A proud literati and arts enthusiast, I was fortunate to have been introduced to literature at a young age. And it clearly is a love I’ve nurtured and grown stronger over time. First reveling in the bliss of the words, and then creating my own. From an avid reader to a word artist.
And I’ve loved literature in all its forms. Prose, for its stories. Drama, for the characters. Yet, poetry has been my favorite.
Why poetry? I hear you ask.
Literature speaks to the mind. Drama to the heart. But poetry, to the soul. And if you ask me, the purest form of creating art with words. Of telling you, what you already know. Not in an informational, objective manner. But in a way in which the heart wants to listen. Almost akin to what the said about the spoonful of sugar making the medicine go down.
Everyone has their own definition of what constitutes good art. Mine is what stands the test of time, comes instilled with a sense of purpose,and makes you think. And poetry is no exception. In its truest form, poetry is an enricher. A savior. A comforter. And that’s why even today, when life hits hard, I seek refuge in either classics like Rudyard Kipling, Maya Angelou, or Robert Frost, or evergreens like Harivansh Rai Bacchan, Rumi and Kahlil Gibran, or even the more contemporary ones like Rupi Kaur, Nayyirah Waheed and Lang Leav.
And the reason I’m drawn to each one of them remains the same. The endearing quality of the words to uplift, inspire, heal, nourish and empower.
There are critics, and there are enthusiasts. I clearly belong to the latter. And while critics (or at least those who choose to call themselves that) will talk about poetry having died and lost its purity, I beg to differ. Art has this unique ability to adapt itself to meet the needs of the generation it caters to. From a time where poetry was composed with quills and written on parchment paper, to a time where the words are read on mobile screens. Art, in every form, is art. And in my world, from Shakespeare’s sonnets to Rupi Kaur’s instapoetry, they’re all welcome. For each one touches a different note, echoes a different chord of the soul. And as long as the soul exists, poetry shall stay. And not just stay, reign.