Painters and drawers and
sculptors and countless other visual artists are able to combine and manipulate
various physical substances into objects that pique our imagination and show us
a peek at the universe and ourselves that we have yet to comprehend. Once we
have seen these creative vistas and ourselves reflected through them, we cannot
forget or go back to the way things used to be without tremendous expenditure
of costly personal energy.
Writers are visual artists of a
different sort. Authors paint word pictures that hang in the passageway running
between head and heart. Narrative/prose is a medium in the realm of realism,
often hanging closer to the brain's end of the hall. Once a good story seeps
into your marrow, the door at the coronary end of the hallway usually swings
open a bit wider as a particular vocabulary and its precise ordering provide a
view of what's been right in front of your face for years and yet may still
have eluded your perception.
Poetry tends toward
impressionism, just outside the heart's door. It often makes you want to race
back and forth between the cerebral and the emotive, between fading distant
memories and the possibility of what lies around the next bend, anchoring the
here-and-now in a sense of hope, if not peace. Story's and poetry's art
galleries are for the curious; those who're willing to peruse stacks of beauty
with only a handful of syllables scratched on the surface, daring aficionados
to crack a spine. Welcome to a visceral gallery of words, brushed on life’s ever-flowing
canvas.
© 2016 Todd Jenkins
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