Poetry is something which has been always close to my heart. I liked reading it in my school. It soothes the heart and the joy is to really understand the hidden meaning. You need to read between the lines and that’s the challenge but I enjoy it the most.
It feels like a mission accomplished when I actually understand the meaning of such lyrical pieces. Calmness fills my heart at that exact moment.
I also remember when I exactly started writing poetry. The first poem which I wrote was during an extra free period in standard IX. Actually, Ranjana mam (my maths teacher) inspired me to write that poem. She herself used to write and as far as I remember, she was the first person who read that and inspired me to write more by saying that ‘it is really good. You should write more’. Ah..sweet Nostalgia!
I don’t really know much about poetry forms and technicalities but I know, I enjoy writing them. I never remember my own lines. So, if you ask me to narrate my own poem, I can’t do it even though I have written it 5 minutes back. I just can’t remember the lines.
I sometimes gift hand-written poems to people who are very important and close to me. So, by any chance, if you get a poetic piece on paper, scribed by me, you should know that you have a special place in my heart.
There was one particular poem which I remember reading and re-reading when I was a kid. I read it now also. That piece is IF by Rudyard Kipling. I am quoting the whole poem here in case you want to have a read.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.
This is my relationship with poems. What’s yours?