NH: All Kinds of Poetry

Who was it that told us that snippets of life could be caught in the form of a poem? I don't know. Perhaps it's a general knowledge that Hoborg imbued into our brains as we were born. That would be a lot like him.
Poetry has always been present in the lives of Neverhoodians in a close, private way. Asking to hear one's poems is unthinkable. Even Nike, who has no trouble asking for one's greatest secrets directly, respects the solace of poetry. If he were to find a sheet of paper with a few words a line, he'd read it with interest. But he'd leave it where he had found it and he'd never attempt to uncover the author.
As far as my knowledge goes, poetry comes in many forms. There are no rules. Some like rhyming, composing prancing tunes with an irresistible rhythm. Some shape their thoughts into a single line, with no apparent meaning to anyone but themselves. Some, like me, roam inbetween.
Since poetry is so personal, offering to share one's poems is a sign of the highest trust. I've only had four people share their poems with me. I haven't shown mine to anyone yet.

The first piece of poetry I've ever received was from my brother Nehmen. I found it on my desk one night as I returned from the caves: a folded paper note with his scribbling inside. Quater knows how he had managed to leave it there. Nehmen was notoriously unable to find the door to my room.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're my best bro
Hope I'm yours too
It had been two days since a big fight and the note dripped with regret. I left my room as soon as I got my wits back together only to find him sitting under the mulberry tree, scanning the rock with tired eyes, waiting for me to emerge.
Nehmen chose the classical beginning of a four-verse poem: Roses are red, violets are blue. No one knows what these roses or violets are – rumour has it that they are flowers from Hypen Nupen's garden. Personally I found it dubious that a flower named after the colour violet should be blue. But Nehmen favoured that rhyme after it drew me out of hiding and he spent days looking for endless variations of it. The one that stuck to my mind the most was vulgar but honest.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You are a prick
Also fuck you
I had earned it. Fully.

The second time somebody showed me a poem of theirs was a misunderstanding more than anything. My then three-year-old sister Caline asked me to read something that she had written and to say what I thought about it.
My love, one and true,
I can't imagine living without you.
You've always been with me...
I stopped reading. I folded the letter and I returned it. Then I explained that it wasn't for me to read. Her thoughts for Nehmen were hers and hers alone and if she was sure that she wanted to share them with her love, she shouldn't worry about the form.
Thinking back to that event, I laugh at myself.

My third piece of heard poetry was a small snippet of my friend's thoughts. It was composed on spur-of-the-moment inspiration and he said it out loud before he realised what he was saying. Afterwards he blushed and refused to speak to me.
It doesn't matter what it means.
As long as it keeps the loneliness away,
as long as the king's not said we've gone astray,
as long as it keeps dark spinning thoughts at bay,
I'll keep doing it.
He was trying to explain one of his hobbies, the one that he called lovemaking. He often invited me to participate as well, even though I saw little sense in it. The poem was frozen fast into my mind. During long nights my thoughts often wandered to it and I heard my friend's voice again and again.
As long as it keeps dark spinning thoughts at bay...
Eventually I came to appreciate the underlying longing.

And, speaking of longing, I come to the last of my four sets of poems; the poems that I loved the most. That is not to say that I always understood them.
Sheesnaya
Sheesnaya veesnu
Sta mayankatur
Felo rohbien
It was Arig, one of the five Guardians, who wrote – or recited – these little pieces of life to me. He didn't always use common tongue and that need intrigued me more than anything. Sometimes he tried to explain what he meant to say. But he just got flustered trying and stopped, looking at his feet furiously. I tried to comfort him: Even though I did not understand the meaning, sometimes I felt the undercurrent of emotions he was trying to voice. Sometimes it was powerful enough to move mountains.
Once he whispered something to me feverishly. I dipped my head closer, trying to catch the words. He repeated the phrase and a shiver sliced through me from my ear to my toes. I think that I caught the word “friend” but I can't be sure. Arig never repeated it again.
Arig was introduced to the art of poetry twelve years after he was born, by me, on his birthday. He was ecstatic about the find, confirming my conjecture that only those from Hoborg's lineage knew of the custom. I told him what I could, given that there was not really much to tell, and he drank my every word. Then he laughed lightly and he told me that it was just what he needed.
Before that day I used to think that only Neverhoodians held the custom of creating poetry. But on the day of Arig's twelfth birthday I realised that I was wrong. The need to express oneself exists in every sentient being. And in some way, in some form, everybody will eventually arrive at their own kind of poetry.
The vines sway in the gentle wind
Pushing and pulling
Sometimes when you come
I feel like those vines
Swaying in the gentle wind
Through those little poems I came to understand the deep but tender longing that Arig carried in his heart. The gentle love for all things that live and let live. The quiet, frail and happy love for me.
I saw Arig as a bright green gem hidden in a heavy copper casket. Wonderful, precious and safe as long as the casket was closed. As long as no one got too close. As long as I didn't get too close.
I've never kissed Arig. We have danced and we have whispered sweet words into each other's ears, but we have never gone any further.
Whether it was because I believed that I would break him or because I truly would have broken him, I cannot tell.

These are the four people whose poems I've had the honour to read or hear.

Nehmen stopped writing poems for me after Caline was born. He never took that habit up again.

In a way Caline took everything from my brother. In a way I hate her for it.

My friend the lovemaker continues to offer me his wordless embrace. In some subtle, fleeting way, that is like poetry in itself.

And Arig... let's not talk of Arig. Of the ever-blooming flower. Of the white and green lily. Let's not talk of him, for I seem unable to love him in the way he loves me.

Instead... instead let us talk of poetry. Of words intertwining like flower stems. Of cadence building up like sensual sighs. Of thoughts escaping like misunderstood confessions.

Let us talk about all kinds of poetry.