Hola! This poem is part of my Ars Poetica – BlogchatterA2Z 2025 series, where I explore the art of poetry through 26 stanzas, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Every day, a new stanza unfolds, building upon the previous ones intuitively and organically. If you’re just joining in, feel free to read from the beginning or simply dive into today’s reflection on poetry.
Stanza 6 of the Ars Poetica—Fathoming the Unfathomable
From the hush of intuition, a question stirs: What holds the poem—form or freedom? Is it the spine of a sonnet or the spill of free verse That makes it belong to this moment’s breath? How do we fathom what resists being known? Do we chase it down, begging for clarity, Or wait—still, receptive— As it arrives bearing its secret confession? A bloom in the dark, Not of confusion, But creation.
Hola! This poem is part of my Ars Poetica – BlogchatterA2Z 2025 series, where I explore the art of poetry through 26 stanzas, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Every day, a new stanza unfolds, building upon the previous ones intuitively and organically. If you’re just joining in, feel free to read from the beginning or simply dive into today’s reflection on poetry.
Stanza 5 of the Ars Poetica—Echoes of Ecstasy
Echoes of ecstasy then arrive in evocative expressions Like a divine intervention With a download of disengaged words Splattered across the field of imagination Each word holds its own pulse, Gathering under a shower of light. And as they take root in the hush of thought, A forest rises from buried seeds— Each a quiet promise of life.
Hola! This poem is part of my Ars Poetica – BlogchatterA2Z 2025 series, where I explore the art of poetry through 26 stanzas, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Every day, a new stanza unfolds, building upon the previous ones intuitively and organically. If you’re just joining in, feel free to read from the beginning or simply dive into today’s reflection on poetry.
Stanza 4 of the Ars Poetica—Dance of Discovery
Da-dhan da-dhan da-dhan da-dhan— Now that she has all my attention, There’s a dance of discovery, Like Rumi’s twirls of ecstasy, Spinning into silence, into knowing. The da-dhan’s of my world take no words — Not yet. They pulse in rhythm, syncing with my breath, Or with the beat the poem decides to take. For now, it’s just the da-dhan, da-dhan, da-dhan — Where beats prelude the dance of diction, Where language holds its breath before the plunge.
Hola! This poem is part of my Ars Poetica – BlogchatterA2Z 2025 series, where I explore the art of poetry through 26 stanzas, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Every day, a new stanza unfolds, building upon the previous ones intuitively and organically. If you’re just joining in, feel free to read from the beginning or simply dive into today’s reflection on poetry.
Stanza 3 of the Ars Poetica—Cry of the Unheard
Childish yet persistent, poetry clings, Crying for attention in the middle of chaos— Clutching my legs like a wailing child, While life wheels past, demanding more. Call it trivial, call it untimely, But never call it ignorable— For poetry, like a child unheard, Only screams louder when dismissed.
Hola! This poem is part of my Ars Poetica – BlogchatterA2Z 2025 series, where I explore the art of poetry through 26 stanzas, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. Every day, a new stanza unfolds, building upon the previous ones intuitively and organically. If you’re just joining in, feel free to read from the beginning or simply dive into today’s reflection on poetry.
Stanza 2 of the Ars Poetica—Beneath the Pulse of Pause
Breath is either effortless or laborious but never biased. Between the choices I make to Notice or ignore the mundane messengers of life Pushing their way into my senses, Breath bursts into life— Being & belonging In every pause I make Between silence and words.
And in those pauses, Breath turns to poetry, Balancing on the edge of awareness, Bridging the known and unsaid, Believing that the lump down my throat Deserves breath, deserves life— Even when packing dabbas Isn’t a metaphor heavy with prophecy…
April is an exciting month in the blogging and poetry world, packed with creative challenges. Over the years, I have participated in both NaPoWriMo and BlogchatterA2Z, and this year, I’m once again diving into my favorite—BlogchatterA2Z! The challenge is simple yet demanding: to publish 26 posts throughout April, each corresponding to a letter of the English alphabet, with Sundays as rest days.
Last year, I explored The Poet’s Alphabet, a series covering everything one should know about the craft of poetry. This year, I’m taking a different approach. Instead of writing multiple poems, I’ll be writing just one, over 26 days! Specifically, I’ll be crafting an Ars Poetica—a poem about poetry itself.
The concept of Ars Poetica originates from Horace, whose poem of the same name became so influential that the title eventually evolved into a genre in itself—much like how “Xerox” became synonymous with photocopying. Inspired by this tradition, I will be writing my own Ars Poetica, with each stanza beginning with a different letter of the alphabet.
As of now, that’s all I know. This will be an intuitive, organic process, where each day’s writing will surprise me as much as it surprises you! What you’ll be reading are draft versions—raw, unpolished, and evolving. Toward the end, I will refine and weave them together into a cohesive piece.
I hope you’ll join me on this journey, sharing your thoughts, feedback, and constructive criticism along the way. For now, grab a front-row seat and watch a poem take shape from its very first lines! By the way, I just realized I had written an Ars Poetica even before I knew what it was! You can read it here.
Let’s start with the Ars Poetica for the BlogchatterA2Z challenge.
Stanza 1 of the Ars Poetica – Alchemy of Words
Around eight in the morning When it’s time to pack dabbas With rice, salad, and a curry, Even as a whiff of coffee with chicory Refuses to linger a little longer— As if in a hurry to leave before The stink of wet waste lounging In the corner of my house for over a week takes over— An alchemy of strangeness and familiarity Runs down my throat, knotting The mundane with metaphors, Bringing life to fleeting ephemera. Words form a lump in my throat— To be gulped down, then later chewed over, To see if they are worth a life, As my mind still churns with the question: What good can poetry cook up Around eight in the morning When it’s time to pack dabbas?
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