Poetry has its Seasons

The heart has its seasons …

A soul of spring and rain …

A mind of wonder and reasons …

I shall not live in vain

Laura Simoes

Nestled deep in the soul is the congruent manifestation that poetry has its seasons; it is the conjecture which irrigates the irrefutable entrenched momentum that the soul is a grandiose placement that harbors the seasons of poetry.

Poetry mitigates the intricate splendor by opening its ornate osmosis to pragmatic indulgence, reviving seasons of the heart and soul, which embraces its survival and empirical endurance, its buoyant equilibrium and its immaculate surrender, from poet to poet … a veneration that permeates the epiphany of its metamorphosis.

Poetry and its seasons indulge the heart and soul in a microcosm, unique with each poet, mystifying a profound soul-searching liaison with the poet’s mind, endeavoring to resonate its clearly delineated doctrine of poetic assertion, its illustrious sentiment and its insatiable appetite to ascertain that which nestles its seasons … an inordinate intrusion in a poet’s belief.

An inherent appreciation of poetry and its seasons modestly exemplifies the non-judgmental likeness to the seasons of nature, along with an understanding of nature’s form and potency. Akin to nature, poetry and its seasons has the dynamic stimulant to empower a poet with imaginable skill. A poem’s archetype beholds creativity at its zenith, dexterously arabesque in its form … and triumphant in its rhetoric of reaching out to touch another’s heart and soul … enamored with intense ammunition to unleash a myriad of feelings to the reader. Ultimate power is the poet’s novelty, be a neophyte or an ingrained writer.

Poetry and its seasons bestow a place in the heart and soul of a reader. The incubation period of such place is rhythmic with seasons in nature … its momentum infused hypothetically, to cognate with the natural occurring seasons. To a poet, this would reverberate and accentuate into … pink blossoms of spring … the warmth of summer … mesmerizing colors of autumn … the whiteness of winter. Such abundance of seasons inherits an array of emotions in the heart, a gradient of inimitable illusion of the soul.

Poetry with its seasons elucidates the nature of human emotions, in a manner which substantiates ingeniously artistic surrealism. A poet can capture feelings, in the shadow of heartfelt beauty, joy, grief and darkness, and impregnate such visualization into a poem. This aesthetic genius, when reticulated with the poet’s charismatic passion, is astutely invincible in rendering opportune moments of introspection to the mind of the reader.

The reader is submerged into a magnetic extravaganza of verse and rhyme … the flavor of rhythmic music … a seductive synapse … a celebration of love … or a variation of mythical prose. The resultant creative energy is visionary, soul-searching, or poignantly nebulous, in its capacity, drawing upon the seasons of the heart as a means to thwart the realism of nature’s vested seasons.

Poetry and its seasons are piquant in their dexterity to affect each poet, each reader, in a way that nourishes the soul, amidst the obtrusive gamut of noise and confusion in daily living. Poetry is a fragrance that holds our breadth in a polluted atmosphere … it is music to the ears where sound is but a muffled noise … a social “earthquake” … it is tender orchestration and sight in an environment where traditional eyesight knows no bounds or trajectory. Along with the seasons of nature, poetry and its seasons reinforce an effervescent desire to manifest a true alacrity between poet and soul and audience.

Emily Dickinson is a poet who found that the natural world served well as a place for reflection. Amid the hills and fields that surrounded Amherst, she maintained a sense of childlike wonder and exhilaration, even as an adult. To Emily, nature was her sanctuary of harmony and joy.

In her poem: “Bring me the sunset in a cup”, Emily expresses unbridled enthusiasm of a child in a candy store, questioning incessantly, and wanting everything in sight. I quote:-

Bring me the sunset in a cup

Reckon the morning’s flagons up

And say how many Dew,

Tell me how far the morning leaps

Tell me what time the weaver sleeps

Who spun the breadths of blue!

Poetry and its seasons are unparalleled to the poet and writer, a virtuosity that is imparted to their audience, encapsulated and harbored to transcend the heart and soul. Poetry has its roots in the humane endeavor of the poet … its uniqueness conferred with zeal and placidity … its structural composition vehemently construed to appeal to all audiences … and its message a benediction.

In its finesse, poetry and its seasons manifest a heart-rending configuration, an ebullient addition to the multi-variants of literature, and a reflection of verse and rhythm that confers a visual vestibule in the mind of the poet. A poet is a blessing to the reader, whose finesse can mend a crippling soul … instill a moment of joy … identify a forlorn memory … savor a spark of truth … or juggle that which is questioned.

Poetry does have its seasons which, through a poet’s idealistic mind, ignite fervor of passion, confront the seasons inherent in nature, and inspire the dawn of a new day. Poetry is not impeccable; it is a dauntless and introspective form of art, which dovetails a visceral sense of healing, that is unattainably superlative in its riveting jamboree.