I'm starting to love poetry. It's something I somehow missed the boat on. I never really understood it, never really understood how to read it. Poems always seem to take a long time to get to the point. And then you still have to decode them. Clearly, I have a problem with needing to do things fast. Anyway, what I am starting to appreciate about poetry is that you have to read a poem slowly. Poems force me to slow down.
Here is a poem by Pablo Neruda. Although I am not an avid reader of poetry, I have always enjoyed Pablo Neruda:
The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of the years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
Pablo Neruda - Still Another Day, XVIII