The Reader

Skimming over a page filled
with the bold serifs and skinny 'i's of a
Long, intelligent poem
The text seems to mock the unwilling reader
He or she is tired and feels the strain of a head ache
Just looking at the complex, twisting print of the
English language

It would seem easy, much more simply to merely
Forego any attempt at the deciphering of meaning
Rhythm, pronunciation, emotion and afterthought
Not to mention the late hour-
To retire to the soft blanket, and easy dark of
A night’s rest seems more preferable

On the other hand, the reader feels a dilemma
There is no sense of satisfaction, of intellectual growth
On the whole, just a guilty void and a futuristic promise
To return to the text
Almost as if the lengthy page and difficult words
Dare the unfortunate one who surveys the page
“Can you not see what I have to offer?”

The prospective reader might think this strange inner turmoil silly
A minor poem, however lengthy, cannot make the proposition
That the one who quickly skips over the page is foolish- stupid
It is time to sleep anyways- and the prose might be strange
It might suggest ideas that are new and make the reader uncomfortable

One phrase though, one ever so melodic phrase
It jumps out and makes an impression
How could simple letters joined only by the lack of blank page
Be so impressive- and yet they make one wonder
If that thought, that line, could strike a chord inside a tired, discouraged reader
How might the rest of the work feel?

That is how two lines of gently rolling prose
Tickling the tongue to pronounce- possible alliterated
Was able to seduce one such unwilling reader to peruse the poem
Although it had seemed to strenuous, uninviting and exclusive
Just moments before

The reader went back to the beginning
It made sense to start at such an obvious spot
Her eyes were transfixed to the phrases, the deliberately chosen vocabulary
Some particularly well-expressed parts of the poem flowed easily
Like fingers caressing silk satin
Other parts were choppy
The author seemed to try much too hard to fit in thought
The rhyming sounded forced and crude
Childish almost- and yet it would give way to more elegant thoughts

The reader could understand some metaphors with ease
They were beautiful and almost so natural as if not an original thought
Other passages were too lengthy, and passed by the readers eyes
Almost to thick to absorb and without connection to her emotions
It seemed the author’s skill had varied through ought different sections
As if inspiration had been easy to come by at first- and then had dried up

Still, the reader seemed to think there had been an unconscious promise made
‘You enter this journey of thought with me
I shall try my hardest to entertain you, to involve you
And you, the reader must stay with me
For though I am armed with my weapons- dictionary,
Thesaurus, and most importantly, motivation
It is you that holds the most prized possession- attention
Only if you continue to share my ideas, sometimes classic
And sometimes more radical and abstract
Only then will I continue to provide you with them’

The reader felt bound by the shared feeling of compromise
After all- how can one give in without trying?
She enjoyed and at times, struggled through complex similes and comparisons
Finally, quite a time after the reader began to wonder whether the poem
Was even worth time and intellectual devotion
She finished reading, finished the long shared journey

Though it had been tiring- almost completely exhausting
The reader was glad to have shared the views of someone similar to herself
A poet, who wished to jot down ideas, phrases, even words that just rolled off one’s tongue
Satisfied at the imaginative stimulation of the poem
The reader sinks into her deep mattress
She knows now, to give all works of art a mere chance
For the author, or painter, or actor- they only have the power to put forth
And the reader knows now she must accept these offerings
I know, for the reader was I