My new friend has recently confessed that he did not like poetry. The rest of the day I thought about people and how different their reaction to poetry in general was and is.
What makes those lines that someone strung together stop our hearts?
How do we learn this beauty?
When does the journey start?
I remember my high school days and a young teacher of math. She always struggled with us. With young age cruelty we deliberately ignored her, talked and yelled, walked and giggled. In one of those classes, desperate to restore the order, she took a stand in the middle of the room and suddenly started reciting a poem.
Идут белые снеги
Как по нитке скользя....
She kept reciting, line by line. We froze in awe. It was a poem about philosophy of life. None of us could really relate to that subject. But we were smitten by the beauty of rhythm, the love in her voice, and a discovery of something new in us.
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