Words become fodder to a conscious man, fanning his existence in a myriad abysmal of language. If writing poetry is riding on snow, reading it is like floating in the labyrinth waters. And you emerge enormously quenched every time.
For all this while, I have considered poetry to be a gifted ventilation to pent-up emotions but only now i bring myself to believe, that it is a vagina of emotions. Inserting words, pushing words, producing life, through the lubrication of massive reading. Eventually experiencing motherhood, in your upbringing of verse.
Words sown by Yeats and Shelly blossom into embellishments of this other-worldly craft. Reading poetry is both reassuring and reconfirming to the rites of your expanding mind, as it's effect is purely psychosomatic.
It is mystical how a coat or a cat play the protagonist to a breath-taking piece of art, where poetry does it with utmost ease and matching eloquence.
What compels me to read poetry is it's mind-expanding, neural-healing capabilities. A poets takes you on a voyage of muse, culturally rich and historically enlightening. You scale the landscape of timeless beauty, vouching for unsung celebrities of life. It's when clouds become more deary than your folks. Not only you understand the genesis of nature, but also feel it's spiritual association, steering you to the state of divine ecstasy.
With every inkling you develop a faithful bond with your thoughts, revisiting them year after another. Just like a painting, poetry strokes the unbaked slices of your calibre, canvassing a picture of your inner-self. Both vivid and gleaming.
The nature of the medium is such that it allows you to be vocal and reluctant at the same time. Just when you digress in to the galaxy of metaphors, a comma lands you to the earthy finishing. Thankfully, there are no rules or covenants to compose poetry. It's freedom is captivated in your head.
A worthy aspect of poetry is its remarkable sing- a -song fluidity. Like a rivulet it flows across all shapes and forms.
Poetry by all means is an elixir to sky-high imagination and a catapult to massive soul-search or as Byron puts it:
"I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?"