The rhythmic gush of a poet’s mellifluous syllables stir the embers of our frail hearts. In human history, poetry’s invisible beat has spurred us into action and we have discovered the far and distant shores of enduring self-revelation.
But why? Why does poetry have this grip we cannot see, but holds us helplessly in its narrative? Whether with iambic pentameter or free verse, words, sometimes arcane, sometimes modern, fall into the depths of us and each time they hit they crack against something hard.
Why? Why does poetry shake us in this way?
The reason lies in the beginning, before we were born.
It was when we were nestled in the black of our mother’s womb and the slow systole diastole of her heart comforted us in warmth. And that was all we had before we could speak: that muffled rhythmic thud of sound.
And sound. And sound. And sound.
That’s why we can’t help, but be ensnared in loops of sounds made words and each time we hear the beat of poetry our soul swells as it remembers the first thud that comforted us in the dark and we know, we just know, that we’re finally coming home.