A few days ago I told a little bird that one of the things I stopped doing and that I love is writing poems and the little bird asked me why I had stopped doing that.
I simply wrote at times in my life when I had strong emotions, not exactly good ones, and I did it as a kind of catharsis.
The little bird replied that I can also write about good and beautiful things and he was right.
I thought of those things that inspire poetry in me and quickly found two: love and nature, and if I put both together I can find the love of nature.
Recently I was walking in a forest, for quite some time, so I could see the sun's rays between the needles of the pine trees, which would be their leaves. At different times the sun shines differently and you can see the magic between the trees, great givers of life and oxygen to the planet.
Today I remembered those beautiful moments, that walk in silence, where I only listened to my footsteps and while I have a very special music in the background, the words in my soul come naturally.
I believe that poetry does not come from the mind but from the spirit and it is the spirit that speaks. So I let my fingers write, even if I don't quite know what they are doing.
Nature is healing in many ways, but it is also inspiring, at least for me.
Everything is related, nature is art and so is poetry, so nature is poetry.
This poem is inspired by that walk and the admiration of the pine trees and the rays of sunlight that sneaks through them, generating the magic and mystery of life.
Whispers of life and magic.
Between the green needles, rests the life of the forest,
which glides between the branches like a soft breeze,
an imperceptible and hidden whisper,
to the distracted human ear.
In the silence of the mind they seem to speak,
and beyond the inner voices they often fly,
they play between greens and browns,
as between shoes and laces.
Words between them spoken in a low voice,
so the understanding of beings does not grasp them,
they watch attentively every step and every gait,
between the leaves their feet as they tread.
They have life, a singular life,
which man cannot visualise,
only a few can see the ties,
that travel between their strong arms.
Flashes of lights and sparks in the air,
wander from one to another, brushing the air,
Only the attentive eye can see this spectacle,
that nature has in store.
Energy that goes unnoticed,
between different walks without being seen,
unless the spirit becomes one,
with the gleams that emerge in the dark.
Threads of light and colour hover around its leaves,
like dancers that pose their feet,
the air and the breeze, they dress dazzling,
to furrow the surrounding spaces.
If I let my eyes open
and I absolutely still my soul,
I can see life in that gentle breeze,
that gently brushes its green leaves.
It is not magic, it is not illusion,
it is the spirit of the expanding forest,
always alive, always moving,
for the one who can see the whisper of its breath.
Amonet - 30/7/2024
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This is what I was listening to while writing the poem.
All photographs are my own.
