I see the world from my own world, and I guess that could be a little self-seeking for some, but I am a poet and that, in itself is peculiar. To me, words speak their own dialect, and even though words are the foundation of language, basis for communication, they have a voice of their own. They carry sounds, textures, echoes, sacred meanings and emotions, farther away than the obvious.
Poetry is the expression of beauty in language. There are mysteries in verses, messages and in each vibration that we capture coming from a pronounced word, in which when written, or read, there is magic, which if left undiscovered causes us to miss a Universe of magnificence.
People in general live lives using a language filled with hateful expressions. From the way they seem to relate to co-workers and/or daily life to the way they see themselves. And that attitude of discontent is transmitted to home, where children see and learn that parents aren’t happy about life. That way new words enter their mouths. Media has its own responsibility, of course, and we could talk about that for many pages in this article.
When violence runs through the streets of our cities, and war destroys bodies and souls throughout our planet, those valuable words tell me of bones and sorrows. I build burrows in them, and I shelter myself in the hope that somehow the pain that the others, those suffering the loss, would feel my solidarity, and my compassion through my words.
I ask myself, though, what is the solution for this terrible problem of war and suffering, for the conditions in the world and the lack of peace? Our world is in constant turmoil and it has been for thousands of years. History books are a testament to that. Countries derive all the excuses necessary to invade each other, to appropriate the wealth of another sovereign nation, in the name of many things, including, most ironically, peace. Revolutions occur as if in spontaneous generation. Drug cartels seem to write the laws in many parts of the world. We all know the problems. Do we know the solutions?
When I write a poem, I don’t plan it, never. Every time, the words simply come to me, they stop me in the middle of my chores, during my sleep, or they simply board me in a thought. A poem is as a tempest, it comes and takes over me, over my body and my emotions, and the words write themselves. I let them say whatever they want to say. I couldn’t dictate, or plan, not to poetry.
I wonder, if we let peace do that, what would happen to our world. If we allow the basic and yet most important things to take over, without imposing our rules, our “stop signs”. Love wants to prevail, we know it, we feel it every day, “love is in the air”, we like to say, and it’s true. Our society has become so overrun by our own rules, our own greed, our own desperation for ‘more’, that we forget the joy in the essentials and digress into hateful beings. World peace begins with each one of us, with the way we see ourselves and interact with the group around us, the way we treat the people in our most immediate surroundings. Perhaps eliminating hurtful words from our vocabulary such as “hate” could help? Perhaps if we hate less and love more?
The solutions seem simple to a very complex problem, but the truth is that they are more complex than the problem, because love and understanding are concepts difficult to compare to war and hate. Now we are all in this world that becomes smaller, and we seem to be using a more common language these days, technology. Maybe, who knows, we will be able to transmit love in a faster and more efficient speed and let those in power know that we do not want war and suffering. Poetry has the same message. Our hands are filled, our eyes see, and our hearts beat at the rhythm of the same song: we are one humanity, one Universe of verses.
Poetry is her name
Rain came from their voice
Brought sounds of soft colors
Details of leaves
From an eternal forest
Giving us love in plenty
Vessels
Now we are hoping for more
A new rainbow
A new moon
Branches flourishing in our eyes
When it’s summer
In December
Peace is born from our own hands
Attached to our fingers
Delicate gift of petals
As offerings
Poetry is her name
© All rights reserved. Author Marcela Villar M. 2014
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