POETRY COMES ALIVE - BY AMBER BLUE

Poetry is an orphan abundant by the silence and yet it thrives through the odds until it stumbles upon on the pages of a poet. For me, poetry is the manifestation of water and pray tell me why not, for I have seen poetry to reshape itself in the shape of the container in which it is and metaphorical might I sound for what a mind of a poet is if not a vessel of thoughts filled to the brim! 

As poetry comes frolicking on your pages, the reek of silent emotions caged within the heart vamoose, plethora of chaos begin- chaos that make the heart skip a beat, chaos that unveil your reflection that you were oblivious about- "chaos that come from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow."

Only a poet shall see the agony of the fallen snow or the sacrifice of the withered leaf, only a poet shall capture the phenomenal rendezvous of the dried petal with the rain, or shall make amends in how the stars rule the night in the ataraxy. 

The poetry finds the lost- it finds the last breath of the elephant you just killed, it finds the last subtleties of love between two lovers you just separated for reasons we are not allowed to talk about, it finds the ashes of the forest you have just put on fire, it finds the screams of the woman you just slaughtered, it finds the fears you tailored into a child, it finds your darkness that somehow gets leashed. Poetry finds it all - the deepest sorrow and the unshed tears!  But ohh!! poets are not allowed cry for they bleed on paper.

We may often try to blend our poems with rhymes that perhaps create the throb but when have poems followed rules? poetry just needs to touch somewhere your hands couldn't- the heart. Some do realizes the beauty of the dawn and the melody of the twilight but then there are some who paint them in a poem, well, the irony is whether or not we sync with euphonies of the poetry, we 'are' the poets in an indecipherable way because in the end we all live the poetry that we couldn't write.....