, of love, of hurt. Of pain and gain, weird old meanings, and brassy shiny new meanings. With poetry, the dross in the world drops off, and, even when I pain, my mind is free. Even when I am bathed in mud, my mind soars.
I love reading. And I read a lot.
I have discovered, with a kind of amazement, that reading is like going on wondrous journeys, through landscapes of beauty.
There are soaring mountains. Few and far apart. There are humongous pits, and valleys, and bogs. Treacherous vistas. Beauty in a word, or words. Poor old ugliness, and that which would be ugly, but is so beautiful it must be sin. Words soar, and swoop, and glide; words are the medium of expression of small tender emotions, and soaring cruel reality. But they are. They in truth are.
For some, they are held in contempt. For some, in awe. For many, they are held scripture, to be revered, and crammed. For me, the living shard of soul of the poet lives even when my mind glides amongst them, touching the verse, commas, periods, like reeds in a swamp as I run through it. They whip back into my face, or slide away, swaying in the wind. They have a life all their own, that can never be denied.
Sometimes, they shrine ideas, and ideals. Sometimes, they are simple holy nonsense. All times they stand like water to my soul’s thirst, food for the hunger in my heart.
Sometimes, I forget all about them, only to turn back, to pick that which I had dropped.
Doesn’t matter, that I may drop off in the middle, or the end seek to touch. I come back.
Words indeed. They are the nectar of the gods. Poetry.