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• 1 2021-04-23T16:40:46+00:00 Emma 9 Object 2 Submission plain 2021-05-13T02:48:37+00:00

  By Ayouba Swaray

  Emma 

  Emma 
  Upon first gaze I note your rhubarb cheeks 
  Flushed symmetrically across your face 
  Maintaining perfect balance and spread 
  Southward lies your smile 
  That charming grin, slightly angled 
  Revealing a mischievous element that remains dormant 
  That is until you engage 
  Mutual contact is established  
  And I reach the centerpiece of the portrait 
  The eyes 
  Intensity 
  One can’t help but to take a second, 
  A moment to access and restabilize  
  These two spheres of pitch black 
  Bordered by a fierce hickory  
  Polished, sheen, 
  Magnetic, dare I say even tantalizing 
  Exacerbated by the artless white  
  Which assumes it’s position in the remaining ambient space  
  Stories are told, journey are met 
  The instant I look into your eyes 
  They look back into mine, and beyond. 
  Through the brain, past the mind, into the soul 
  With the finesses and prowess of a master archer 
  You’re good. 
  You’re seasoned.  
  So skilled at this craft that it has taken second to you. 
  As these assets in tandem generate a dangerous effect 
  The warm but cunning smile 
  The red innocence caked along your face 
  And the twin snipers who execute the task 
  The points trace a figure, a sculpture  
  Imbued with intelligence, wit, and hint of humor 
  -almost inconspicuous but present in the the right places- 
  Yes 
  Emma Stover 
  I’m intrigued 
  
  The writing of the poem honestly came from a place of artistic desperation. I’ve never felt more uninspired and artistically deprived in my whole life. Something I treasure so dearly to me, that is supposed to come almost second nature to me, is now the source of my loath and anger. This festered up in me so greatly that I had begun to reject any ties or reminders of art to me. I’ve never had this happen to me before. The work was not hard, per say, but I could not find myself being able to do it, for any attempt at making “good art” would end in mediocrity or failure. This birthed a rift between me and art. I decided to avoid thinking about or doing it at any cost, I took down my theatre banner and memorabilia, and I locked art away deep in the recesses of my mind since it had become a nuisance that I had to avoid. Even typing that out doesn’t fail to shock me. The decision affected me mentally and academically since my anxiety refused for me to just be “okay” with neglecting work and my grades began to suffer. Still, I could not muster up the motivation or care to churn out something that serves as a painful reminder of my shortcomings. Then the depression set: was I truly not as adept in my skill than I thought I was? Was I just using this as a means to not confront my deep seeded feelings towards art and my shrewd perception of perfection. Days went by, emails flooded in, the anxiety worsened. It seemed so easy. ‘Just pick up your laptop and type away. It doesn’t matter as long as you have something’ but it did. It did matter. And that was the most exasperating part about it. Today I was laying down in bed ruminating about life, specifically in accordance with my Trinity experience and realized how I was feeding into the same cycle that almost made me give up on theatre while in high school. I start to not meet the impossible expectations for myself and instead of confronting them, I ignore them and commence the self destructive rampage that further deteriorates my mental health. It was hot and sticky, my room was a horrible mess, but no more excuses were to be permitted. I lugged myself onto my desk, opened my laptop, and began the journey toward finding my passion again. 
  
  I choose poetry as that’s the medium I felt strongest at. I decided to choose a picture I liked of my giftee (Emma Stover) and write a first person narrative poem of me looking at her for the first time, truly analyzing her face, and the qualities about it that makes her presence so unique and multidimensional, but mysterious. I’ve never done anything like this before, and it made me nervous to get back into creative writing after having not done it in so long, but before I knew it, my pinky fidgeted and my fingers started flying away. Typing and deleting, adding and deleting, I was once again back in the zone. Though it was very slow and admittedly irking, everything was flowing back in again. My imagination, my vocabulary, my poetic knowledge. Emma Stover is someone I’ve been getting to know really well, especially as we both share an acting class together now, so it made it easy to assign the emotions and characterization to her physical features that fall squarely with the kind of person I know her to be. It was a challenge, of course, but one I was actually enjoying figuring out and working through. After my revisions, the poem was finished, and I felt good. I thought the work was very well done and I was proud of it but...this feeling was different. Unlike the other times, I didn’t get the euphoric rush of joy upon finishing an artistic piece. This felt more cathartic. Like I had been holding my breath for a long period of time, and I had finally released it. I’m still processing those feelings and what I plan to do with them, but till then, here is my gift to my dear, cherished theatre buddy, Emma Stover.