By S. K
Fri, 03, 24

Wordsworth (1771–1850) famously called poetry “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.”


Poets on poetry

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) wrote in an 1870 letter: If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Coleridge (1772–1834) claimed that poetry equals “the best words in the best order.” He characterized it as “that synthetic and magical power, to which we have exclusively appropriated the name of imagination.”

Wordsworth (1771–1850) famously called poetry “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.”

Shelley (1792–1822) joyfully called poetry “the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.”

Rain of emotions

By Umair Rehman

In a hut, a symphony of quiet grace

A poet´s heart finds solace in a serene embrace Evening´s grace on a solitary path of silence

The downpour of feelings in poetic rain yield violence

The droplets tiptoed upon my feet

In the moonlit dance, nature greet

I closed my eyes, a canvas for thought

Beloved´s memory, for which I sought

Alone and without a feathered friend

For sharing secrets, joy´s droplets blend

Let the rain cleanse the spirit, wash away pain

A downpour of feelings, like a gentle rain


By Esha Bakht

O come over, the lovely day of spring

When butterflies flutter

And children splutter

What joy it brings.

O come over the flowery day of spring

When flowers blossom

And birds sing awesome

Tunes in their flight or nesting.

I am awed to see

The beauty of spring

That is the joy it brings

The butterflies fluttering wings

And the sweet melody a bird sings.

Glass half empty

By Amna Ameer

I let the lies

Lay with me comfortably

I piled them up

Like clean laundry

As if I didn’t want to notice

The stains that are permanent

They say you can’t love the unloved

Or embrace the tarnished

With a naive intent

You must always gauge

The weight you ought to carry

But I am not the rolling stone

That carries no moss

Neither the sun

That finally broke off

And took its trajectory

Way across

A horizon

That still wasn’t enough

To keep me

So like a caged bird

That finally stops

I gave up my walls

I tried not to fight anymore

The bridges that had burnt

Were a lesson

To stop finding a way home

And the spring that came

Only mattered

For a few frivolous moments

My heart had already

Submerged in the aging jars

Of melancholy

Sometimes surrendering

And loving

Both look the same

Only few know what it’s like

To slowly die each day

Trying to live

According to someone else’s will

Sometimes I look at myself

And barely recognise

What I’ve become

Shadow of my words

An echo of a sad poem

Sometimes I crack

And smile

With deep moroseness

I wish I wasn’t here

That this life wasn’t mine

These pages belonged

Somewhere else

This pain wasn’t this despised

And yet,

I must wake up


To this funeral

That rises each morning

And the mourning

Continues till late at night

Somehow I was meant

To keep a secret

A lie of a life lived

And was meant to name it


When in reality

It’s all empty

Compiled by SK