In a manner of speaking and in a manner of writing. There are differences in their being. Some easily write better than they do speaking. As some echo that semantics is much more mesmerising.
As for speaking, it is easy to both lying and denying. While rhyming is intriguing in writing. Yes, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying. Who knows what a treasure your works may hold? I'll show you that rhyming is as easy as lying, by listening to (reading) the art I unfold. To reveal the hidden feeling that is untold.
There's a book full of words & phrases. One can choose as he fancies: as a politician his speech, as a painter his tint, as a journalist his articles, and a scientist his lab. All the poems and stories and plays and feelings and romances and memories were drawn out of this. Just: Think! – So did Simon Blackburn name a book that wasn’t full of rubbish. So the brain would not easy to cease.
Like the fish from a sea, you can wander at will through its syllabled mazes; and take all you want, visualize all you conceive, not a copper they cost. What is there to hinder your picking out phrases and truisms; For an epic as clever as 'Braveheart'? Don't mind if the manifestation of sense is at zero. Use words that run smoothly, employ idioms that fit flawlessly. Whatever they mean, they are much the same things in the rhyming machine. The illuminations of what’s reflected.
There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother. There is 'lush' is a good one, and 'swirl' is another. Put both in one verse, its meaning is either definable or dubious, its fortune is made.
With infectious glances, musical murmurs, and rhythmical closes, you can cheat me of smiles when you've nothing to tell. As for the unreadable expressions, perhaps you will answer all needful conditions. For winning the glory to which you aspire, for smarting the mind left with questions, by cutting the tails of the two prepositions, the articulated writer you are so greatly endowed.
As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty. For ringing the changes on musical chimes, you can reel off a song without knitting your brow; for critically observing the veracity on brilliantly decorated wrapping, as lightly as Picasso a drawing or etching. It is nothing at all, if you only know how. And you do, genuinely.
Well, imagine you've printed your volume of verses: Your forehead is wreathed with the praising honors; your walk is induced with the garland of fame; the look remains unreadable but is read everywhere. Of course you're delighted to serve the committees that come with requests from the country all round. You would grace the occasion with poems, speeches, smiles, and songs. When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poorhouse, or pound. With a chant for the saints and a song for the sinners, you go and are welcome wherever you please; you're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners, you hold the license to revealing the sarcasms at no cost, you've a seat on the platform among the grandees, you taste the liberty to play any instruments in any genre. Perceiving a case from only one point would be tolerated, how subjective it is. At length your mere presence becomes a sensation; your goblet of enjoyment is filled to its brim.
No will of your own with its puny compulsion can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre. It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion; and touches the brain with a finger of blaze; stroking a heart with a striking melody and lyrics. Hitting or blowing your instruments, you shall do.
So perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet if you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose: as to the critics, by publishing, as you propose; as to the tunes, by playing, as you perform.
But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written. I shall see your thin volumes some day on my shelf just to evoke the remembrance of them. Or, perhaps, to know-how the jittering mind by seeing the new ones, if it’s possible. The collective compositions of a free-adventurous genre, they are. The ones that have stimulated a port of call, if yours would consider so. It takes time to understand, while conversely, it only took a jiffy to deeply penetrating a frigid part of mind. For the rhyming words in memories surely has bitten, for the brilliant glance, the dense jungle, and the infectious demeanor, they surely have spelled the effects. Making the desires want not to stop for less. In the future, too, they may only want the best. But the desires have been awakened from their very long sleep, the consciously unconsciousness. They solely appreciate the awakener for that.
Worrying is not needed. The little inner world will be endowed itself toughly, as it has always been, yet it is no longer rigid. It will even be more robust and more vigorous than one can reckon. As to one, another's air is hard to hypothesize and to beckon. As the skin might look softer before you touch; and a little fish in a big sea can always survive swimming against the stream to find its porch.
Some stories would be better untold. Some questions remain unanswered. Some fondness is preferably left to unfold. Some affection is best unstated. As for some, speaking is grueling hatred. And thus, I leave the battle, to yield before to be conquered. Akin to the story, as it started like a ghost, I shall put down the weapon and the bonnet to depart without a sound. Watching the soldier enthusiastically walking away to continue advancing his adventure of articulation and beyond.
You are the paradisiacal picture of a sailor. And music must cure you - as it does to me - so pipe it yourself, hit and blow it with your color. And words must satisfy you so write them thoroughly. I shall only bethink and, at times, reminisce as I’ve finally come to my serenity. It welcomes me and opens the door letting me in. Thus, I have made my peace with a smile within. The peace attained without winning the battle. But it has reminded me to revive. Because, once again, I survive...
*the picture above is a beautiful canal i saw when visiting the city of Brugge, Belgium.
