I used to think poems belonged to people who saw the world in ways I never could — those who could pick up on hidden meanings in a sunset or find beauty in the cracks of an old, weathered wall. I’d heard once that to write a poem, you had to see life from every angle, through every lens, slipping in and out of others’ perspectives like you were trying on clothes. The thought fascinated me, but even though I was drawn to that idea, I wasn’t someone who sought out poetry. Poems felt like an art form reserved for others, not for me.
The ones I did encounter came to me by chance. They were either a part of my school curriculum, dissected and analyzed under the harsh lights of a classroom, or they were the ones my grandparents recited late in the evenings. I remember sitting on the balcony at night, wrapped in the sounds of their voices as they drifted into poems and stories. I loved those nights, but even then, poetry felt like something from another world — something distant and beautiful, but not mine. My grandparents used to tell me that one day, I’d find a poem that would resonate with me deeply, and from that moment, there would be no turning back.
Still, that moment didn’t come easily. Poems remained like paintings in a gallery — things I admired, respected, but couldn’t quite touch. I knew they were meant to evoke something, but I couldn’t yet feel what that something was. Then, almost by accident, I found myself reading poems in my mother tongue. It was like hearing a familiar melody from childhood — a language that spoke to me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. The rhythm felt like home, the words like old friends. I couldn’t stop reading them. The more I read, the more I felt poetry moving from the edges of my world into the center.
English poetry, though, took longer. It felt like I had to learn a new kind of rhythm, a new way of feeling the words. For a long time, it was like trying to catch a tune that kept slipping just out of reach. Then, one day, I read *Invictus*. I’d first heard about it in Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, where he spoke of how much it meant to him during his long years of imprisonment. Later, I heard it again, spoken in Morgan Freeman’s steady, deep voice in the movie *Invictus*. And there it was, that line that has stayed with me ever since: *I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul*. It struck a chord so deep that it felt as though the words had been written just for me. It was as if the poem had waited for me all along, waiting until I was ready to truly hear it.
From that moment, there was no stopping. Poems no longer felt distant; they became something I craved, something that helped me understand the world and myself a little better. They became like windows into different lives, different emotions — sometimes offering clarity, other times offering comfort in confusion. I haven’t read many poems yet, and often, I still need time to understand their full depth. But now, instead of feeling like an outsider looking in, I find myself standing inside the poem, feeling its weight, its rhythm, its heart.
Poetry, I’ve come to realize, is not about instant understanding. It’s not always meant to be easy or immediately accessible. Sometimes, a poem is like a garden in the early morning — softly lit, with some flowers in full bloom, others still waking, waiting for you to discover them at your own pace. There are still poems I don’t fully grasp, verses that feel like they’re hovering just beyond my reach. But now, I don’t feel frustrated by that distance. I’m willing to sit with them, to let them unfold slowly. And when they do, the feeling is indescribable — like finding something you didn’t know you were looking for.
I’ve come to understand that poetry is about connection. It’s about those moments when a line, a word, a feeling clicks into place, and suddenly you’re not just reading anymore — you’re living inside it. It’s like a hand reaching out across time and space, across language and culture, saying, “I’ve felt this too.” There’s a quiet magic in that, in knowing that even across centuries, someone else’s words can find their way into your heart and make a home there.
Even now, I know I have so much more to discover. There are entire worlds of poems I haven’t yet touched, poets whose voices I’ve yet to hear. But what I do know is that poetry is no longer something separate from me. It’s something I can return to again and again, like revisiting an old memory or hearing a familiar story. It’s a part of my life now, and I’m grateful for the moment it found me, when I was finally ready to fall in love with it.
