performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Poet Emotions
The evening sky was painted in gentle shades of orange and gold as Arham sat beneath the old banyan tree in his backyard. A notebook rested on his knees, and his pen tapped lightly against its corner. The world around him was calm, yet his mind swirled with a thousand thoughts — emotions he couldn’t explain, but always tried to write down. He was a boy of few words, not because he didn’t have thoughts, but because he felt them too deeply. Every emotion — joy, sorrow, wonder, or pain — echoed louder inside his heart than it did in the outside world. And so, he found refuge in poetry. It was his way of turning chaos into calm, and silence into expression. That day, as a light breeze passed through the leaves, he began to write: “Some hearts don’t speak in sound, They whisper in verses, soft and profound.” Arham smiled faintly. Poetry wasn’t something he planned; it was something that happened to him. It came from somewhere deep — like a spring of emotion hidden beneath his soul. When others talked about their day, he wrote about the sunlight dancing through the window, or the rain that carried memories. For him, words were not just letters; they were feelings wearing clothes. He remembered how his teacher once asked the class to describe happiness. Some said it was ice cream on a hot day, others said it was winning a game. When his turn came, Arham had quietly said, “Happiness is when your heart smiles even before your lips do.” The whole class had fallen silent. That was the moment he realized — emotions had their own language, and poetry was his way of speaking it. At home, his parents often found him lost in thought, staring at a blank page. They wondered if something was wrong. But Arham wasn’t sad — he was listening to his own heartbeats, waiting for them to turn into rhythm and rhyme. One rainy afternoon, as he wrote near the window, his younger brother peeked in. “Why do you always write alone?” he asked curiously. Arham smiled. “Because when I write, I meet myself.” The boy didn’t understand then, but Arham knew — poetry was his mirror. It showed him what words couldn’t say out loud. Sometimes, when he felt lonely, he wrote about hope — not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that keeps you going. He believed every emotion had a voice; it just needed the courage to speak. And poetry was that courage. One day, his English teacher announced a poetry contest. Arham hesitated at first — he never wrote for praise, only for peace. But that night, he looked at the blank page and decided to share a piece of his soul. He wrote a poem titled “The Silent Voice.” When the results came, Arham didn’t expect anything. But when his name was called as the winner, the applause felt like music. For the first time, he realized that when feelings are pure, they reach hearts beyond words. That evening, standing on the stage, he said softly, “I never thought my emotions could speak for me. But now I know — poetry isn’t about writing; it’s about feeling. Every word I write carries a heartbeat.” From that day, Arham continued to write — not just for himself, but for everyone who ever felt something too deep to explain. His poems began to appear in school magazines and local journals, each line filled with honesty and warmth. He learned that emotions are not weaknesses; they are colors of the soul. Some people paint, others sing, and some — like him — write. And every time he looked at his notebook, he smiled, knowing that poetry wasn’t simply about words. It was about turning feelings into art — capturing the invisible and making it eternal. Because in the end, Arham believed one truth above all: A poet doesn’t create emotions. He only reveals the ones that were already there — waiting to be understood.
By Muhammad Saad 12 months ago in Poets
Poetry at Noon
The afternoon sun had reached its gentle peak, filling the world with a mellow golden glow. The town seemed to breathe slower at this hour, as if even time paused to rest in the warmth. For Alina, it was the perfect moment—the sacred hour of stillness she called poetry at noon. Every day, after the morning’s rush of work and noise, she would retreat to the small park near her home. It wasn’t grand or famous—just a patch of green surrounded by old trees, a stone bench, and a tiny pond where dragonflies danced above the water. But to Alina, it was a haven of quiet inspiration. She carried with her a brown leather notebook, worn at the edges, and a pen that had outlived countless refills of ink. She sat beneath her favorite oak tree, feeling the sunlight spill over her shoulders. The hum of the world around her faded as her thoughts began to take shape. Words came to her not like commands, but like whispers—gentle, inviting, alive. “At noon, the sun writes on the skin of the world,” she wrote, smiling softly. She paused, letting the breeze turn a page for her. A group of children played nearby, their laughter blending with the soft rustling of leaves. Every sound seemed to belong in her poem, as though the afternoon itself was collaborating with her. Writing had always been Alina’s escape and her connection. Through poetry, she found a way to express feelings that speech often failed to hold—grief, hope, wonder, and love. Years ago, after her father passed away, it was poetry that helped her rediscover joy. He had been the one who introduced her to it, often reading lines aloud from his favorite poets as sunlight filtered through their kitchen window. “Every poem,” he once said, “is a small prayer to the moment.” That memory lingered as she wrote. Her lines flowed with gratitude—for life, for memories, for the golden peace of the afternoon. Suddenly, a voice interrupted her thoughts. “That looks beautiful,” said a young man holding a camera. He smiled, his eyes reflecting the same sunlight that danced on her pages. Alina looked up, startled but not annoyed. “Just a few lines,” she replied modestly. “Do you write often?” he asked. “Every afternoon,” she said. “It’s my way of listening to the world.” He chuckled. “I guess I do the same, but with photographs. I try to capture moments before they disappear.” They shared a quiet laugh, realizing they were both chasing the same thing—beauty in fleeting time. He introduced himself as Omar, a photographer who often wandered through the park looking for inspiration. That day, however, he had found it not in scenery but in the sight of someone writing beneath the sun. “May I take a picture?” he asked gently. Alina hesitated, then nodded. As he adjusted his lens, she returned to her notebook. The camera clicked softly, framing her in sunlight and shadow. When he showed her the photo, she was surprised—it wasn’t just her image he had captured, but the serenity of her moment. The light on her notebook, the stillness of her smile, the poetry of the afternoon—all frozen perfectly in that single frame. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered. “So are your words,” Omar replied. “Maybe one day, they’ll meet again—your poem and this picture.” The thought made her smile. They talked for a while longer, sharing stories of art, dreams, and the quiet beauty of ordinary days. When he finally left, Alina felt something new stirring in her heart—an unwritten poem forming softly, like sunlight spilling across a blank page. As the day drifted toward evening, she wrote one last line before closing her notebook: “At noon, I found the world speaking in golden tones— and I listened.” She looked up at the sky, now glowing amber, and felt a deep peace settle within her. Poetry had given her words; the afternoon had given her meaning. And somewhere in that harmony of light and life, she realized—every moment holds its own poem, waiting for someone to listen.
By Muhammad Saad 12 months ago in Poets
