What is poetry
"Exploring the Beauty, Power, and Purpose of Poetic Expression"
The Window
Maya sat by the window of her grandmother’s old cottage, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The autumn wind whispered through the trees outside, scattering golden leaves across the garden like forgotten memories. It had been years since she’d last been here, and everything smelled like time—dust, dried lavender, and something older, quieter.
The window was the same.
It framed the garden like a painting. Ivy crept along the wooden sill. As a child, Maya believed the window was magical. Her grandmother used to tell her that if you stared through it long enough, you wouldn’t just see the garden—you’d see what the garden remembered.
Back then, it felt like a story to help her sleep. But now, at twenty-eight, sitting in the same chair her grandmother used to rock in, Maya wondered if there was more truth in her grandmother’s stories than she realized.
She reached for the journal she found in a drawer earlier that morning. It was bound in worn leather, its pages filled with neat handwriting and old poems, each dated, each signed: L.R.—Lilian Rose, her grandmother. She flipped through them, stopping at one that seemed different. It was titled “The Window Remembers.”
She read the poem aloud, her voice soft, hesitant:
"Through pane of glass and time’s slow thread,
The window watches what’s long dead.
But those who sit and truly see,
May glimpse what once was, used to be."
As she read the final line, a chill ran down her spine.
She looked out again.
The garden shimmered, just for a second. The apple tree that now stood bare and twisted suddenly blossomed, white flowers blooming in an impossible instant. A younger version of her grandmother appeared beneath it—laughing, holding hands with a man Maya had never seen before.
Maya blinked, and they were gone. The tree was bare again. The garden was quiet.
She stared at the window, her breath caught in her throat. Had she imagined it?
She flipped back through the journal, searching for clues. Page after page told of the garden, of love, loss, and someone named Thomas. She’d never heard of him before. There were poems about waiting, of a love who went to war and never returned. Her grandfather’s name was William. Who was Thomas?
Curious and a little shaken, Maya went outside. The wind tugged at her sweater as she walked to the tree. At its base was an old stone, nearly buried in earth and moss. She cleared it with trembling hands.
“Thomas Hale – 1922–1944”
A date. A name. Real.
Her grandmother had never mentioned him. Never once. Yet he was buried in the garden, remembered in poems, and shown through a window that may have held more than just glass.
Back inside, the window stood still, silent.
Maya sat again, her thoughts spinning. What was the truth of her grandmother’s life? What parts had she hidden in poems? How many of our memories are buried under silence?
She picked up the journal and turned to the last blank page.
Taking a pen from the drawer, she began to write. Not a poem. A letter. To herself. To her future. To the people who would one day sit by the same window and wonder.
And outside, unnoticed, a single white blossom bloomed on the apple tree.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Muhammad Saad and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Mind’s Mirror: How Poetry Reflects and Heals the Human Psyche
Adam was the kind of man most people overlooked—not because he lacked charm or intelligence, but because he had mastered the art of blending in. At 35, he worked as a data analyst in a quiet office, lived alone in a modest apartment, and kept his routines as tidy as his spreadsheets. Everything in Adam’s life was ordered, efficient, and—if he was honest—just a little empty. It wasn’t always that way. As a teenager, Adam had been different. He had filled journals with poems—raw, lyrical reflections on life, love, and everything in between. He remembered sitting under the old oak tree in his backyard, scribbling lines while listening to the wind hum through the leaves. Back then, he didn’t write to impress anyone. He wrote to feel alive. But somewhere along the way, poetry had been packed away, like an old hobby that no longer fit into adulthood. One rainy evening in October, Adam wandered into a used bookstore to escape the weather. As he browsed through the shelves, his fingers landed on a slim book titled The Quiet Voice Within. Curious, he flipped it open and read: > “I never knew I was breaking Until I saw the cracks In my silence, the truth was aching To come crawling back.” He stopped. Something inside him stirred—like hearing the echo of a language he hadn’t spoken in years. He bought the book, almost shyly, and took it home. --- Rediscovering the Voice Within That night, Adam sat by his kitchen window, reading poem after poem, the words cutting through the static of his daily life. For the first time in years, he felt something shift. The poems didn’t offer answers—they asked questions. Gentle, haunting, and deeply human questions. He pulled out an old notebook from the back of his closet. It was dusty, but still half-empty. He stared at the blank page for a while, then began to write—not for anyone else, not for perfection, but just to see what would come out. And it did. Slowly at first, then with growing ease. His first poem was a short one: > “I built walls out of numbers But dreams slipped through the cracks. I’m learning now, To welcome them back.” It wasn’t profound. But it was honest. And for Adam, that was enough. --- A Gentle Awakening Over the next few weeks, Adam made writing part of his morning ritual. Coffee, sunlight, a few minutes of quiet with his thoughts. He began to notice how differently he felt throughout the day—less numb, more alert, more connected. He also started to read more poetry—classics by Rumi and Rilke, modern pieces by lesser-known writers he found online. He even found a podcast where people read poems and talked about the emotions behind them. One episode featured a guest who said something that stuck with him: “Poetry is the mind’s mirror. It doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t flatter—it just reflects who we really are beneath the noise.” Adam paused the audio and whispered, “That’s it.” That’s what he’d been missing all these years—his reflection, his voice. --- A New Chapter One Saturday, Adam noticed a flyer in the coffee shop near his office: “Poetry Open Mic – All Levels Welcome.” His first instinct was to ignore it. But something inside nudged him: You have something to say. He spent the week polishing a short poem he had written about loneliness and quiet hope. It was called “Porch Light.” He wasn’t trying to be brilliant—just real. The night of the event, he felt his heart pounding as he waited for his name to be called. The room was small, warm, filled with mismatched chairs and kind faces. When he finally stepped up to the mic, his voice shook at first. But as he read, a calm settled in. The room was silent. And when he finished, people clapped—not politely, but warmly. Genuinely. A woman approached him afterward and said, “Your poem felt like something I’ve felt for years. Thank you.” Adam smiled, humbled and surprised. For the first time in ages, he felt seen—not for what he did, but for who he was. --- Becoming Whole Again Months passed. Adam kept writing. He even started a small poetry blog where he shared pieces anonymously. He wasn’t chasing fame. He was simply doing what made him feel human again. He still worked his 9-to-5, still lived in the same apartment—but now, his days had color, meaning, rhythm. He no longer lived in silence. His words had given him back his voice. And every now and then, he’d return to that poem that started it all: > “I built walls out of numbers But dreams slipped through the cracks. I’m learning now, To welcome them back.”
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.