Once when I was young, I found a book of collected poetry of W.B. Yeats. I took it out of the shelf of my nana’s home and kept it with me. I tried to understand the context of the poems but I failed to fathom their meaning. 

I have always wondered why professional poems are often so complex. Perhaps because a lot has to be said in a few words. And generally, to understand any good book of poetry you have to have the knowledge of the context in which the poet has written the poems.

So that books of Yeats stayed me for a few years but I couldn’t gather interest or inclination or understanding to read and fathom it. Now that book is not with me but I recently rediscovered the joy of reading and comprehending poetry.

I bought a book called “When God is a traveler” by Arundhati Subramaniam. She is an acclaimed poet and I was amused by the title so I bought the book.

The poems in the book are not easy to comprehend but when I read a poem from the book and am able to fathom its meaning, it gives me sheer joy unsurpassable. Such is the magic of poetry.

Poetry is bliss sublime,

decant from the spaces,

between words,

of meaning and remembrance,

to heart’s permeable vessel

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Nalin

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