Most of us lead such hectic lives that poetry comes so way below our list of priorities: somewhere between our dead dreams and disposable wishes, I guess. Whenever I read a poem I like, I can literally feel my soul soar above in the skies and breathe free. I leave the pollution and worries of everyday existence when I encounter a tiny poem. I feel free.
We don’t make time for poetry. And it is our loss. Reading and writing poetry is such a joy! Yesterday, I gifted myself a book of poems. It’s a tiny one called The State of Poetry by Roger McGough. I haven’t finished reading it yet, and I’m not even busy! I wanted to carry it to office so that I could finish it. It had to be stashed between Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie (which I promised to give a friend to read) and some chiffon salwar-kurta material (which I have to give for stitching sometime today). It did not take up any space at all! Maybe half an inch. Most of us don’t make time and space for that half an inch of poetry.
If only we did.