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I don't write poetry.

A mom of an elementary school student asks me over a discussion- 'So, just how do you teach poetry?'

Me- ' Ummm, teach? '

Mom- 'Yes, you write poetry but how do you teach poetry to elementary school students?'

Me-  'Ummmm...I don't think poetry can be taught, poetry is lived.'

You see, they say poetry is  born to an overactive right hemisphere,
To me, poetry is born in moments... fragile and fugacious.
Moments when the pain and despair,
magically give rise to hope and strength,
when shattered pieces of trust and promise,
bleed and brave together,
That very moment, poetry is born.
Moments when your eyes swallow two tiny rivers,
And fake a smile which says it none,
A silent scream which pierces the ears,
A deafening silence which nails the soul,
Poetry belongs to these very voices.

To engage with the glitterati, with your  fake branded attire,
The lipstick you picked up from the somebody's bag,
The heels that are sore as you stand tall,
Trying to hide the  torn sandals behind the overflowing borrowed gown,
and pretend as if all is well,
poetry comes to unite you with who you are.

In the mad race that we all run,
Without a thought or a purpose defined,
Breathless, enervated and defeated
When we ask ourselves- 'why do I run?'
Poetry lends a shoulder, to pause and rest,
Revitalized we run again,
This time the race is ours, the path is ours and the journey too.

You see, poetry doesn't belong to the right or the left,
Poetry is nestled safely within,
The eyes that see others dreaming, failing, rising,
The hands that bleed but hold on tight to never let you fall,
It  is deeply etched in the writings of those,
who know what it means to have it all,
who knows, what it means to lose it all,
who see themselves in others life story,
Gladly becoming one with what the other suffers.

Poetry is love...unadulterated,
It is hope undiluted and faith unquestioned,
A relationship undefined, a yearning infinite,
Poetry is respect that you honor yourself with,
Peace... you bestow to your being.

Poetry gyrates to the melody of hurt,
Rejoices in the thirst of burns,
Poetry is empty in abundance and overflows in the drops that sparkle,
Fades when it shines too bright, glitters as rubies when it is too dark.
Poetry is not taught, poetry is lived,
the way you live life, the way life lives you.

Mom- 'So , do you teach them all this?'

Me- 'No, I tell them to live... live well, live with openness and acceptance... to people and experience, to revel in the happiness that showers on life and the valuable failures that sink the heart. I just ask them to open their arms and let it all come... without judgments, apprehensions or discrimination. Let it all come.'


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