With dull, droopy eyes, almost half asleep, watching the architecture of the Chettiyar house nestled in the rural town of Tamil Nadu on Pinterest, my eyes fell on the side picture of a tainted page with a poem titled “The Daffodils.”

Leaving the architectural world behind, I opened the page to read more, extended the image with my thumb and index finger, and read and reread the poem “The Daffodils” twice.

As I was about to close, I found some more poems. Reading a few of them reminded me of my English Prose textbook, with a huge Gulmohar tree trademark on the back and front. Then, the beige, creamy-colored paper and the dusky smell of the new copies, I would sniff for hours while covering my books before the start of the new academic year.

At a stretch, I read: ‘If’, ‘Highway Man’, ‘That Wise Owl ’, ’ I wandered Lonely as a Cloud’, and my all-time favorite ‘The Solitary Reaper’.

The Highwayman, once again, pulled me into the depths of grief of the tragic end, and the Solitary Reaper reminded me of a very similar person in the present life. I could smell the damp limestone paint on the Vth A walls on the ground floor, an echo of voices in a crowded classroom of grey pinafore uniform, a faint image of Mrs Thomas and Miss D’Silva, the one who played the piano in the assembly for the choir and also taught English.

I woke up around 4:50am to find my mobile screen still on the last page of The Solitary Reaper.

The next evening, I recited a few more poems to myself, and a whiff of bliss enveloped me; some lines moved me, while others filled me with awe and wonder.

I kept traveling the flights of fantasy with every read.

I often would return to my Poetry recitations;

On Days when time fetches no meaning and boredom dominates, when thoughts keep asking the same question despite no answer in sight,

I turn to my companion, my poems, who do not ask me of anything, nor judge, are patient when I don’t understand them in word and spirit.

Yet,

From the throngs of the past, they come in through a written form — from souls like mine who lived years ago and perhaps have gone through a similar upheaval.

They speak to my soul and offer me solace.

It’s been two years since I was met with so much affection, the solace and embrace of warmth by these letters and the Poets, sometimes written in a sonnet, or at times longer versions taking me along on a journey to unknown places.

I never knew a creative piece of writing, A Poem, holds within itself the power of resonance and empathy that, when it envelops you, could alter your state.

The habit is now formed and perhaps may stay,

&

Before I begin to explore life in its Poetic form, and not so far in the distant future, I may end up writing one or many.

I hope the work of my creative expressions will be as affectionate as my own discovery of them, especially for the ones who would come after me in search of a companion away from a world of machinery, and who, upon finding my letters, may find the needed aid for a grieving soul with warmth and solace.

Warmly,

Mehnaz Amjad.