For a long, long time, the beauty of poetry and that particular verbal form has been haunting me consistently. Though the idea of words being arranged in a certain pattern, like a puzzle, in rhyme or rhythm, or sometimes though devoid of both, pouring in streams as strings of powerful, passionate, sensible or sensitive words, has always been evident, the realisation of the true meaning and the real understanding of it (thoroughly) is a different kind of high.

A few years ago, I read one beautiful poem of A. E. Hoseman, Is My Team Ploughing, and my heart was strangely moved. It keeps on echoing in my mind. When a dead man was enquiring about his fields, football teams, his love, and his friends is an epitome of human reflection in words. I’ll paste the poem here, try that:

“Is my team ploughing,
   That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
   When I was man alive?”

Ay, the horses trample,
   The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
   The land you used to plough.

“Is football playing
   Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
   Now I stand up no more?”

Ay the ball is flying,
   The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
   Stands up to keep the goal.

“Is my girl happy,
   That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
   As she lies down at eve?”

Ay, she lies down lightly,
   She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
   Be still, my lad, and sleep.

“Is my friend hearty,
   Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
   A better bed than mine?”

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
   I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
   Never ask me whose.

- Is My Team Ploughing, A. E. Hoseman

How beautiful was that? And when I started to read poetry now and then, for novel being the prime priority for reading, every simple poem read moved my heart violently than whole of huge books. Slowly, but consistently, Rumi, the Sufi saint-poet has become a patronizing figure for me, imbibing in his little poems larger than life messages. An excerpt from his poem “Where did the handsome beloved go?” is below. No one can say, I guess, that their heart isn’t moved:

My tearful eyes overflow like a river — 
That pearl in the vast sea, where did he go?

All night long, I implore both moon and Venus — 
That lovely face, like a moon, where did he go?

If he is mine, why is he with others?
Since he’s not here, to what “there” did he go?

If his heart and soul are joined with God,
And he left this realm of earth and water, where did he go?

Tell me clearly, Shams of Tabriz,
Of whom it is said, “The sun never dies” — where did he go?


- "Where did the handsome beloved go?", Rumi.

After being touched by such beauty, after being bewitched once, how can one turn back and forget? How can one satisfy himself with other ruminations of life? Would the daily trifles and popular opinions drift us away?

One morning, I was randomly going over beautiful poems of English language and stumbled upon a poem written by William Wordsworth. That’s a poem about Rainbow. Just a simple rainbow. He says he likes it so much, and would like till the end. Check out “My Heart Leaps Up”.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

- My Heart Leaps Up, William Wordsworth.

In the above piece, Wordsworth says “The Child is father of the Man,” and what piece else can meet the standards of thought and feeling imbibed in that one line, and in that piece altogether?

Huh! Many more beautiful pieces of poetry are littered here and there, and I wish to be a collector of beautiful pieces and share them with you. Finally, I want this to be a return-to-blogging statement!

People, let’s find the beauty in words, together!