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The Day I Met the Strangest Writer



I entered the room and found her buried in work. There was a very intense look on her face. I saw the arching of an eyebrow, the quiver of firm lips, the narrowing of the eyes, the curling of the tongue in the jaw, the thoughtful lowering of the head, the quick return of the head toward the sky, and the sharp stabs of lead on the paper, as flashes of words came from the pencil, like a magician’s toy shop, displaying its wonderful wares.
The writer wrote in silence, ignoring any interference around, shutting out the rest of the world, and letting the whispered voices of the silent world speak to her in a language that she knew best, and with such fluency expressed.
I was intrigued by the world of the child-writer that I had come across and was privileged to encounter. It fascinated me and, in some strange, unexplained way, reminded me of myself, of a long past time when I, perhaps, had first communicated with the ancient spirits who had revealed to me their marvelous world.
I took one last look at this intense child-writer. She was standing now, but the beautiful words continued to flow effortlessly from her magical instrument — the blue pencil that seemed so special; like a fairy wand, transforming the world around it. As I meditated on the special show that I was privileged to witness, I decided to capture the occasion in transcription, by recording it just as it was occurring, and had occurred. In doing so, I joined the flow of the current of wonderful creation. Now we both worked in tandemfather and daughter— letting our souls pour out and surprise us with their secret contents. Moments had passed by, time seemed so relative; but in that magical moment, nothing really mattered, but the outpouring of our inner voices.

About this poem

As a teacher, as a poet, as a husband, as a father, and especially as an introvert, I express myself most eloquently as a writer who, as a thinker, is always turning inwardly and reflecting on what it means to have a mind that photographs the world with written images imprinted on a page for all the world to see, that in the act itself, is a reflection of my own reflection. It was at such a moment that I saw my daughter, Kaleila-Maida Ngwekhin, at seven years, in 1990, diligently engaged so thoughtfully, in composing her own story, bleeding a white page with her childish imagination. In suit of her production, I saw my child become the father of the man; and so I, too, freshly inspired, began to write. 

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Written on July 05, 1990

Submitted by karlcfolkes on January 10, 2022

1:34 min read
71 Views

Karl Constantine FOLKES

Retired educator of Jamaican ancestry with a lifelong interest in composing poetry dealing particularly with the metaphysics of self-reflection; completed a dissertation in Children’s Literature in 1995 at New York University entitled: An Analysis of Wilhelm Grimm’s “Dear Mili” Employing Von Franzian Methodological Processes. The subject of the dissertation concerned the process of Individuation. more…

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2 Comments

  • Dougla$Irishman
    We do pass on traits on to our children. Mixing the two brings forth much wonder but still an original ! What a beautiful inner conversation you had in your daughter, priceless ! Beauty is in the minds of the beholder ! Your creative thoughts are much appreciated.. 
    LikeReplyReport3 months ago
  • Soulwriter
    How enchanting!
    LikeReplyReport4 months ago

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"The Day I Met the Strangest Writer" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 17 May 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/117378/the-day-i-met-the-strangest-writer>.

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