The Fine Rabble

A Piece On A Poet: Anisa H.

Young Is The Day; Precious Is Her Ambition

By the image of the grain reaper, Let me tell you of this particular wordsmith, One with the sumptuous belief and ambition of a Poet still so early in their days; One I have personally acquainted with and a founding member of The Fine Rabble: A fine little grouping of Writers from all around.

Anisa ’tis her Name — a Reader, Lover, and Writer of Language and Ideas. When one happens to come across such a person, the feeling of “What luck, What chance!” — So happens to become you; her sincerity in the words she writes is the first thing that grabbed my gallivanting attention.

It is clear in all her intentions of the Poetic notion to sound true to what it is, but that’s a superficial impression, when one happens to dig down further in her works, there is the feeling of someone trying to pursue something so true to themselves yet evasive also; this contrast between the desired ideal and the gravity that melds her elsewhere — this precious balance is what I spot and now espouse to you.

And if there is one thing I have much adoration for it is Contrast, and being Oppugned by the meaningful way of dotting of one’s own perspective through adage and words — by the tact of sincerity regardless if I or if it happens to be You, agree wholeheartedly with it, to be challenged that there lives another with this fondness of their own living, which we all come down to in passing; to know of elsewhere that is concurrent to my own living is what draws me to, and to Anisa’s sincerity in notion.

So my reason to share our darling Scrivner is there; regardless of my friendship with her;- to allow one the precipitation that is so needed for a writer of any clade or tact or age, by the ways of a truly concurrent audience, and how they mold and form one in that Way of Writing, is my hope for her; One to fulfill the blank page with a loving hand. Young is the day; Precious is her ambition, and my hope for is earnest, And I hope you come brightly together and share gaily the Word of a Writer sincere in her words; truly, at some presenting moments, is nearly disregarded.

The first piece I would like to confer in a fulfilling manner is this one:

So now that you’re back from this wandering trip — delighting whispers of a trip — I would like to gush over this piece, ’tis has been long since our last Fall, and admittedly, I’m glad now that the prevailing juniper trees are in blossom and the ice drops are far from the fair streets, yet, this piece draws me back to a specific time in myself, and isn’t that a glorious thing, to be reminded of a fragile time you otherwise thought you misplaced and lost.

Almost within her words is an eternal youth; an eternal hope. The verses are structured in a 7–7–4–6–6–4–6–2 measuring for the lines, offering the reader a prologue with the first two between shortening for the middle, the climax or rather a reflection of one's surroundings before shortening again to the four, a hook on the six before ending abruptly on the two.

It begins with a winsome scene, emblazoned with colors and sensations, all of the autumnal hues, before closing at “with the icing sugar of Aurora’s frost.” Foreshadowing the inclosing wintering to be endured, hence why all those merrymakings for the senses: Touch and Sight — a last hurrah before the big storm.

I shan’t give my attention to it all, as I’ll let that perusing to you, as she is much deserving of your time. But I shall continue with you all on this second observation:

The repetition of sunlight on the second fourth measure, but this time accompanied by a motherly figure, inside of the forsaking notion in the previous mention. There is a stark contrast between fragrance and prime, raw nature untouched by the humane sentiments in these adjoining verses. A subdued yet acknowledge tension is underlying it with the contrasting lines, especially the ones: “The sunlight forsakes me in the shadow of the shrubbery’ — ‘The frantic flap of a raven’s wings, applaud me” — therein lies her success in this penned work, that subdued contrast, yet stark on reflection.

There, I shall leave this piece down on the eased and still table, for the rest is up to you.

To end our blissful happening, I shall leave it to her words:

A candid, humble exploration of one’s life so far, in the manner of written words for strangers and journeymen from afar.

It is a piece I have only recently reread, especially now being acquainted with her, and it is

Her winsome approach, her flourishes emitting the spirits of her championed writers of yore; ebbing her on with this radiating charm; There can be no better introduction to her than what is penned by her.

Seeing what I did there, let us transition to this brilliant piece in adoration of Charlotte Brontë:

I have nearly truly ventured far with Charlotte as one ought to, especially one of my particulars — my tactful zaniness to say — but this piece just aids me in wanting to fulfill that happening notion.

Her own zeal for Charlotte comes through and through; I can already hear a few disparagers in the crowd uttering: “That is well and all, but anyone can spout a lover’s letter to someone they dot upon!” — Ah, yes, my good little bedeviled shoe, it is easier to say that, than actually waging and contrasting a certain piece between a pure adolescence rhyme of love and a meaningful piece that adds more to the Universal Canon and the very Perception of said Canon. If I so may!

What I believe is contained within here is one’s perception of Legacy and what a highly treasured writer can do to someone utterly new to them; away from the bravado of any Writer’s zealots — however dampening they may be at times for said writer — so you may agree with those first ideas, but my takeaway from that is using an Author [as that word sounds true and prudent!] as a springboard for Consideration and Understanding; instead of simply touting the Past of any extent for its inadequacies and tempestuous cruelties in a crass nature — anyone can simply focus on the Negatives in the superficial vain — how about, instead help nurture an enriching and ongoing notion of Consideration with the needed Empathy and Clarity to understand the Reason and Logical waltzer’s involved to understand what it is in ourselves Now-a-days and how gauge it also; thereby losing the Old Notion of calling something or someone MAD and tossing them away into the Lunatic’s Asylum — Out of Sight, and Out of Sound to pastor the tell-tale Mind.

But I shall leave the brave to you now — go forth now! And ask: Is that really the case?

To end, it would be befitting to recognize her sincerity of the political concern.

This one I’m gonna be a rascal of a Radical and not spout any Opinion or thought Truth thereof about it, but leave it purely to your Axioms and Common plains of judgment to untangle such a piece; Let us conclude this before Jarry of Monmouth starts complaining I’ve nicked too many of his Quills again… Ah — Sorry, Mate!

My belief in her and the espousing of sincerity that she writes within the tight craft of Writing — wherein one fancies scriveners in darkly lit rooms — is true and earnest. I fear… I deeply fear that nowadays, Writing, the individual's craft — though it is Complex in nature who the Writer may be writing for or against, is falling to the wayside; the power and potency of Words are drooping; and the tipping totality is there, that pugnacious Total States shall be the sowing mother to provide all, whilst concurrently taking all away —without the leeway to make mistakes, and to fail brilliantly in the face to a mass adjudicator, even in writing, how is the individual supposed to know what it is that births a form; what is Ill or should begone? To even Learn — the most basic of Ideas. To Contrast themselves — whether some like it or not, the Word; the World is enriched with Complexities that need a Considering Mind to apprehend. Since the upheavals of the last century, I fear there is a bringing down despair that is slowly percolating away at you all, to take you away from any truly happening, Humane Act. — Perhaps, mayhap…

Perhaps, because Ideas have Words as their meek representatives to decipher them; And perhaps it isn’t Words that are in trouble — not to sound too jingoistic in my Antigone beating up the warring drum — but actually, it is Ideas that are in tumultuous oceans— If you haven’t got Ideas, well, firm and fondly beheld, there shan’t be any golden revival or effort made by words.

As whereby the People notion theirs, Ideas also do so to their Representatives.

But there I subdue myself before this ends up as a piece tactlessly welded onto this Piece on a Poet: Anisa H. — Yeah, I do be loving the grit that Welding affords me, but Shhh to me!

So we Conclude this Piece, my Dear Reader, My hope is that you’re entrenched with the fondness to explore what is out there, and by the medium of our Medium, find the words of our Poet's most Delightful and Expanding.

Ta-ta now.

Our Poet In Question:

Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:

Come To Medium:

As ever, Dear Reader.