Inside The Hearts' Walls

London Calling said...
   As I sit waiting in the back reading section of the library for the
poetry club to start, there is a fatigued but quiet anticipation in the
air. Next to me sits a staff member taking count of the back of her eye
lids. Another patron sits quietly pondering the magazine in her lap
while unconsciously nibbling at the tip of her thumb nail. Furiously
pounding away at his keyboard like it has caused a personal
unforgivable offense, a man works on a paper. There are a few others.
Some are working on homework; others flaunt the movie they watch on a
tiny phone in obliviousness. Meanwhile the girl sitting next to him is
yearning to see what’s more interesting than her as she is draped over
his arm. They quickly leave as they learn what is about to transpire.
Personally, I don’t know what to expect. When I think of poetry clubs,
I think of movies like “The Dead Poets Society” or “So I Married an
Axe Murderer”. There is a small dread in the pit of my stomach.
   As Chreece, the man who invited me, enters with two unknown guests,
they quickly expunge the other occupants with questions of, “Would you
like to join our poetry club meeting today?” Moving aside the tables
and arranging the chairs into a circle, Chreece injures a participant
that dreads the stay. As the nine people gather, filling in the spots of
the newly minted but well remembered circle, Candace shares a poem to
start. “Limelight”. It expresses how being in the open and
unadulterated sunlight is better than that of the reflected or unnatural
light. A small discussion goes on about the beauty of being in the
natural light.
   L’gordonwe takes the stage. Somber in attitude he gently and
quietly starts off reading with his head down. His body language shows
that he is closed off, but the words he expresses are his soul laid
bare. The choices that he wishes could be made over again. His piece
that I titled “Next time” stills all mouths as he increases his
cadence and volume.
   Expressing slight timidity, Margaret follows up with the thought of
listening. As we listen to her, I hear a curtain that lightly flutters
between her deeper understanding of the words that flow forth, and the
images that grow in my own remembrances of when I have failed to
listen.
   Chreece now shares. There is a minor quiver in his voice as he
reads the words which recall the memories that make his emotions swell.
Though he keeps on with a smooth staccato that brings forth the very
winter; we feel the crisp air and the bitter chill. The very elements he
experienced out in wild mountains. Surviving by the very wood he hand
chopped and carried to keep his family warm. We all remember to breathe
when spring comes.
   Getting up to leave early so I can keep my next deadline, I feel a
sense of regret. What is the next person going to share? What vivid
landscape of emotions and thoughts am I now going to miss? This was
nothing like what I had in mind. As I sit here typing this, I can’t
help but think that these few are true wordsmiths. They don’t just
scribble down ink. They put immense thought and effort into each
sentence, each word, and each mark on the paper. It is felt. I don’t
know if I’ll be attending their next meeting, but I know that I
won’t think of poetry clubs the same way anymore. And if I’m ever
invited to another meeting, it won’t be with thoughts of dread.