Poetry, Memories and Art

He walked past the meadows
He walked past the hills
He heard the sound of waves
And the whisper of the trees
He was in search
A search that sought him
Memories of the past
Memories of his beloved
Only memories remained
So did this poetry.

Poetry - an emotion of an imperfect soul that seeks the perfection of an outside world.
Poetry - an emotion that promises a false world.
Poetry - an emotion that intensifies the desire to attain the unattainable.
Poetry - an emotion of the lost that doesn’t want to be found.
Poetry - an emotion that’s everywhere, every time.
Poetry - an emotion that belongs to those who seek.
Poetry - an emotion that never dies.

Poetry cannot be destined to one definition. Its meaning is different for everyone. It changes with place and time. For some poetry could be weary or loss and for the others, poetry could be a happy song. However the oxford dictionary has defined poetry as ‘a literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm, poems collectively or as a genre of literature’

A professor once asked his student “what is poetry to you?”
The student is a vivid writer who sat under a tree every morning, writing as he breathes, writing poetry from his soul said: “Poetry to me is the phoenix of my soul that burns every time I write and is reborn until another time”.
The professor was surprised at an eccentric response. “So what is your fire? What makes your phoenix burn?” he asked.
The student kept quiet for a while and then he spoke: “the fire that burns within me are my memories.”

Just like poetry that forms itself from an emotion to a feeling and then to a desire, memories play a major role behind the curtains. What is it that makes a person so intense that he wants to write? It’s his memories. Memory walks and talks, memory lets out your emotion. Memory makes you write. Isn’t memory a powerful weapon amongst mankind?

Imagine a world without its memory of the past.
A world without feelings or emotions.
A world without empathy.
A world that knows nothing of poetry.
A world with chunks of meat walking past like robots without a soul.
Catastrophic!

Memory is what drives your emotions to poetry. Memory is the backbone of art. Without memory, you cannot trigger the phoenix of your soul. Without memory, there will not be a fire. Without memory its nothingness. A void of blank space.
With every pulse that beats, there’s a memory that awaits to be recollected.
But,
Doesn’t every good in this universe, have its dark side.
There are lost souls who wish they had no memory of their past who wishes to wash away their stain because memory to them is pain Memory to them is a taunting nightmare. Memory is the reaper. Memory is a death wish.

At the stroke of the midnight hour
I will rise
Watching a thousand splendid stars
And a moon by my windowsill
Then I will seek
Everything that reminds me of myself

Poetry is an art and so is memory. One leads to the other and they become one.