For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upen that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

– William Wordsworth

A well-known poem, The Daffodils, was one of the poems I read in class X. I found the poetry book among other things when I was clearing up my desk back home. For me, the daffodils are my travel adventures. I can be on my own on a quiet day, immersed in my memories and travelling on my own – once more.

Like the water in a desert,
Like the dry spot in a rainstorm,

Like the warmth of a cold winter,
Like the cool breeze in summer,

Like the sane thought in an insane mind,
Like the quiet moment in rush hour,

Like the hope of the lost hope,
Like the peace of a troubled mind,

You are…

Last Friday, I watched this movie, “In her Shoes” on TV. And there were two nice poems in that movie. The first one, this one below, is the one Maggie reads to the bed-ridden professor who helps her to address her reading disorder.

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel.
None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.