There are poets, and there are readers. This was written after a particularly mesmerising ‘live’ poetry recital, albeit online. The reader, was Meryl Streep. I can’t even remember what poem it was.
She knew words—
the power of words,
and I hung on to every one.
Thick with meaning,
rich with flavour.
Marinaded in hours of quiet,
perhaps over tea and evening walks,
and mulling in a study full of books; and
spoken now as ones that belonged fully to her.
She knew syllables—
every curl of the lips, and
twirl of the tongue;
throwing sounds and silences
at just the right moment,
beckoning the heart to rise and come follow her.
Into the hidden confidence of
Into the shrouded thoughts of another person of
a different city,
a different home,
a different place,
a different dress.
Transported into another’s gnarled beauty not quite so different from mine—
yea, a companion I find.
The lilting, quiet tones of a close informant
and then—hush, it is over.
When it is over, the words leave an imprint,
the thoughts conjured continue to swirl;
the truth be told has left its mark.
The reader has left, and so have the words.
But the imprints.
Little soft dents upon the soul,
markings of a crypt that winds its way in its own meaning into the clefts of my heart.
a savoury, sweet mixture
fused into my soul,
by a skilled artisan and her seasoned spoon.
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