THE GIRL WHO KNOWS BOOKS
  















The Girl Who Knows Books
© Cupideros, 04.23.2011, 9:31 am
(A Prose Poem for Hersoftestsoul a poet on DeviantArt.com)


There was a girl who knew her books, who knew them better than the pages, book printed ink and dancing characters and space-matador quiet rages.  Such a girl is the romantic terror of boys and men alike.  For she’ll soon discover females can think and reason, use insight and hindsight to ignite, fight back for their Goddess birthright.  She reads Ayn Rand and understands every strand, every dash, every plan, every comma, thought held before two more are added to complete.  This girl knows her many, many books better than a corkscrew knows corks of wine.

She knew her books, and every nook; she knew them better than a prom queen knows guys and girls in her yearbook.  The lie, conceit, spam and bluff, she knew like blood flows aware of human hearts.  Male or female, she writes about both, of course her experience provides the balancing arcs.  She applies her art and beware the mind, unaccustomed to truth be told.  For the girl, who knows books, is forthright, dainty looking and bold!  Her violin adores her.  She plays beautifully. It is hard to believe, she is merely fifteen years old! 

And she knew the sound of every book, of every chapter, paragraph and line. You could not find a more sweeter brook babbling than in her talented nitty-gritty mind.  Clangors, buzzes, chirps and chimes, dubs, gurgles and glides, peals, pinks and quacks, or tolls, tootles and triumphs, not even a whirl or whizz or zing escapes her big big ear of letter producing sound.  The girl who knows books hears the footsteps of her boyfriend, husband or mate.  This kinda girl is the darling of a chaste man or boy; but a cheat she will surely drive or discover him away.

She has Shakespeare’s vocabulary but writes like Louise Labe of sixteenth century French sonnet fame. Paradoxical I know.  So is the snow, each snowflake a unique flowing self. Her topics span frontier, nadir, reindeer buoys, brassieres and gears, outlooks, cookbooks and blame. Again, halls of church and altar might find this girl a rare but pleasant sight.  For men and boys in her twenty-first century be told, should accept her golden cage—inside her individuality, beside her self-esteem, supported by the Goddess muse. And when you see a pretty girl, her long hair black, red, blonde or brown, be a man, even if a boy at heart, and fly free as a dove.  For her golden cage has no bars except sun rays and moon rays, which cover spinning earth.  And she might even seek the star’s twilight bars afar as well!



Thanks for reading this poem.

--cupideros

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