Gripping at Expression

The girl revered poetry.

It was as if her life essence depended on every word that echoed from thoughts of inspiration kissed syllables. She ached to listen, craved the sound and latched on for the taste of good poetry – art. She was in awe every time she heard a good metaphor, simile – any figure of speech in fact. It was as if she wanted to kneel in respect at every drop of a letter spewing from either lips or book or canvas.

She grips daily at thoughts – ideas which echo in the depths of a mind bent on producing the greatest masterpiece yet. She grips at the past and present, aiming to direct an arrow at the future product of her expression. She grips and gropes and falls in the dark as her eyes see, Shakespeare and Poe; Goodison and Bennett; Hughes and Frost; Morris and Brathwaite. She sees them, reads them and ingests technique upon technique of good poetic art forms. Slowly, she puts pressure on herself to regurgitate their form, style – allure. She whispers the Senior of an Olive branch tasted in high school and tries to emit the expression spread by a teacher on a Hill, who cultured her love for the literary word. A lecturer, Peart, who lit a spark for works like Walcott’s and many other West Indian tomes. Internationally speaking of the origins, like Burns, the epics, Plath and Woolf; time old tales of Gaelic songs and Arthurian legends born, were words of a Castillo that struck many chords on memories lorn.

The girl revered poetry. It was as simple as that…

#IamGRAVITY
#IamGRAVITY

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