Is the beauty and power of words lost in the way language is taught? For me it was until I found my voice.
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I failed English in high school; I thought English was the most horrible thing you could ever be taught. I had so many questions about how words work; how could they reach into your mind make real in another’s head the things I could see? How could they hurt so much, calm so well or make you laugh and cry? How is it they had so much power, so much knowledge in these lines of black and white? I didn’t understand why I had to learn about past participles, meter and metaphors. I still don’t. What they did to words in English class was appalling and cruel, they took so many beautiful words and turned them into nothing more than table scraps, good for nothing but trash.
I had to sit in class and dissect a rose, such a delicate thing with blurred crimson hues contrasted against harsh metallic points, a work of art for all to see. Petal, stem and thorn pulled apart piece by piece as if these small chunks somehow made this rose a masterpiece. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t see, why they couldn’t tell. This picture of a rose was grown in the writers head. It was cultivated, nurtured, watered and pruned. It didn’t exist as anything less than a whole, each brush stroke layered on top of the one before, grown from seed to bush. Why did I have to learn about verbs and nouns, tense and conjunctions? I still don’t understand, I wanted to learn how to grow roses.
The notes are not the song, can’t you hear the heartbeat of life?
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One fine day in spring we took to poems by the greats, Wordsworth, Hemingway and Yeats. Meter and rhyme the aim yet pain mixed in by beater. So many words aligned and corralled dancing in front holding me enthralled. Why could they not hear, why could they not feel? Melody and harmony cradled the mind. But we had to stop. ABBA. Discord. ABCB. Please let me feel the words, don’t stop the music. So much joy, so much pain, I feel it all. The notes are not the song, can’t you hear the heartbeat of life? What you do is wrong. This is the choreography of a poet’s heart, his soul exposed. Why did I have to learn about meter and rhyme, rhythm and measure? I still don’t understand, I wanted to learn how to make the words dance.
A casket of a room, dreary and drab, stained by students long past. Simile and metaphor described in endless detail, our tools to repair a rusty old car. How I hated those tools, the chassis needs this, the engine needs that, but I didn’t understand. Why could they not see? Nothing was wrong with this car, it’s a classic, that’s all, a 65 Mustang coup sitting low and proud. I don’t need this box of tools I want the keys. Do they not understand where this beast can go, thrumming along the highway powerful and free. It’s meant to be driven, not repaired. There is no destination this car can’t reach, no place too far. This classic you tell me is rusty and run down. It’s the purveyor of my thoughts, yet you ask me to keep it garaged and locked while in the workshop. It is perfect the way it is, let it be. Why did I have to learn simile and analogy, metaphor and personification? I still don’t understand, I wanted to learn how to let my words roam free.
I didn’t understand those lessons, they weren’t for me. Endless words trapped in my head.
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I failed English in school. For forty years English wasn’t for me, I didn’t understand those lessons, those lessons weren’t meant for me, for whom I’m not sure. Endless words trapped in my head. So much life had grown in the private garden in my brain, so much that hedges wouldn’t contain. Yet all the while I wanted to explore this land like the greats. Roses, mountain vistas, oceans and whole worlds to boot, they grew in my mind until I found the key to unlock a giant iron gate. They sallied forth and now they are free, brushstrokes on canvas painting a fantastical scene.
I failed English in school but words never stopped dancing for me. They always held feelings and life I could never reshape. For forty years I held them back until that day they escaped. I found my voice, my song, my choreography and it’s all me. These words are the heartbeat of my life, my feelings dancing on stage for all to see. When I need to show you what I feel I listen for the dance in my head. I let the words shuffle onto the page step by step. Rhythm, melody and rhyme be dammed it’s the song you hear not the notes.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words, words rock my world. True strength and power lies not in muscle and weapon but in heart and mind. When you find your words, when you sing them to the world they carry your heart and mind forth. They connect you to those around, expose your imagination to the heavens and they change the world with these wonders you create. The very vulnerabilities they expose is a rallying call to all, “You are not alone”. It feels so good to set words free, to find that connection in the world around, both inside and out. I may have failed English in school but words, they didn’t fail me, they taught me how to live.
Source: 30dB.com – Poetry vs Video Games
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Photo: Getty Images
*A minstrel was a medieval European bard who performed songs whose lyrics told stories of distant places or of existing or imaginary historical events. Although minstrels created their own tales, often they would memorize and embellish the works of others. The Modern Minstrel observes the world around him and shares it with us as lyrical story. This series was inspired by Luke Davis, whose eye for story and ear for lyrical prose are featured here.
Also by Luke Davis
What A Man Wants In A Marriage | What it Takes to See a Man’s Feelings | Have You Seen a Man’s Heart? | Why Date a Man Who Dances? |
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