Isn’t that what poetry is like?
By Aamyneh Mecklai
You asked me what poetry was like
And while I dug into semantics, anaphora, maybe a fixed rhyme
I was forced to wonder:
What is poetry really like?
An interplay, I finally decided
it’s like finding words
to match the rhythm you just provided
It may make sense
It may not
It may feel intense
And sometimes, you’ll be left with—wait, what?
It’s funny, I wondered
how words
arranged or disarranged in mysterious ways
have whiffed
like bengan ka bharta from Sunday
or flustered
like the black dress which felt risque
or liberated
like stretching my palms into wet clay
You asked me what poetry was like
they’re the words to an unsung song
they’re the lyrics you don’t recite along
But in my mind all that did strike
were the
whiffs
flusters
liberations
that an anonymous poet had supplied
words to an unsung song
lyrics we don’t recite along
once in a while
a poem’s incomprehensibility
can frustrate
like the shoelace that keeps going untied
once in a while
a poetic meaning
can thrill
like winning on the last and final strike
because ultimately
Isn’t that what poetry is like?
