Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.
-Ezra Pound

In Praise of Beautiful things

The earliest memories I have are of lazy Sunday afternoons spent sitting on my patio. We had a big garden by our house, and I’d spend those afternoons staring at the garden, at the way the grass reflected the sunlight, at the way the leaves on the lone tree shook and shuddered every time a breeze flew by. I’d stare at them so long that I’d forget to blink, and the scene blurred together to form a foreign image that’d at once fascinate and baffle me. I loved it. That was my first experience with the beautiful.

Soon enough love of nature would be supplanted by love of the feminine. I never pinned down when it happened, but I began to look at girls a lot more than I ever did. It was a primal feeling that took over my young mind. Something about the way their bodies moved and the way they were built, so soft, felt mesmerizing. But it was purely sexual and, like I said, primal. That changed when I was at another one of my aunt’s parties filled with people I’d never met and would never meet again. I saw a woman with flowing hair and a flowing dress, and for the first time I understood what drove men to paint and sculpt. This was not a beautiful woman by any means, but the dress she wore and the air she held because of the beauty of that dress struck a chord in my heart. That was my second experience with the beautiful.

It was only after I read a certain poem, “The Solitary Reaper” by William Wordsworth, did I understand what it meant to face the beautiful. It was another lazy afternoon, but this time instead of the patio I was in a classroom. I was taking an English exam but really, I was looking outside and staring at the trees. I just couldn’t focus on the test. Perhaps it was because of how dejected I was feeling that day, how yellow the midday sun was, or perhaps the honey glazed hue on the autumn leaves that made them glow as though they were gold. It was saddening. The day was so beautiful, and I was stuck inside. I kept flipping through the test till I came across the poem. Now this wasn’t my first acquaintance with poetry, but as I read the poem there was something about it that stuck. As I kept reading, perhaps it was the rhyme, perhaps it was the cadence, but I was hooked. The joy was physical. I felt electricity shoot down my spine. After the test was over on the walk back home the honey glazed hue suddenly turned to the brightest yellow, the azure sky was bleeding blue, and the world just felt brighter. Everything looked pristine as a well posed picture. Everything made sense. I walked with joy and then sprinted. Soon enough I ran because words appeared in my mind, words begging to be written down. I ran home and wrote my first poem.

Poetry by Sameen
Read 168 times
Written on 2017-10-28 at 05:29

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Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
An excellent reminiscence, powerfully related and wonderfully described.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Nice that you have these memories, Sameen—nice that you relate them to beauty, finding the connections, nice that you are able to communicate your thoughts so well.

Beautifully visual! it reminds me of when i first started seeing with more than just my eyes!! Thank you for the reminder!!

ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Bravo, to read your work, has me smiling, as I remmemder such days, Sameen. ;)

Kathy Lockhart
Everything you wrote, I saw it vividly. I saw the beautiful and I felt it, too. I enjoyed reading this so much, I didn't want it to end. It made me smile and it elated me. I don't know you personally, Sameen, but I feel a pride for you. I'm proud of your accomplishments in the time I've been experiencing your development as a writer, a poet. It is lovely. This is lovely. :) kathy