Friday, 25 December 2009


What did you see when you read this title?  

Did you think that this is an impossibility, that all lives are full of problems, and to think otherwise is naive and deluded? 

Or did you notice that the real intended meaning lies hidden amongst the letters?

Read it again. The capital letters only this time.

For hidden beneath the problems which are inevitably a part of the human condition, of trying to exist in the temporal, physical, and spiritual world at the same time, is poetry. 

A life without PrOblEMS is no life at all.

And that is what makes us human.

You can't define poetry. You can't just summon up poetry unless there is a reason, and usually that reason is a feeling...a moment of pain or pleasure or insight or appreciation.

A word.
An image.
An emotion.
A frustration.
A contradiction.

You cannot describe poetry, just like you cannot describe love. It just is.

I have loved hours at sea, grey cities
The fragile secret of a flower
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour
First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.

Sara Teasdale

I don't know Sara Teasdale from Adam. But I do understand her....somehow....for in a few words, she gave me heaven for an hour.

I have no idea why she wrote this, or when. I do not know if she was beautiful, or old or young....whether she had a happy and complete life or one that was full of regrets, of chances not taken, of hours of pain alleviated only by few sublime moments. I only know that she can feel, and that she can tell others about it. I know that she can tap into my spirit, if only briefly.

We leave little behind us in life. A few friends. A family if we are lucky. Memories that quickly die. We can leave words however, and the right words can live on forever. 

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