A limerick, or a haiku, a sonnet, or freestyle, the rhyming raps, or riddles, ballads that tell tales of battles, of heroes from bygone days, many are these word tricks called poetry. Each with its own style, a phrase, some full of sense, some just nonsensical, some profound, and philosophical, and then there are some, just hysterical.
A story, descriptive and expressive, the style attractive, the words picturesque and illustrative. At times humorous, filled with comedy, others serious and full of tragedy, but always to hold the attention of the reader, avidly . Then there are some dull and boring, with just facts and figures, interesting to a few, but cast aside by the majority .
Not to dismiss the oral recitation, a narrative with words that enthral, words that emote, bringing to life a story. Charismatic orators with powerful words, can sway crowds, persuade them to follow their beliefs, sometimes even the wrong. Words that can be edifying, words that can be spellbinding, words of wisdom, words that are sincere. But words can also be deceptive, be destructive, words that can cause destruction.
Thus brings to mind, a time long ago, a time in a warm old kitchen, evenings together preparing dinner, a mother and her daughter . As the mother stirred the pot, rolled the bread, the daughter’s role, was to sit perched on high, regaling the mother with stories from the books she had read . A most delightful experience for both the narrator and her audience of one .
Shy and retiring, with no companions, the books from the library were the girl’s best friends. Each new novel, was her story, the characters she played, effortlessly. The words tripping off her tongue, softly, hesitantly at first, but soon animatedly. Her mother, her audience of one, revelled in the narrative, a welcome respite, to the otherwise monotonous tedium of her chores .
Starting with fairy tales,moving from mysteries to romance, as time went by . Then came her favourite ‘ Gone with the Wind ‘ and each evening, a chapter, like an episode was enacted, at a time when there were no televisions. She was Scarlett, she was Ashley, she was Rhett Butler and their little baby. She was the negro slave, the cowardly soldier, and the civil war she recounted in great detail .
The narrator and her audience of one, awaited their evenings together, eagerly . The daughter ready to entertain with her words and the mother ready to be transported to exciting new places, each day. Slowly, as the years went by, the mother watched her little girl evolve, growing less reticent , her words no longer hesitant, a confident young woman she was.
Under the appreciative audience of one, the daughter had blossomed, gained stature. No longer bent under the weight of her shy demeanour, she spoke with an assurance that was riveting. The mother regarded her daughter with pride, and the daughter saw in that loving face, no judgment, no criticism, but only patience and abounding encouragement.
The hours spent sharing the gift of words, would remain etched in the daughter’s mind. Her consolation, those moments in that warm old kitchen, the evenings together with her mother, a memory she carried through life. To recall those precious times, was her comfort and hope, through the thick and thin of life, and would always remain her sanctuary.
Mary Jacob 