Poetry has been a part of literature since its inception. It has served as a counterpart to the drier form of writing, known as prose. Poetry involves writing in a way that makes it easier to appreciate beauty because beauty lies in the lines of any poem itself. All things in nature, and in our minds, are easier experienced by a poem. In a well written poem, not only does the poet explain his topic, but he also aims to evoke the exquisite feelings that he himself gets, when experiencing the topic.
The definition of a poem has undergone evolution alongside the evolution of man, from epics, long poems with flawless rhyme structure, to one liner snippets. But the constant among these diverse forms is the feelings it evokes in the reader.
Have you ever read a poem, and related your experience so much with it that you were flabbergasted? Has a line twanging with feeling, struck a chord within you, so much that you wonder if the poet was exactly like you? Have you ever read a poem, but no one really reads a poem, do they? We feel poems. Poems are feelings, written down on paper for the world to feel. They say that love makes a poet out of every man. I don’t know if that’s true, but isn’t there something so charming in that idea? That one might feel so much that it overflows, and spills on paper, creating a name for the poor, lovesick person?
I should hate to play favourites with the dearly beloved poets of yore, but by a narrow margin, Atticus would be my favourite poet. He belongs to that poorly represented class of Instagram poets, but unlike the usual pre-teen whining that generally passes for poetry on Instagram, this man is different. He eschews fame and recognition by appearing in public behind a mask, and goes by the pseudonym, Atticus. His identity is such a closely guarded secret, that no one in the whole wide web seems to know his real name.
His poems show signs of his beautiful soul behind them, and he writes about love, and nature, and the wild, in a way that resonates with the dreamer within us, and also so the caveman, for the raw, beautiful things he writes about, unites them both. He writes about the wildness of young love, and motorcycles, and Paris and it’s elegant decay. I think it safe to say that I have never been as awed by the splendour of the world, as I have when I see it through his eyes.
Most people have never written a poem in their lives, they’ve merely felt them. We all feel poems late at night, when we’re lying in bed, when sleep eludes us, and we feel a zing of something other coursing through our blood.
In the famous classic by Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne describes a poem, “There, down in the brook that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they’d been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it’s the most beautiful poem I ever saw.” That, in this humble author’s opinion, is an apt description of a poem.
By Krittika Roy