I had seen this poem on a poetry poster years ago,

sparking that curiosity of poetry…

 

“And it was at that age…
poetry arrived
in search of me, I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from,
from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
No, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence,
But from a street I was summoned,
From the branches of night,
Abruptly from the others,
Among violent fires
Or returning alone,
There I was without a face
And it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
Had no way
With names
My eyes were blind,
And something started in my soul,
Fever or forgotten wings,
And I made my own way,
Deciphering
That fire
And I wrote the first faint line,
Faint, without substance,
Pure nonsense
Pure wisdom
Of someone who knows nothing,
And I suddenly saw
The heavens unfastened
And open
Planets,
Palpitating plantations,
Shadows perforated,
Riddled
With arrows, fire and flowers,
The winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
Drunk with the great starry void,
Likeness, image of mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
Of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
My heart broke free on the open sky.”

~ Pablo Neruda, Selected Poems

 

That curiosity for poetry followed me through this tale...