There has always been something so beautiful about the art of poetry that has led it to be drawn into analogies celebrating the very vision of all things striking and alluring, of all experiences that touch the heart, of all realisations that stir the soul. For poetry in motion to encompass the graceful rhythms of dance or for something as ‘luscious’ as what the word poesy refers to in synonymatic usage, the impact of this medium of literary expression of the most heartfelt emotions isn’t just anything wholly confined within the domains of the real, extending instead to an awareness nestled in transcendence, of something so inexplicable yet so essentially reverberating in every palpitation of the heart that renders it an euphoria in understanding, of which one feels always so enamored by, induced as if it were a trance like state of existence, where the words flow as ceaselessly as the feels, where the feel pervades every length of the account, in simplistic expression or in artistic rendition, in whatever intentions it stemmed of, yet holding its own all throughout in line and length and semantic interpretation of thoughts and desires, yielding therefore a power native to it that makes it coveted yet unreachable all at once, presenting as a wonderful continuity in contrasts that bathes the soul but in a blissful kind of blithe where you are not your own anymore, surrendering instead to this dynamic mode of expression of the most raw feelings ever, whether they stem of your own or stem to you in their universality sustained though in very private renditions of individual experience but still persisting in all empiricality, in a manifestation of the tremendous ‘life’ it incorporates to be a stirring form of not just art but also of experiences strictly rooted in reality.
Exercising therefore such hold with its immense realisation, be it in thematic truths or doe eyed dreams, both of which it effectively portrays, it then is very natural that poetry was never intended to be just a stream of words strung together with rhyme and reason, a literary device that would make celebrated poets and lucid lyricists an identity in their own but also a form of aesthetic expression and rhythmic resonance that harbours surprising potential to impact the vagaries of the human existence, so much so that poetry today is as much therapy as it is tales of the times. The natural rhythm in which poetry flows is what makes it so effective a way of self expression, that enables one to hold their own, in a way that is more cultural than lingusitic and therefore more essential than what is evident. As a form of bibliotheraphy, or more aptly as a wholesome expression of it, poetry therapy or this liberty accorded by the ballads to hold the soul and the spirit in sustenance of the forces that perpetuate life, this continuing fore of the library sciences affords therefore the bruised and battered human experience a convalescencing relief, one that tugs at the weary soul of the lesser mortal and directs him on to a greater path, one iridescent with the more cheery hues of the world, whereby the essence of life comes to assume a meaning that holds good not just for the one rescued but opens also the possibilities for many others like them of future times who would perhaps be subject to the same foibles arising from the unpredictable nature of life, in and despite all its futilities.
Perhaps part the luxury afforded by poetry as being a medium of expression that is capable of differenetial interpretation by different beings, each choosing to focus on what they want to derive from it, in resonance with the pathos and emotions of their own, is what makes it so ideal a therapeutic indulgence for souls. Indelible therefore is the impact of the world of poetry not only when you actually set about putting your own thoughts to paper, in what can be a purging of your innermost trauma, or even just a pouring out of your heart without the associated intensity of what is often discernible in any form of writing that seeks to be a peering exercise into the deepest entrenches of the soul, but also in the cathartic manner of its assertion over your mind, by virtue of reading the poesic explorations of others, the muses in which might be a stark representation of your person, through which you come to achieve a sense of comfort, peculiar in it being a shared source of emotion with someone you know nothing about, someone who might be a figment of the imagination, not even real therefore but not inconsequential at the very least, through which you experience a belongniness, a warmth residing in the knowledge that you are not alone, something so profound yet so underrealised until the time you desperately stark seeking out succour in, at times of life when this most precious of all entities seeks to defy all meaning and substance. It is in such exertions of the humankind, shared yet personal, in a space that feels like your own but also has been a common ground of perception for many others, each one as despaired as you, every single being struggling to come to terms with the perplexing maze of mysteries life has landed them in and fumbling all through trying to hold on to their own. In lending therefore a solace as a means of self realisation either through expression of the self or by exploring one’ s own self as dwelling in the soul of another, poet renders it so akin to the alliterative medium of its continuity in flair, poignantly deciphering patterns of existence that heal and restore, that are relaxing and comforting and at times even relieving. Flowing at times from deep anguish, at other times from forlorn awareness or at times still from happy prejudice in one’s plight, ironic as it may sound, poetry elevates the personal human experience into one that is more considerate of differing perspectives, fluid and flowing and seamless in its interpretation, influential but not coercive at the very least for a spin of the palpable in measures that always leaves you feeling that you are in a place better than where you previously had been.
And yet, despite all the complex mechanisms of its working, revealing in terms of eloquent grandiloquence, persisting through a certain way of words that only the gifted are seen capable of maneuvering through, poetry has always been infinitely simple. Because at the core of it all is the basic emotions that are so innate to every human, flowing as freely as one’s own thoughts that does not even need a language for elucidiation, churning up the realest of all feelings with consummate ease decipherable to anyone who manages to pick up the tone of the rhythm. In its utterly mindful premise that however unravels a wonder even in its purportedly mindless enedeavour to match up sounds, one with the other, the art of the poesy is one of the most indulgent ways for the soul to speak itself out. Poetry is acceptance of oneself, but so is it about empathy for others, the articulation with the worlds lending itself as well to the intellect as it drains away the burden of the emotional, as a means of explaining oneself even when they might not care any less to remain a mystery to the world, undeciphered and unsung in a uniqueness that still is only another means of the human solidarity of thoughts and existences.
Sensitive in understanding, profound in realisation, cathartic in creating and benevolent in being an effortless ebb of the emotions, apparentely dwindling in intensity but never any less potent, carrying along with it an honesty that is another form of therapy in itself, poetry helps one unwind along the path of life, seeking recourse in an alternative mode of existence that is benign but intense still, all for that one purpose of ambling along the course of this one time gift of all things wonderful. As a panacea of ills that plague the human mind to ultimately come to ruin the whole human experience, the medium of poetry rests forever on a bosom of blossoming beauties, of deciphering the meaning in existence, of unearthing the worthy explorations of life. And who better than one of the greatest poets ever in modern history to articulate this notion of the string of words being indeed an infuser of life in the most bland of existences? For someone rendered immortal by his thrust on beauty, as encompassed in his famous stich of ‘a thing of beauty’ being ‘joy forever’, the poet of beauty, of nature, of sensuosness, John Keats himself has been noted in acknowledging the power that poetry posesses.
In teaching the world the means to cure the distressed and the depressed by this sublime art of expression by invoking the healing power that lay within it, in true appreciation of the beauty in which every piece of poetry remains resplendent in, Keats eked out a parallel path of survival for the humankind sick from all the sufferings of the world. In recognising the poet as “a Sage; A humanist, Physician to all men”, this man who had such a flamboyant way with the words cemented rather the powers that are privy to poetry, himself being someone trained in medicine, Keats recognised the power of verses as far more effective in its therapeutic might than even the advances afforded by medical science. Healing even in its hackneyed assertion of reason, through means that are dreamy yet based on the more than real forces of the world, even when being something that ‘gets lost in translation’ and attained by ‘breathing in experience’ to ‘breathe out poetry’, the art of what shapes as poetry, in stillness or in motion, is what is still keeping the world sane in all its mad rush of eventual nothingness. To say that poetry is a form of therapy that could rejuvenate life would be an understatement of the magic unfurled by its beauty; it in fact is life that is just an extension of the many pulchritudes of the poesy.