I love poetry. But, I am also afraid of it. I never have been sure of how I interpreted the piece was what the author intended. I read poetry with my feelings, guts, and all the senses I have. Each words evoke an image, smell, colors, movements, sound, yet I’m also afraid of my imagination may gone wild.
If I do some research, I may have better understanding of the piece. Then, the spark I had for reading a poetry become somewhat dimmed. Wondering in the mystery of openness is more thrilling than finding a path to arrive at a point. I feel pressured to read poetry ‘right’. And ‘right’ probably means that something that majority agrees upon, if not with respected names attached to.
Thus, on this page, I let my wild whimsical interpretation to speak, and let time and knowledge to shape it up gradually.
Who’s there to judge how we felt and understood poetry as it reveals the versatility of our background. The ‘right’ one may follow as we dive into the imagination of our own responses, feelings and senses.
what i wish for 