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?

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