performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The Gift of Words
The wind rustled gently through the open window, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves and a quiet hum of the world outside. Inside the modest study, surrounded by shelves lined with worn books and half-filled journals, sat Arman — a poet whose words had once stirred crowds, but whose voice now belonged only to the pages in his notebooks. On this particular day, the room felt different. The golden light of the late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the floor, and a kind of stillness hung in the air, as if the world paused to listen. Across from him stood his twelve-year-old son, Rayan, whose eyes had always been full of questions. Lately, though, those questions had grown quieter — replaced by the silent confusion of growing up. Arman had seen it before. He remembered the weight of that age — too old to be a child, too young to be a man. And so, he had prepared a gift — not one of toys or gadgets, but something far older. Far deeper. Arman reached into the drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn, the edges frayed from years of turning pages in the middle of the night. It wasn’t just a book. It was his life. “This,” Arman said, holding it out with both hands, “is for you.” Rayan hesitated. “Is it one of your poetry books?” “Yes,” Arman smiled. “But it’s more than that. This one… I never published. I wrote it for you. Since the day you were born.” Rayan’s hands trembled slightly as he took the book. He opened it carefully, seeing page after page of neat handwriting, faded ink, and delicate drawings in the margins — birds, trees, stars, and hearts. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why give this to me now?” Arman leaned back in his chair, eyes misting with emotion. “Because there are things in life that can’t be taught with rules or explained with logic. Some lessons live in the spaces between words — in poetry, in silence, in feelings. I want you to have this, Rayan, so that even when I’m not beside you, my heart still is.” Rayan flipped to the first page. The title read: For My Son, Who Taught Me to Listen Again. He glanced up. “You wrote all this… just for me?” Arman nodded. “Every poem in there was written on a day you changed me — a question you asked, a moment you cried, the way you laughed at the stars. You may not understand all of it now. But someday, when you’re ready, those words will find you.” Silence settled between them, not awkward or uncertain — but full, like the pause after a beautiful line of poetry. Rayan hugged the book to his chest. “I didn’t know words could feel like this,” he said softly. “They can,” Arman replied. “Words can heal, guide, and remind us who we are. They outlive us. And if they come from love, they never die.” As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in amber hues, Rayan sat beside his father. They didn’t speak for a long time. There was no need. The boy had received not just a book, but a piece of his father’s soul — a map of feelings, a legacy of love, a timeless gift etched in ink and carried by the heart. And in that quiet room, the poet passed down the greatest verse he had ever written — the story of a father and son, bound not just by blood, but by words that would live forever.
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Poets
Whispers of the Wild
Whispers of the Wild Where Earth Sings and Skies Listen Beneath the boughs where silence dwells, The forest hums in secret spells. Leaves converse in rustling rhyme, A language older than all time. The sun spills gold on waking trees, And dances soft with every breeze. Each petal holds the dawn's first light, A quiet spark in morning’s flight. The river writes in liquid song, A melody that flows so long— It sings of mountains, stars, and rain, Of roots that reach through joy and pain. The sky bends low to kiss the land, With clouds that drift like painter’s hand. The winds, like whispers, gently guide, The soul to peace, the heart to pride. Here, nothing rushes, all is wise, The earth reflects in open skies. And in this stillness, we become— A part of all, yet bound to none. So breathe it in—this wild, this grace, The beating heart of every place. For nature calls in tones so true, And all it asks… is "Be here too."
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Poets
