A date with Wordsworth

It is hard, being a writer. There’s so much to write about. Yet so little you could pen down. I want to be a poet. I remember, how Wordsworth’s defined poetry as, "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity". What he meant was, poetry is born from flesh and blood of the emotions recollected in tranquillity. When I read through these words for the first time, my tiny muscles at the base of each hair follicle contract and pull them erect on my skin. An epiphany struck me, and I fell in love with him. My Wordsworth. Whose words were worth reading.

I could feel I was there with him wandering like a cloud. Witnessed the show of the immortal daffodils with him. The words in his poems were more like a whisper to me. They sang me a song and took me with the stream of melancholia to the reaper in the heart of Scotland. I saw the poet listening to the reaper. True, her voice was so serine never heard before. It was like the eolian harp chiming through the wind of the north. The waves of the grassland asking for more. And was she beautiful? Well, I don’t know. I only heard her sing in my Wordsworth's tranquillity.

One day, I accompanied our familiar traveller to the abbey. Before I could speak about another poet and adventure of the ancient mariner, our traveller took me to the abbey. Again, with an eolian Harp playing with the wind in the background. There wasn’t any portal, but we time travelled. Whilst in his apartment, he took me through his knitted words. It was beautiful and green. I was exploring the Abby blinded by its beauty. When the music, the harp, stopped playing, I turned, and he again left me with myself in the bosom of nature.

Another time, two glasses, a bottle of rum and us together. That was then when Wordsworth drowned himself in the liquor named Lucy. I never met her personally. But it seems like I know her like I have lost her. Have touched the moss on her grave. Lost her in the luminescent night. 

This was my Wordsworth. My favourite poet. My lover. Have you seen him somewhere? Have you met him somewhere?

Quill~