A Sudden Poetic Catharsis

Taken 11th of June 2010 in Paoay, Ilocos Norte PH



It was one of those boring days in the office. You are engaged with what you are doing yet you are not. You know what I mean!

In an attempt to get through the day, we managed to carry one conversation to the next until I popped a question which is totally irrelevant to what has been previously munched on. Out of nowhere I blurted, “Who is your favorite poet?”

"Pablo Neruda!", said aloud. I instantly remembered how it felt like reading “If You Forget Me”; then , Rabindranath Tagore struggled to get out of my stream of consciousness. The latter was, indeed, closer to my heart.

To say that I enjoy reading his poems is an understatement. I savor the words, my mind moves with its rhythms and transports my body to its own world in an almost magical way – just like what any poem does to its captured reader. I remember reading his poems aloud, recording my own voice and how listening to it puts me to sleep after - a brief cosmic experience.

What happened to the lovers of today? Since when has writing poems for someone became such an archaic idea? Why does getting one attract derision?  What has happened? Where have all the innate poets within us gone?

Poetry appeals to all the senses especially to the one who understands its powers and mystery; and to the one who has written one.

Poetry is beauty. I hope that technology stays just a mere choice we make every day; that we won’t ignore something that has always been there in all of us – beauty of words. God is a God of beauty and He has given us remarkable ways to express that beauty. Even the Bible is an overflowing poetry.

Poetry can sweep you off your feet. You just have to let it.

Sharing a favorite poem from Rabindranath Tagore:

The Gardener XXVIII: Your Questioning Eyes

Your questioning eyes are sad.

They seek to know my meaning as the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end,

with nothing hidden or held back.

That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem,

I could break it into a hundred pieces and string
them into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and
small and sweet,

I could pluck it from its stem to set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved.
Where are its shores and its bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom,

still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy smile,

and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears,

reflecting its inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless,
and endless its wants and wealth.
It is as near to you as your life,

but you can never wholly know it.