Handwriting Poetry Romane & Geschichten

"The Glasgow translator finished her four hundredth letter last week." "I know," I say. "Diane forwarded the message." "She sent a photograph of the four hundredth letter," Sophia says. "The original. In her grandmother's handwriting." She pauses. "Gaelic. I cannot read it. But the handwriting is beautiful. Very specific. The way handwriting is specific when someone has spent their whole life writing by hand." I think about my mother's handwriting. Small and precise and slightly slanted. Thirty-one letters in a Manila envelope. The specific quality of someone who considered writing a serious act and treated it accordingly.

my eyes glance at the first word on the last two lines and say, “EN” “KAREN?” He calls out and I look up at him. “Yes?” I answer and I frown when I see him concentrating on the word without pressing the enter button. “No, I mean the word you just gave me is KAREN, as in your name.” I am still having a hard time understanding what he’s saying until I glance up and look at the arrangement of the poem, and then I understood and realise that it’s Karen. Then it hit me what I haven’t thought of since all the while. This is the World of Poetry and like William said earlier, he has always wanted to be a poet, but what I never asked was if he has tried writing any poem because from what I just saw,

His slate-gray eyes were locked onto Elena’s profile, studying the way her eyebrows lifted in mock curiosity. "Don't open it," Ethan said, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "Oh, please, Ethan," Elena shot back, breaking the wax seal with an effortless flick of her thumb. "If a woman flies eleven hours across the Atlantic just to drop a vintage guilt-trip on our doorstep, the least I can do is read the poetry. Let's see what five years in exile does to a woman's prose." She unfolded the heavy, cotton-parchment letter. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and unmistakably feminine, penned in deep emerald ink:

The way the strokes bled just a little too heavily at the ends. My own handwriting. Lyra’s handwriting. The air vanished from my lungs. My knees weakened beneath me. I couldn’t breathe

Must you chase everyone? Running to any man, yet I desire you alone. Will I wait ‘til you love me with all your heart? --- Leah smiled. She knew the handwriting. The way the question mark had a loop on the heads was a dead giveaway. The poem was Patrick Sylas’ scribbles. She found it interesting that the first letter of the words on each line spelled out her name. “So that’s how it is,” Leah smiled, excited. “I’ll drop by in a bit.”

Darryl smiled as he walked toward the huge stone pillar. The nearly three-meter-tall pillar which had the words, ‘The Poetry League—meeting friends through poetry!’ Darryl held the brush as he waved and wrote his next poem on the stone pillar! “What are you doing? Security! Someone is causing…” Penny yelled but then she stopped abruptly! Someone from the crowd yelled, “This dude’s handwriting is great!” Darryl’s artistic and exquisite flowy handwriting was as good as a professional calligrapher. His family hired a calligrapher to teach Darryl when he was still in school. He had not written for a few years but could get back the momentum and writing feelings when he picked up the brush.

I read until the lamp started to feel like the only thing in the world. Not long. Four letters. Maybe five. Her handwriting was unhurried and I did not rush it. I read the way the words asked to be read. Like they were still being said by the person who wrote them rather than by me. Like I was just the mouth they were passing through. She wrote the way she apparently laughed. With her whole self. Not performing for the paper. Thinking on it. Working things out. Asking questions she did not always answer. Saying I do not know yet the way people say it when they mean it entirely and are not afraid of the not knowing.

He didn’t care whether he was capturing the appropriate photo or not. “How many poems have you done??” I asked. I reached for the paper where he had written his poems. I wanted to see it myself. “4 poems. 24 stanza,” he replied. “Wow!” I diverted my gaze to him, amazed. “Is this all you have done?” “Hmm.” “You’re fast! We haven't even written an hour!” I arranged the papers where he wrote his poems. “How ’bout you?” I looked at the paper where I composed mine. “Let's see how many I’ve got. . . ” I counted how many stanzas I wrote. “10 stanzas.”

"That sounds like a worthy dream, Nimue." Encouraged by his attentiveness, I continued, "And… I write too. Poetry mostly. Silly, teenage girl stuff, really." "Let me hear one," he surprised me by saying. My cheeks flushed crimson. "No way! My poems are terrible. Trust me, you wouldn't want to subject yourself to that torture." He raised an eyebrow. "Try me. If it's a torture inflicted by you, I’ll find an oasis of sloppy pleasure inside of it. Somehow.”

It was done, with no coming back. Even if she knew it, she sat again. Took her best pen, paper, and ink. And began to write all untold worlds, into beautiful poetry. That later, she would just save in the deep of her drawer, and never let it see the morning light again. The letter went so: Dear friend, Of You are reading this, is because you already read my first letter. But I still want to tell you, once more. You are special, very special to me.