“I Should be Killed in the Dead of a Siberian Winter?”
I have been infected by poetry.
Poetry is the brightest celestial body ripping holes in the established cobwebs of your mind.
Late at night, just as I am closing my eyes and as I slip away into my dreams, I can hear those words of men, while I recline, sedentary, and think about the desert, I still only see the visage of windows, while I fade into dreams of lotus soap: immovable.
I can’t remember exactly when, but it must have been a horribly tragic day, when I proclaimed myself a poet.
Since that day, however, I have searched the shelves for anything I found appealing, and in this week’s Geek Out!, I went down to the Ped Mall and read some of my favorite poems aloud amongst the passers-by of a concluded Saturday.
Poetry offers something to everyone, and in reading, analyzing, and writing poetry, one can begin to understand the infinitesimal nuances of language: Illuminating life, emotion, and thought.
With a listen, you can take something, a single phrase, away from a single poem — and when a consonant catches your ear, let it linger and draw you into the nearest bookstore to its little poetry corner.
— by Colin Doherty
