It’s a lie that poetry is only read by or “speaks to” people in the universities or elite intellectual circles; in many such places, poetry barely speaks at all.
Poems are written and absorbed, silently and aloud, in prisons, in prairie kitchens, urban basement workshops, branch libraries, battered women’s shelters, homeless shelters, offices, a public hospital for disabled people, an HIV support group. A poet can be born in a house with empty bookshelves. Sooner or later, s/he will need books.
Adrienne Rich, What Is Found There: Notebooks on Poetry and Politics, 1994. (via insufficientmind)
To completely end your unease of mind, all you need to do is see that there is really is nothing “out there” to get because, already, within this moment, everything is whole and complete. In doing so, you can awaken from the perennial confusion, from the existential angst, from the unanswered question of what life is about.
When we stop distracting ourselves, and courageously dive into the heart of any feeling, positive or negative, right or wrong, we rediscover the vast ocean of who we are. Every feeling is made of unspeakable intelligence.