The difference between poetry and prose is the same as that between love and making love.
You may read prose, and try to imagine, relive, identify yourself with the characters and the story. But when it comes to poetry, you just have let it take hold of you, to overwhelm your senses, transport you. It’s not always a pleasant feeling though, don’t we all like to be in charge, to make love instead of being in love.
Throughout the history of mankind, philosophy and science have been fighting this feeling, to break free and not be at the mercy of elements beyond comprehension. But what about the artist, or the lover, who live their lives wondering why the heart beats with an urgency, as if life is running out, and where does it want to go, it’s not the moon, or the stars or back to that bench by the lake.
You wonder and wonder, till the wee hours of the night only to realise you were really looking for that lost metaphor in the hundred lines of the beautiful verse. It’s always about a lost moment, when on the bench she paused between her beautiful laughs and gave you that meaningful look. You let it pass then, only to be haunted by it every other night. Why do these moment lasts forever.
You can’t sleep, and you know you have to take control of the situation. Life is no poetry. The story must go on, to the next chapter, and many such moments which you would let go unnoticed. This one was not so unique. You were never in love. You seem convinced, if only because you know without this hope you would never wake up from these momentary lapses, the ones that won’t let you read more prose.