Tradition in Poetry, My Brothers and I

The family tradition in poetry, created masterpieces by the desire to inflict upon the senses. That sheer need to toy with the unknown and embrace the loss, simple amusements with those proficient in this imaginary duel. Self-taught definitely not, seems at times the weight of the cosmos would consume the mind and heart. More like, perhaps, in-born ability to control the mind and allow the heart to determine the words.

My brother, a man who does nothing to conform to the stringent expectations of society. When we meet, on those rare occasions, without a sound, our minds commune. Poem written, that often meant one thing read from right to left and something entirely different when digested; a haze of sensations, when the brain shuts down, allowing the fermentation of understanding.

Poetry was so much of a culture, a part of our lives.

We shared insights to the unexplored realm of words. Emotions tossed, phrases with triple meaning, puns, verses in a prearranged rhyme pattern, long speeches and erratic poems. My two brothers and I, we, rarely communicate in the conventional fashion, instead, in that dialogue sprinkled with an extraordinary passionate delight of tasting words.

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